I want to know their names. I want to know the names of every child, every woman, every man. I want to know exactly what they were doing the moment the bombs hit.
Was a nurse staunching a bloody wound? Was a mother leaning over her daughter stroking her forehead? Was a doctor preparing a syringe?
I want to know the stories – the loves, the fears, the memories of each and every one who was struck down so bitterly, so casually, so easily.
Is the Israeli who pushed the button burning with regret? Will he have nightmares for the rest of his life? Will he fall into the darkness of alcohol and hopelessness? Or is he standing on a corner joking about his murderous act? I want to know.
I want to know who manufactured the bomb. Is the nuclear physicist who sat at his desk parsing the complicated formulas that produced the bomb drinking coffee and playing with his dog? Or is he wracked by regret?
I want to know. I want to know the names of each and every child buried under the rubble of Al Ahli Hospital.