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I was only a nine-year-old kid at that time. Too young for such fears, and too little for such a terrifying experience. For grownups, their early childhood memories are usually vague and incoherent. Some incidents may be remembered well, yet the details are always blurred. The case is quite different for me. I can recall, now, the details of “that night and that day” remarkably well, in spite of the several decades that separate me from them now. That night was an exceptionally different one. It was unlike the other 10 nights we endured under the siege of the Israeli army. They attacked us for 10 days, and allowed no one to enter or leave our area. We had no food. We drank the water of the drains. Every one was working hard. Men were always armed and sitting in ambush, waiting to chop any Israeli head that might show up. Women were working very hard to make food and supplies ready. Every one was striving and endeavoring to defend the area. We, the kids, played no role in all of this. We were ordered by the elders to stay locked up in the house; they said that a stray bullet might blow our head, so we didn’t argue. Every night we – I mean the elders - used to get busy loading weapons, planning raids, and preparing for the next day; but in that night we did nothing of that sort. They told me that we have run out of ammunition. The last bullet was already shot in the evening, and the next day we would have to use our bare hands in fighting those bloodthirsty Israelis. That was something expected, because we had no one to back us and supply us with arms. However, what confused me is that men seemed to be happy; they were smiling! And what even puzzled me more is that they started to dance! They made a big circle, and started to sing and perform the traditional “debckah”. This was too much for my little brain, so I ran to my mother to ask about this peculiarity. As far as I knew, death was not a nice thing, so what makes these men so glad?
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