I often think about him, especially in times like these. I try to imagine his home in the Gaza Strip. I try to imagine what he might be doing at this very moment. Perhaps he stops and thinks of me, too. Perhaps he even wishes he hadn’t saved my life.
It happened in 1996, when I was 13, just before my Bar Mitzvah. My parents were renovating our house in Ramat Gan and the contractor hired a group of Palestinian workers from Gaza to do the job. I was trying to open the new bathroom window and I pushed a little too hard. My hand went right through the glass. It didn’t hurt; I remember feeling the shattered glass like silk moving across on my skin. It slashed through my arm, from elbow to shoulder. [...]
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