In the winter of 1975, I went to work on a kibbutz.
I was 17 years old. The work in the fish ponds was not glamorous: I stood for hours in a large, stinky pool of muddy water hauling spiny St. Peter’s fish out into a tank for export. But the trip was an ideological inspiration. Here was Jewish community. Here were whole neighbourhoods celebrating my holidays. The communal kibbutz lifestyle united in the building of something new, something hopeful.
The author writes of counting the vertebrae of starving Gazan children.
That would be the ill children Hamas has exploited to advance their agenda among the willfully gullible of the west.
No doubt children suffer but I have grave doubts about the alleged food shortages that come from a people who celebrate rape, murder and the ‘martyrdom’ of their own children.
