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On 11/11/88 the Israelis kidnapped my son and they would never return him to me. Failing to accept that, I had wasted 13 years of my life. If I kept at it, I would ruin whatever time remained to me. Instead, I outlined a book about the 229 infants the Israelis stole in 1952 held as hostage until 1997.
Rising above my petty concerns, I prepared for nine eleven.
Still homeless the afternoon of 9/11, I sat in the backyard of an abandoned synagogue. When the kind lady informed of the terrorist attack, it numbed me for two days. Married into an extended Arab family a longtime resident of Boston New York and Israel, I knew the official version of the terrorism was nonsense.
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