The immorality of Israel's targeting in Gaza
As a child I remember the shotgun in the hallway and the revolver by my parents’ bed.
In the evenings only my father was allowed to answer the door, and the hall lay in a permanent dark while the porch was illuminated.  In the morning there would be checks under the car, my father bending down in all weathers to gaze for a device he was unlikely to recognise even if he did see it.





