Pity is Pity.

Pity is Pity.


Everywhere we go, we leave behind us a trail of lifeless words, from which it is only a short way to the corpses of Arab children killed daily in the Territories. A short way to the fact that a man like me erases from the register of the dead, without thinking, the children of the family of [Jewish] settlers burned alive the day before yesterday by a Molotov cocktail on the road to Alfei Menashe. How could I have forgotten? Was their death insufficiently innocent? Unworthy to enter the shrine of suffering of which we have, as it were, made ourselves the guardians? Is it just that the settlers frighten and infuriate me, whereas the Arab children weigh on my conscience? Can a worthless man like me have sunk so low as to make a distinction between the intolerable killing of children and the not-so-intolerable killing of children?

Amos Oz, Fima (1991)


We Pretend We Know Nothing

We Pretend We Know Nothing

In Order to Arrive

In Order to Arrive