On a particularly cold November evening, we stood outside in a circle, holding candles, mourning for the Palestinians who had lost their lives. I could feel the numbness of my fingers as I held my candle. I felt numb inside, desensitized by a world that killed and murdered, all under the name of justice. One of the mourners read the names of the dead as we stood in silence. The wind came and we lit the candles a second time. I was thinking of the dead, of the little boy of six who lived a life too short. And I thought of peace, the peace that has failed to exist in this paradox we call life.
Maybe there will never be peace. Maybe there will never be justice. But candles will be lit and people will silently fight.