At 04:15, amidst a stars-clad sky, in a small village in the Gaza strip, falls silently a bomb. The explosion levels the ground, reducing lives to smashed portraits and burned toys. The Palestinian family sleeps on forever. An eternal gasp is punctured by the wails of women and the wrath of men. Hidden from sight, the scene lays wrapped in agony in the collective memory of the villagers. It is shrouded by the night’s veil, oblivious to the eyes of the media.
Tel Aviv, noon. The restaurant is brimming with cackle and laughter, kids frolicking round the tables as parents get an eyeful of the passing crowds. A fat boy marvels at the towering sundae before his greedy, gleaming eyes. A man takes a seat beside him. He is eerily tranquil, stoned-faced but with a glazed hollow stare. The ground erupts. Journalists scurry past bellowing sirens. The camera shakes and swerves, capturing frames of an inferno. The carcass of the restaurant is swathed in ashes and smoke. Rolled in its midst, a carpet of blood and debris. The scene is carried around the world, into living rooms. The images of the blaze lights the eyes of viewers, projects them and their loved ones into the flames. The bomber sought to attract sympathy to his desperation but only raised the ire of those whose imagination has been transported and violated. The media becomes the eyes of the victims.