always remember the moment just after taking such decisions： the hush as senior officers or cabinet ministers slowly rise from their seats； the sight of their receding backs； the sound of the closing door； and then the silence in which i remain alone.
that is the moment you grasp that as a result of the decision just made， people might go to their deaths. people from my nation， people from other nations. and they still don't know it.
at that hour， they are still laughing and weeping； still weaving plans and dreaming about love； still musing about planting a garden or building a house —— and they have no idea these are their last hours on earth. which of them is fated to die？ whose picture will appear in the black frame in tomorrow's newspaper？ whose mother will soon be in mourning？ whose world will crumble under the weight of the loss？
as a former military man， i will also forever remember the silence of the moment before： the hush when the hands of the clock seem to be spinning forward， when time is running out and in another hour， another minute， the inferno will erupt.
in that moment of great tension just before the finger pulls the trigger， just before the fuse begins to burn； in the terrible quiet of the moment， there is still time to wonder， to wonder alone： is it really imperative to act？ is there no other choice？ no other way？
'god takes pity on kindergartners，' wrote the poet yehudah amichai， who is here with us this
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