Glittering Prize?

At the best of times, tension between Israelis and Palestinians has been a festering wound in the Middle East. Recently that wound has flared up again in the most brutal and shocking manner, accompanied by an absolute welter of allegations and counter claims and an unrelenting disinformation war being played out in parallel by all sides on social media platforms.

Given the appalling bloodshed and death toll in the latest exchanges this past fortnight, I think a good case could be made for peace being the most elusive glittering prize of all and I feel compelled by conscience to focus this week's blog on what's been happening in the region where one of the oldest conflicts in human history is still causing misery for millions.

Trying to make sense of the rights and wrongs, partly by researching way back into the roots of such an entrenched enmity but also by reading as many contemporary analyses as I can across a broad spectrum of affiliations, proves no easy task. It takes time to unwind the complicated tangle of race and religion and statehood, regional rivalries and global politics. What I found was illuminating, though hardly cheering. I hope you don't mind me sharing some of that with you here. 

As far as race is concerned (and there is frequent talk of the 'Arab' race and the 'Jewish' race), the scientific evidence - sometimes dubbed the "Abraham's Children" theory - tends to suggest that they all shared a common Levantine ancestry several thousand years ago. Ancient Levant, at the eastern end of the Mediterranean, was roughly equivalent to modern day Israel, Jordan, Lebanon, Palestine and  western Syria. But as we know, shared ethnicity and blood ties sometimes count for little when differences of ambition and ideology come into play (starting as far back as Cain and Abel) and familial tribes will feud fiercely regardless.

What partly set the Jewish people apart from their neighbours in the region was religion, and the strong cultural tradition that was part of being Hebrew, the notion of being "God's chosen people". The frequent displacement of the Jewish people from their homeland (a phenomenon known as the 'diaspora ' from the Greek for dispersion - effectively the dissemination of Jews as migrants into the Gentile world) - has also had a significant role to play both in their own sense of identity and in regional and world history.

But interestingly, the first time they left what is sometimes referred to as the Holy Land was of their own volition, when because of a famine in the land Jacob led the tribes into Egypt where they lived and prospered for about 400 years, growing to a population of about 3 million people.  At that point the Pharaoh began to be mistrustful of their numbers and influence and. fearing they might side with Egypt's enemies, he first of all enslaved them and then decided to banish them altogether, Probably somewhere around 1200 BC the Jews left Egypt en masse (the 'exodus ') and returned under the guidance of Moses to the land they had vacated centuries earlier.

Cue the long journey from Egypt back to their original homeland (which apparently took them 40 years), when Moses went up the mountain to receive the ten commandments, the Israelites, fearing that he would not return, were persuaded by Aaron to collect all their gold jewellery and trinkets together, melt them down and cast a glittering talisman, a statue of a golden calf, to be the object of their worship. According to the book of Exodus, they declared  "This is thy god, O Israel, which brought thee up out of the land of Egypt". It seemed they were a fickle people and happy to regress to the bull-worship of an earlier era. 

a golden calf

Upon his descent from the mountain, Moses was not best pleased. He berated the Israelites for their backsliding, ordered the golden calf to be pulverised to powder and scattered it to the winds. From thence onwards they should have only one god, Yahweh, and they should live according to the tenets handed down by god to Moses. It's a myth that's central to Hebrew religion and culture as it established itself back in their ancient homeland between the Mediterranean coast and the river Jordan.

The first imposed exile of the Jewish people from that homeland occurred in 733 BC when the Assyrians overran the Kingdom of Israel and expelled its inhabitants. The next came in 597 BC and 586 BC when the Babylonians conquered the Kingdom of Judah, exiled much of the population and took many of its citizens into slavery. Alexander conquered the Levant around 330 BC and the Jews were under Greek rule for over two hundred years with many migrating to various parts of the Alexandrian empire in Egypt, Cyprus and Crete. Foreign domination continued when the Romans superseded the Greeks and Judea became a Roman colony. It was then the turn of the Byzantines and various shades of Arab rule, Mamluk and Ottoman from the time of the crusades until the beginning of the last century, some 700 years during which many hundreds of thousands of Jews found it expedient to find somewhere else in the world to live, spreading across Europe and North America.

In modern times the case for a Jewish homeland in the Middle East had been made as long ago as 1917 when Lord Balfour (British foreign secretary at the time) wrote  a letter to Lord Rothschild which became known as the Balfour Declaration. I reproduce it here:

At the time Britain was fighting WWI against Germany and its ally, the Ottoman Empire (which included Palestine in its territory), and was appealing to the USA to enter the war on the side of the British. The large and influential Jewish community in America would support US involvement if the British could be seen to be contemplating a future for a liberated Palestine which might include "a national home for the Jewish people". The concept was necessarily vague, for it had no precedent in international law. However, it seeded the idea of some kind of Zionist State in what was then Palestine, an idea that unsurprisingly was strongly supported by the Americans who, although they were not a member of the League of Nations, proposed it should be established under the auspices of that international body (precursor to the UN), to give it credibility.

In due course, the USA entered the war and with the defeat of the Ottoman Empire at the conclusion of hostilities, Britain was mandated by the League of Nations to take control of and responsibility for the territory of Palestine and Transjordan until such time as "the territory was able to stand alone".

However, there were significant differences of opinion as to how this "homeland" might be constituted, with Zionists on the one hand making a case for a separate and autonomous State and others expressing concern that it would bring about the disenfranchising of Palestinians and the permanent destabilisation of the whole region - and this was a hundred years ago - so the progress of negotiations was slow. Meanwhile, a quarter of a million Jews had immigrated to Palestine by the mid-1930s.  A proposal from the Peel Commission in 1937 to divide Palestine into a Jewish Sate and a Palestinian State provoked riots in the territory and was dropped, though British forces were frequently involved over the next decade in resolving skirmishes between increasingly militant Jewish groups and their Arab neighbours. 

Then along came Hitler, WWII, the persecution of Jews in Europe and the horror of the Holocaust and when victory over the Axis powers was achieved in 1945 international sympathy with the recent suffering of Jewish people gave the cause of a Zionist homeland new impetus and support. Britain still had nominal control of the region but was reluctant to put its support behind the relatively tiny Jewish population of Palestine (see figure 1 "1946" in the panel below) for an autonomous Zionist state and declared its willingness to terminate its mandate and hand control of the area over to the newly constituted United Nations. A date of May 1948 was set for the termination of the British mandate. The Americans for their part, supporting and funding the cause of Jewish separatists, threw their weight behind the idea that the UN should be the body to decide and enforce the partition of Palestine (see figure 2 "UN Plan 1947" in the panel below). The American position should come as no surprise given the the USA had the largest Jewish population of any country in the world. Even at the start of the 21st century there were as many Jews living in the USA as there were in Israel itself.

gradual erosion of Palestinian territory over 75 years

As the end of the British mandate drew nearer, there was far from universal support for the partition proposal among member states of the UN. The Americans were pressing Britain to agree to allow hundreds of thousands more Jewish refugees to settle in Palestine. The Arab countries formed themselves into the Arab League. They did not buy inro the UN partition plan. In fact they pushed for Palestine to be recognised universally as a nation in its own right, but this was vetoed. With no formal consensus in sight, the leaders of the World Zionist Council took matters into their own hands and declared unilateral independence for the Jewish state in May 1948 on termination of the British mandate, in a territory broadly corresponding to the UN proposal. The country of Israel was born. Hebrew was declared as the national language and the Israeli Defence Force was set up to defend the land. Israel was immediately recognised by both the USA and USSR (the world super-powers of the era).Straight away, illegal immigration of Jews to the area became legal, while at the same time there began an exodus of Palestinians from the borders of the new Jewish state to those parts of the region still known as Palestine. 

Cue a series of Arab-Israeli wars, because the Arab League was consistent in its refusal to accept the legitimacy of Israel as a nation state. The first commenced immediately in 1948/49, the second followed in 1956 (the 'Suez Crisis'). On each occasion Israel made territorial gains but retreated to its 1948 borders as part of ceasefire diplomacy, but the peace was a tenuous one. After the third war in 1967 (the 'Six Days War') when Israel repulsed invasion and went on the counter-offensive, it never gave back the land in gained in the fighting (see figure 3 "1967"in the panel above). That annexation of parts of Palestine was the first major expansion of its territory. A fourth war (the 'Yom Kippur' war) followed in 1973. Peace between Egypt and Israel was finally established via the Camp David Accord in 1978 and Egypt officially recognised the state of Israel. (and America rewarded Egypt by supplying its armed forces with weapons and pouring in annual of approximately $1.5 billion that continues to this day). Jordan also recognised Israel but other countries in the Arab world did not, including Lebanon, Syria.  and most of the Arab League. In fact 28 of the 193 UN member states still refuse to recognise Israel to this day. The fifth and sixth Arab-Israeli wars were with northern neighbour Lebanon, in 1982 after which Israel annexed land in the south of Lebanon, and most recently in 2006 after which it relinquished the occupied Lebanese territory.

As for Palestine and its people's aspirations for valid statehood, the Palestine Liberation Organisation was formed at approximately the same time as the Camp David Accord and unilaterally declared its own independent Palestine state, which is currently recognised by 138 UN member states although Palestine has never been formally recognised by the UN itself.. However, during all that time Israelis have been encroaching on Palestinian territory, particularly on the West Bank, and building Israeli settlements there in contravention of international law (see figure 4 "Now" in the panel above) while at the same time practising a sort of subtle discrimination (dubbed apartheid) against Arabs on the West Bank and in Gaza. 

I don't for a minute condone the actions of the Palestinian Hamas group the other week, nor their stated aim of eradicating the state of Israel, but I have every sympathy with ordinary Palestinians who have been systematically discriminated against and displaced from their lands over the last seventy-five years. I have Jewish friends and I have Palestinian friends and I sympathise with them equally. The political decisions made by the major world powers regarding the Middle East since the 19th century have been deeply flawed, but there is something less than fair about Zionist expansionism into Palestine which merely serves to antagonise most of the Arab world.

So is there a way forward to the glittering prize of a permanent peace in the Middle East? And if so, what might it be?  Obviously I don't have an answer. A properly constituted and formally recognised contiguous Palestinian state ought to be part of the solution but it would require another redistribution of territories, with more migration of people, and the backing in terms of massive development aid for Palestine from the major world powers, and unless the USA can show a degree of impartiality and take the lead in helping to shape such a solution, we appear to be a long way from that right now.

"Only one problem with peace - there's no profit in it"

I was introduced to a poetic form called the triolet earlier this week by one of my stanza friends, so I thought I'd give it a go. The triolet is of French origin, somewhere around the 13th century, and is somewhat similar to the rondeau in its use of repeated lines, an eight or nine line stanza with an ABaAabABb  rhyming structure (capitals denoting repeated lines). It's subject to refinement but I just wanted to get it out there for week-end reading.

False Profits

It's firework night on the Gaza strip

warmongers prey - let weapons fly

light up the sky see those rockets zip

it's firework night on the Gaza strip

and munitions firms are all blue chip.

Ignore the lies that peacemakers ply

it's firework night on the Gaza strip

warmongers prey - let weapons fly

and the innocent once dead can't cry.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Dens - Sanctuary

My eldest grandson liked to enclose himself in the book corner. He discovered that by opening a door to the toy cupboard and a door on the fitted unit, he could comfortably place himself behind them, almost hidden and with plenty of room to look at books or build Duplo. He liked his own space even before a brother and sister came along to disturb his peace. It wasn’t long before he worked out how easily all the cushions came off the sofa and what a good idea it was to sit there and fashion himself a den by using the large ones to make sides and a smaller one for the top, or a roof. Sometimes a blanket was brought from upstairs and draped over the entire construction and he would be in there with a book or watch TV through a gap. A good den is great comfort.

1967. For the first time in my life, we were living in a house instead of a pub. It felt weird, so quiet, no juke-box filtering through the building, no babble of a thousand indecipherable conversations.  The house itself was very nice, a three bedroomed detached with a garage in what estate agents would describe as a ‘sought after’ area in South Shore. We weren’t there for very long, the way things turned out, and I have some happy memories, in spite of it being a miserable time in my life. My mother was seriously ill, having surgeries and treatments and it was better for her to have the privacy the pub didn’t have, which is why my parents bought the house. I started senior school, a school I didn’t want to go to but had to because I’d failed my eleven-plus. My friends passed and went to the school I longed to be at, but it wasn’t to be. Failed! I’ve been trying to make up for it ever since. On the bus I was regularly picked on by pupils from another school. I had to take two buses and often chose to walk the longest part of my journey rather than be at the mercy of the bullies.  The house became home with us in it and our cosy furniture. We had gardens, front and back. Dad got a swing for me and my sister and the wooden shed at the end of the back garden became a den. A deck chair, a cushion from the house, a drink of orange and whatever book I was up to in Enid Blyton’s Malory Towers series was all I needed. The shed housed the new gardening tools propped up in a corner. Gardening became my father’s weekend chore. As the air chilled and the daylight lessened, I moved to an indoor den. My sister’s room, which must have been massive when I think what was in there and all the space to play, had her single bed and also bunk beds where I slept when our grandparents stayed over and had my room. The bottom bunk made a great den by using the tartan blanket on the top bunk as a curtain for the length and borrowing a big towel from the airing cupboard to hang over the end. The fun was short-lived. I wasn’t supposed to ‘mess’ in my sister’s room, even if she, aged about 4, didn’t seem to mind. It sticks in my mind how cold that winter, 1967/68 was. No central heating, but the house was cosy with a coal fire in the back living room and hot water bottles in bed. To add to my misery, I developed chilblains on my feet and a seemingly ever-lasting verruca. 1968 brought joy and normality. My mother had made a good recovery and we were moving back to the pub. School remained a nightmare until 4^th year but everything else was good.

My grandchildren can make a mess, make a noise and make dens to their hearts content. They can also tidy up afterwards.

My poem,

“I’m in my den!”
The voice, muffled
By the cushions
Forming a cube,
Of a fashion,
In the place where
There’s a sofa,
Now and again.
And giggling
While I pretend
I cannot find
Him, in the blocks
Of patterned green,
And I’m blind
To the red socks
And toes wiggling. 

PMW 2022

 Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Olive - Peace Offering

The olive plant, a small, attractive tree cultivated in Mediterranean countries for the fruit and the manufacture of olive oil which is a core ingredient of Mediterranean cuisine. Species of the plant are also grown in South Africa, South America and southern states of USA, Australia and New Zealand. Olives are a popular food and the versatile properties of olive oil make it useful medically and essential in cooking.

I can’t remember the exact circumstances in which I first tried an olive, but I know I was no more than thirteen. The taste was unbearable and I couldn’t remove it from my mouth quick enough. Many years later, I thought they might be more appealing to my mature palate. Nothing had changed.

My husband likes olives. I nearly poisoned him once. I bought one of those prepared chicken and chopped vegetable packs designed for busy people or lazy ones like me. They are ready to drop into a slow cooker with some water and a stock cube and hours later, dinner is ready, voila. This one included olives which I took out straight away before cooking. I didn’t want my chicken casserole tainted. My husband enjoyed the snack. For someone, me, who is meticulous about food safety and food hygiene, this was a really stupid thing to do which went right over my head until it was too late. The olives were with raw chicken. I was horrified at my own carelessness, though, to be fair, he didn’t bat an eyelid either at the time. Fortunately, he was fine, perfectly alright and after a few days I stopped revising symptoms of salmonella et al and beating myself up. I should have offered him an olive branch.

In the Bible, an olive branch, symbol of reconciliation and peace offering was carried to Noah by a dove to show that the flood was over.

A sign of peace it might be, but I don’t have to like the taste of its fruit. Even if the nutrition value was full of everything I need, it would be a no.

With acknowledgement and apologies to Theodor Seuss Geisel, Dr Seuss, for inspiration and whose books and rhymes I have enjoyed to share with lots of children,

I am Pam, Pam I am.
I think I’d like green eggs and ham.
I will not eat an olive.

I will not take it from the jar
I will not taste it from afar,
I will not eat an olive.

Not even on a cocktail stick
I will not try a tiny lick,
I will not eat an olive.

Do not hide it on my pizza
Or tuck it in my fajita,
I will not eat an olive.

I will not choose one from a dish,
I will not have it in a quiche,
I will not eat an olive.

I am Pam, Pam I am,
I would like some salad and spam.
Do not bring me an olive.


PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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This is Your Time

When you are part of a large, loving, extended family, as I am, solitude can sometimes be a pretty hard state to achieve.  

Don’t get me wrong, I love the family gatherings with the laughter, the tears, the arguments, the music, the dancing, the spilt drinks, the chocolate melted on the sofa, the general craziness of getting together with family members from one to ninety one.  I love each and every one of them and I revel in their company, both individually or in a group.  I love the fact that my own children, their other halves and the grandchildren all live within about ten minutes of our house, and I’m happy that they know they can call in at any time - and they do.  To me, that’s what family is all about.  And when family isn’t around then there are friends to fill the space.  Our home has always been an open house.

However, much as I love the company of others, I am also very happy to spend time alone.  In fact, more than happy.  I love it.

My periods of solitude might be few and far between but that just makes them all the more precious.  Sometimes they come about by accident - a little voice calls out, “Bye, grandma,” the front door closes and all is quiet.  I sit in total silence, memories of a frantic afternoon are stored and peace descends.  Like a blanket, it envelopes me, as my mind slows and clears.  This is bliss, the total opposite of the mad few hours we’ve been enjoying, although that, in itself, is a different kind of happiness.  Sometimes my periods of solitude are planned: an hour on the bed, reading, snuggled under the covers; a brisk walk along the prom, just my thoughts to accompany me; an afternoon on the computer, editing photos. 

I’m sure, if I lived alone, with no family or friends, then the solitude that I now enjoy could well become a pain and not a pleasure:  a prison of loneliness.  The ticking of a clock, the drone of the TV, cars on the road outside - these background sounds would only serve to emphasise the fact that I was alone, and not by choice.  Thankfully, solitude is still a treat for me.  As a photographer, time alone with my camera is something I relish.  I become distracted if shooting with someone else.  Much as I love to chat, I find my best shots are those where my eye has been allowed to wander and focus without the distraction of conversation.  My mind will wander too, thoughts of where I’m going, what I’m aiming for, what are the optimum settings, where is the next capture likely to be?  This is my idea of heaven.

And then, home to the husband, a cup of tea, a chat about the day.  And possibly a room full of children....

As I walked along the prom this morning I was thinking about the subject of solitude, when I spotted this man and his dog, away from everyone and everything.  Now, that's solitude.

This is Your Time by Jill Reidy 

Find a quiet place

In or out

It doesn't matter

Add a blanket 

Or a coat if out

Gloves, hat, scarf

Whatever keeps you warm

Check head is clear

Thoughts are flowing

View is restful

No interruptions

Ignore the clock

The screeching of the gulls

You're on your own now

This is your time....

Whilst researching the subject, I came across this quote, and decided it was written specifically for me.  

'Solitude is fine but you need someone to tell that solitude is fine.' 
― Honoré de Balzac

Thanks for reading, Jill

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There’s Something About a Park

Broomfield Park circa 1988

There’s something about a park.

When I was very little, the local park captured a tiny corner of my heart without me even knowing.  Now I realise the love of parks has been there ever since. 

In the suburban area of London where I was born there were several memorable parks, all quite different in their appearance and function. I have a rather fuzzy memory of a small triangle of flowerbeds and concrete paths on my way to primary school - and was there some sort of shelter or pavilion? I can’t remember.  This wasn’t really a park to play in, just a means to an end: to school; back home. The only reason we ran zig zag around the flower beds was if our mum stopped to chat to someone.  Then it could be a pretty long game of tig. 

Now, the Rec was a different matter, quite the opposite of the neat little flower bedded triangle.  The Rec was the place to play.  After all, this was the ‘50s where kids went out after breakfast and came home at teatime.  No computers, Nintendo’s, Switches or mobiles. Playing out was what we did. My elder brother and I used to cycle to the Rec, meet the gang and amuse ourselves all day: floating lollysticks in the filthy pond; watching the model boats; hide and seek; races; climbing the mounds of foul smelling soil (I never did find out what was in them or why they were there - the smell was awful, and I’m sure they were crawling with something disgusting).  

There are two incidents I remember vividly: one was when a man called me into the bushes and my friend and I ran home giggling, leaving my newly knitted cardigan on a bench. My mum, the knitter, marched me straight back to get the cardigan.  The man was nowhere to be seen. The other incident was when a young boy cut himself on a piece of glass as he cockily rolled up his trousers and waded across the pond. An ambulance appeared, we all watched, open mouthed, then got back on our bikes and cycled home for tea.  Things seemed so simple then, certainly for us kids. 

But the best park of all was the one that had a whole traffic system set up, complete with roads, roundabouts, traffic lights and zebra crossings.  Lordship Lane park was too far away for us to go on our own but our excitement knew no bounds when our mum told us to get out our bikes and we’d set off on the twenty minute journey.  That same park was the source of even more thrills due to its long, stepped paddling pool. If we were really lucky, on a hot sunny day we’d take not only our bikes but a picnic, towels and a change of clothes.  Those days were sixty years ago now but I can remember that simple happiness as if it were yesterday. 

We moved a little further into suburban London when I was eleven, and were spoilt for choice. Our new house was positioned between two beautiful areas of green.  Arnos Park has everything: a stream, wooden bridges, children’s play grounds, a vast amount of grass, huge old trees and the London Underground line (which isn’t underground at all at this point) running across its horizon. The path through the park is a short cut to the tube station, which is a lovely walk on a sunny day, but slightly daunting on a dark winter’s evening. We kids were always told not to walk across the park if it was going dark, a warning we generally heeded unless we were in a tearing hurry.  Good advice, but probably unnecessary for my mum to warn my husband and his three burly police mates not to take that short cut when they were on their way to stay a few years ago. 

Broomfield Park in the opposite direction, was and is, equally appealing. It’s the place I first collected conkers, fed the ducks, slid down the giant slide, watched the tennis, and visited the strange little museum to stare at the small stuffed animals behind the glass with a mixture of horror and fascination. The museum burnt down a good twenty years ago. Each time I visit I hope to see the charred remains and scaffolding gone and something beautiful in its place.  Now I go to take photographs, and check out the tree and the bench dedicated to both sets of grandparents. My mum, now ninety, has just stopped driving but has got a new lease of life walking to the park most days with my dad’s unused walking frame.  She tells me she sits on a bench and makes conversation with anyone who sits next to her.  

Stanley Park in Blackpool holds so many memories for me: Sundays when the children were little, bundled up in warm clothes, braving the cold and spending hours on the children’s playground, my fingers like ice. Pushing swings, running with the roundabout until I felt dizzy, counterbalancing the seesaw and catching slithering toddlers as they shot off the bottom of freezing slides. The days seemed interminable. Now I’m doing it all again with the grandchildren. 

Yes, there’s something about a park. 

Stanley Park

There’s Something About A Park by Jill Reidy

I’ve toddled along a concrete path

Avoiding cracks and stones and dogs

I’ve raced at speed past flowers and shrubs

Hidden in bushes and climbed the trees

I’ve cycled round and stopped at lights 

Paddled in pools and splashed and laughed  

I’ve strolled with friends, our arms tight linked

Summer nights with boys I liked 

I’ve smoked that one and only time  

Cried at the bench and my grandma’s tree 

I’ve pushed a buggy, held chubby hands

Carried dolls and cars and dripping lollies

I’ve swung the swings and climbed the slide 

Rescued cryers and soothed cut knees

I’ve taken a moment, sat and thought 

Of all the parks along the way - the people, the colours, the smells, the sounds

The energy and the peace......

There's something about a park

Thanks for reading    Jill

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Paper

Eventually, you start closing doors. 

It seems that all your life you wanted windows and open vistas.  You wanted to visit every country, talk every language, kiss every frog.  But saturation comes hard on the heels of the flood. 

Eventually, you draw the curtains.

Two hundred television channels scream obscenities, distract with a vacuity you crave.  Somewhere, you insist, somewhere amongst the self-assured voices exists a nugget of existential enlightenment.  An answer and a question.

Eventually, you flip the switch.

In the dark, LEDs flicker.  Something is waiting, the blinking lights tell you, someone has spoken.  And you reach for a button and you answer and then you wait.

Eventually, you pause.

There's a sound beneath the gnashing, tapping, humming, screeching, sighing web.  It's a whisper, like flesh on paper.  It's the sound of breath held.  It's fingernails nibbled and hot drinks quietly sipped.  It's a biscuit flopping into a mug and the Taoist indifference to its loss.

Eventually, you return to the page.

And the page welcomes you home, prodigal child, as if you'd never been away.

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Emily Davison and the king's horse

Picture a girl. She's in her teens. Every day brings a fresh horror of chemical storms. Five days each week she travels to her battleground. The law enforces this.

Every way the girl turns she sees missiles cruising, not aimed at her specifically but often they hit home.

Propaganda is just as dangerous. Ideas repeated over and over would trap her in a tiny cage. All it takes is for her to stop fighting, to stop eating and shorten her skirt, smile and keep her mouth shut.

But this girl is a soldier, trained by me since the day she was born to fight. Every day she wakes to the sound of those missiles and I make her breakfast while we talk tactics. In the evenings we tackle the propaganda while disseminating the day's battle.

There will be no peace. Not in my lifetime. Perhaps, if she fights well, she will find some for herself.

My daughter is a soldier. She is my pride and joy.

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