Twenty years later after many Arab cities had fallen, the thoughts I was sharing in Hebrew with a friend at a restaurant did not please a man sitting there, and he set to defending Israeli oppression with what he considered an irrefutable argument. He said you don't know these Arabs, and if you knew them, you wouldn't speak about justice in this manner. I asked him to tell me more. He knit his brow and said, "Have you heard of a village called al-Birwa?" "No," I answered. "Where is it?" "You won't find it on this earth," he said. "We blew it up, raked the stones out of its earth, then plowed it until it disappeared under the trees." "To cover up the crime?" I asked. He corrected me, protesting, "No, it was to cover up its crime, that damned place." "And what was its crime?" I asked. "It resisted us," he answered. "They fought back, costing us many casualties, and we had to occupy it twice. The first time we were eating dinner, and the tea was hot. The villagers surprised us and took it back. How could we accept such an insult? You don't know the Arabs, and now I'm telling you." I told him I was Arab, and that it was my village. He apologized politely but awkwardly, talked of peace, then invited me to his shop, where he was auctioning off furnishings and household utensils plundered from the city of Quneitra.
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