Like many who watched the Hamas attacks unfold on television, the images of burnt-alive bodies and child corpses being piled into shabby truck beds slapped me awake into a truer and more terrible reality. My good fortune borders on the hallucinatory in times like these, the fridge full of fresh food in the kitchen, the stack of good books on the lampstand, the newborn child wriggling on my lap with play in his eyes. After all, there is no reason why psychopathic killers shouldn’t suddenly drop out of the sky and butcher my family; no reason we should be spared an agonizing and animalistic death.
The longer I think about it, the less sense it makes.
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