Muhammad el-Dura

I remember he asked me if I could raise my children Muslim
I remember a Middle Eastern restaurant on Davon, smoking from a Hookah, burying my face in my hands, and laughing as smoke poured from my nose
I remember the smell of the Turkish coffee he brought me from Egypt - dark, rich, heavy in my hand, heavy in my mouth
I remember the email he sent me of the young Palestinian boy shot in his father's arms
I remember the limp body of a child not grown, brown hair, brown arm, crushed between concrete and a screaming father
I don't remember where, somewhere dry, somewhere hot, somewhere there
I remember my response
I remember begging him not to be violent.
I remember saying we need a Gandhi - a Martin Luther King - a prophet
I remember telling him that a man of violence cannot bring peace
Violence never equals peace
I remember his anger
I remember my tears
I remember the little boy who died in his father's arms in a place between - betweens
I remember his question, "Could you raise your children as Muslims?"
I remember my answer, "No."