I will say this imperfectly, because I am shaking. I will say this vulnerably, because I am scared. I will say this with love, because that’s a given: My People, my People, please. We are grieving and we are angry. Our claws are out, our teeth are bared, a roar fills us from that infinite space within each of us…

Truth to power, I don’t know what the answer is, I don’t know what can fix this pain, or what can prevent it from happening again… but I can smell the wrong answer, charred and rotting in a forest near Jerusalem. I can hear the wrong answer in the clattering words from snarling lips when we shout “death to the Arabs, death to the Arabs.” I can see it in smoke rising, in hateful slurs on mosques, in a flash from our eyes.

Don’t tell me they started it. Don’t tell me we’re better. This is not a moral pissing contest.

This is a battle field that our children will inherit, and while I think the people who killed our boys — our beautiful, innocent boys — must pay and pay dearly, we must do this righteously, for it is  way too fast a fall to the bottom, and  way too long a  climb back up.

And this I know for certain: We must stand  together just as we stood for those boys, and condemn the hatred and violence being carried out in their names.