A young girl speaks out the voice years after tragedy and loss.
"Mom and I were best friends; I'm her first child, and previously to my baby-sister being born, I was her only daughter.
Each of my girlfriends back then used to have adolecent problems with their folks, but it was different with me. We would go out jogging every night and I'd tell mom things about me, things I told no-one else.
One night we went out to our jogging routing. It was winter, and very cold; I had two best friends, and we were like Charlie's angels, but for some reason we had a fight that day. So mom told me that "friendships are never in threes."
Soon after, it started raining, and once we arrived home we were both soaked, and laughing happily.
My parents were very special people. A happy couple. They have this rare love, that a kid immediately feels. My mom was the fire, and dad was the water, and both has this presence that influenced you wordlessly.
I always had the feeling that they loved it when we would fool around, that they don't want us to be those goodie-two-shoes kids.
At school, I'd ditch and run with the girls to the supermarket. One time, before getting there, I saw my dad about to pick up my little brother from kindergarten; I told him -"Dad, come with us, so we don't get caught. Dad answered, "I you want to run away, I don't mind, but don't make me your partner in crime."; He has this smile on his face and his eyes sparkled with humor.
Me and my friend hurried to the market; On our way back we we saw dad again. We sticked to the fence so the teachers won't see us. Dad sat nearby, on a small bench, to see what we'll do.
Chinese workers who just worked in the garden set a ladder on the fence, and we climbed quickly to not get caught.
Dad just set there, staring, and then he started applauding, cheering and encouraging us. When we told mom about it, the same everning, she burst out laughing.
They liked out adventures, and so our stories became the tradition of Shabbat meals. Each friday night, in the middle of Shabbat dinner, sometimes, the little kids would run to their rooms, grab their blaknets and pillows and start a pollow-fight till we all got tired and fell asleep in the livingroom.
The attack happen on a Saturday. My siblings fell asleep in the livingroom, like always, when the terrorists entered our house. After that, everything changed. Nothing's the same as it once was.
My mom and dad and little siblings were killed, and ever since that night I see this curtaint, picture, image in my brain, one that I would never forget.
I remember that time I fell asleep in the livingroom of a family I worked for, as a babysitter. The father came back, saw me fast asleep, and didn't know what to do. He didn't want me to be embarrassed once I woke, so he texted my dad, asking what to do. Dad texted back, saying, "She's stong, don't worry, she'll be alright."
Today, I think, he knew more about me that I knew of myself, his words will live with my forever. Yes, I'm strong, and I will be alright."
The pages of a letter written By Tamar Fogel, at the age of 13, in the book- "Missing your embrace", as one of 1540 stories of children losing dear ones to Palestinan terrorism.
"Mom and I were best friends; I'm her first child, and previously to my baby-sister being born, I was her only daughter.
Each of my girlfriends back then used to have adolecent problems with their folks, but it was different with me. We would go out jogging every night and I'd tell mom things about me, things I told no-one else.
One night we went out to our jogging routing. It was winter, and very cold; I had two best friends, and we were like Charlie's angels, but for some reason we had a fight that day. So mom told me that "friendships are never in threes."
Soon after, it started raining, and once we arrived home we were both soaked, and laughing happily.
My parents were very special people. A happy couple. They have this rare love, that a kid immediately feels. My mom was the fire, and dad was the water, and both has this presence that influenced you wordlessly.
I always had the feeling that they loved it when we would fool around, that they don't want us to be those goodie-two-shoes kids.
At school, I'd ditch and run with the girls to the supermarket. One time, before getting there, I saw my dad about to pick up my little brother from kindergarten; I told him -"Dad, come with us, so we don't get caught. Dad answered, "I you want to run away, I don't mind, but don't make me your partner in crime."; He has this smile on his face and his eyes sparkled with humor.
Me and my friend hurried to the market; On our way back we we saw dad again. We sticked to the fence so the teachers won't see us. Dad sat nearby, on a small bench, to see what we'll do.
Chinese workers who just worked in the garden set a ladder on the fence, and we climbed quickly to not get caught.
Dad just set there, staring, and then he started applauding, cheering and encouraging us. When we told mom about it, the same everning, she burst out laughing.
They liked out adventures, and so our stories became the tradition of Shabbat meals. Each friday night, in the middle of Shabbat dinner, sometimes, the little kids would run to their rooms, grab their blaknets and pillows and start a pollow-fight till we all got tired and fell asleep in the livingroom.
The attack happen on a Saturday. My siblings fell asleep in the livingroom, like always, when the terrorists entered our house. After that, everything changed. Nothing's the same as it once was.
My mom and dad and little siblings were killed, and ever since that night I see this curtaint, picture, image in my brain, one that I would never forget.
I remember that time I fell asleep in the livingroom of a family I worked for, as a babysitter. The father came back, saw me fast asleep, and didn't know what to do. He didn't want me to be embarrassed once I woke, so he texted my dad, asking what to do. Dad texted back, saying, "She's stong, don't worry, she'll be alright."
Today, I think, he knew more about me that I knew of myself, his words will live with my forever. Yes, I'm strong, and I will be alright."
The pages of a letter written By Tamar Fogel, at the age of 13, in the book- "Missing your embrace", as one of 1540 stories of children losing dear ones to Palestinan terrorism.
There are too many stories like this, written and unwritten. 
