To see it and refuse to believe it. To see it, cry and ask, are these our brothers? Again, are these our brothers? How is it possible that this rotten fruit shares the same land with us, speaks the same language we speak, is part of the same history?
To see - in other words, stare at the television screen - and wonder what have we done to deserve this, to have this despicable thing come out of us. How did these people develop under the same sky, on the same ground, and how ugly can they be?
Too see, to stare and to refuse to believe that this brutalized pile of people, rejoicing with a bride and groom, this sticky batter jumping up and skipping in ecstasy, is one of our own. Hebrew jihadists with a skullcap and side-locks, celebrating a Jewish marriage in the midst of the Hanukkah holiday.
Men of valor, offshoots of the Hasmonean family, home arsonists and torch lighters, passing the heartbreaking picture of infant Ali Dawabsheh from hand to hand, from hand to hand, stabbing it again and again.
A modern pile, a disturbed and delusional metamorphosis, a mutation of Judah Maccabee and his brothers which has gotten out of hand, taking on an 18-month-old baby who was burnt by their brothers along with his family members. Strictly kosher Jewish ISIS gangs, the Greater Land of Israel, dancing on the blood. And their ours. A very bad tumor, but one of our own.
To see and to ask ourselves what can be done, and how. How is it possible that we always thought it only happens among other people, not here, not in the homes we built here, not on the streets of the communities we established here, not in the homeland we returned to and brought along what should have been a new message, a different one. Not this abominable thing.
To wonder if there is any way to discharge them from our midst to the only place they deserve, they and their brothers in blood and fire, the courageous ISIS fighters, the decapitators. To house them together, on the same land with their brothers from Hamas, who faithfully share the same idea, under the same flag, Molotov cocktail and knife.
To see and to take a deep breath, and to wonder if this is the moment, the only moment and this time only, to let the Shin Bet off easy over the interrogation methods it reportedly uses against them, and to say that this is a war for our future. A desperate war for our future, and therefore there is no choice. Or not.