I was dead asleep.

I've got myself a fairly liberal pair of parents. They were not at the peace rally, but they were watching on the box. And on November the 5th, fairly early in the morning, my fairly liberal dad wakes me up and tells me Rabin was murdered.

I cognized the decree with fair acceptance. There goes the peace process, I reasoned. The world is manifested by scum, I noted. I was always fairly sad, a serious little 5th grader, and I was excited strictly by the serious stuff. I would prance around the television in my room when they announced another progress, burned with rage when the box spoke of delay and violence, asking all sorts of how's and why's as I went along. Essentially I was a sad little kid. The box was a box but it could evoke a lot of excitement none the less, because the peace process was fairly important and I therefore felt that it must be real. But then on the 5th grade, on November 5, I noted. Teenagers were spraying burning red question marks all over Rabin square, and I sympathized with a nod.

And then life did what it tends to do and went on, to 1996, exactly 364 days later that I remember fairly vividly, when all the other kids on the playground put the playground to its correct use, and when a teacher asked me why I wasn't, I told her it was the memorial day for Rabin, and she nodded and pretended to be serious too for a few fair moments. And life moved on.

I moved out of the box and out of my little room, and met all sorts of warmongers who were fairly real, and some 'pacifists' on a teenage rebellion, who were real too until they snapped out of it. They were all fairly real, though politics, I noted, weren't. I was a realistic little teenager, and all my real leaders and peacemakers were fairly dead.