They do not like that you wondered

The wee hours of the morning. Another morning, another sunrise, where my father would find me crouched on the balcony, shivering in a mix of terror and curiosity. I was 10 and 11 and 12. Dealing with regular early teenage matters like two new chestnuts on my chest, and a school unrequited crush. And what I thought was also a regular teenage matter: deciphering the sound of the Israeli jets.
The sound of the Israeli jets, made the rest of the worries, take a seat back. I would track their altitude, their direction, their numbers, by the intensity of the sound. Where they would bomb next remained…