Hatred breeds hatred. I’ve seen it happen. It’s true.
When I was younger, my brothers used to think of creative ways to flip me off at the dinner table without my mom knowing. They’d scratch their foreheads, use their eating utensils, or even wrap that one finger around the glass they were drinking from. I knew they didn’t mean it, and it was actually pretty funny—but I still reacted. I’d sneak up behind them and hit them in the back with all the force I could muster. Then I’d run away squealing to the bathroom and lock the door. Classy.
What I didn’t know then is that people four times my age were acting similarly on a level I could only dream of achieving.
In this fantasy game of settling scores, they use their militaries. F-16’s, tanks, guns. They force people out of their homes claiming, “We have the right to do this because it was done to our fathers.”
Yes, they were desecrated by something evil and yes, there are no words to describe the terrible suffering—but no, the festering sore in their hearts should not bleed upon the innocent people of another country.
Sharing pain is different than inflicting it.
The good news for Israel: I grew up and so can they.
(Ps: If the end is too inflamitory, you can take out the word Israel and insert: “the nations”).
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