Few events in life expel tears. Fewer still bring us to our knees. Then there are those handful of tragedies digging wounds that never heal. The West Bank shooting of 14-year-old Amer Mohammed Saada Rabee on April 6 caused one of those wounds in my heart to bleed again. On April 8, the boy’s father, Mohammed Rabee, spoke via Zoom at the Palestinian American Community Center in Clifton. He said that his son, an American citizen and former Saddle Brook, New Jersey resident, was picking green almonds with two friends in the Turmus Ayya village when Israeli soldiers fired, killing Rabee and wounding the others. Israeli authorities claimed the boys were throwing rocks at cars at the time of the shooting. During the press conference, I listened to Rania Mustafa, executive director of PACC, speak of the injustice and demand an investigation. I watched Selaedin Maksut, executive director of the Council of American Islamic Relations, speak of the ongoing turmoil in that land. Another speaker was Rami Jbara, the boy’s uncle, who spoke with sad eyes about his nephew and how well he did in school. Then, the boy’s father, Mohammed Rabee, came on the screen from the West Bank. He described how his boy loved to pick green almonds and how his village is known for its almond trees. He said that his family would persevere and that he hoped for peace to one day reign over his land. While listening and taking notes, I was trying to stop a devastating memory from floating to the surface. I had kept that damn memory buried deep in a place reserved for sacred things, revered things, a place you don’t visit often, but when you do, copious tears join a grave shuddering of the heart. It was October of 1973, and I was an 8-year-old boy growing up in Damascus, Syria, a country at war with Israel. I did not regard that fact with much attention. I was more focused on riding my bike with no gears and venturing out of our “safe” zone with my friends. We played soccer after school and bloodied our knees and elbows. We roamed the streets, ringing doorbells and running. Don’t all boys do that? We begged fruit sellers for apples and berries. Some gave us a few; some chased us away with a switch. Damascus back then was a huge metropolis of four million people - imagine Brooklyn with more people. The streets were packed with cars and buses, and the buildings had apartments on top and stores on the bottom. You heard shouts of restaurant owners yelling their specials at people walking by, along with car horns and the hum of chaos. You took in the scents of grilled kabobs, roasted pistachios and chestnuts, and the aroma of wood burning in fireplaces. My best friend, Ziad, lived in a building across from mine on Abdul Malek Street in the Abu Rummaneh neighborhood. His balcony faced mine, and we would invent ways to communicate when we were grounded, which took place often. We also tried that two-cans-with-string thing that is supposed to work like a phone. It didn’t. We were inseparable, and in the summer, we spent the night at either his place or mine. All was good until Oct. 9, 1973, the start of the Yom Kippur War between Syria and Israel. I remember my father waking me up in the middle of the night and carrying me on his shoulder while dragging the rest of my family to the bomb shelter of our building. The loud booms outside were punctuated by kids crying inside. I vividly remember wondering if I should cry, too. Then, a boom exploded nearby, causing our building to shake and the lights to go out. That was when my tears burst out, along with screams in the dark basement filled with scared folks and body odor. My father held me tightly and whispered in my ear. My memory goes a little vague here. The next thing I remember is standing outside after the all-clear siren and looking at what used to be my best friend’s building, now a huge pile of rubble. The entire building had collapsed from an Israeli bomb. I found out years later that their target was the Syrian General Staff Headquarters building, also in our neighborhood. Ziad’s building was “Collateral damage.” The Israeli bombing was in response to Syria and Egypt bombing Israel in a surprise attack on Oct 6. That attack was one of several Israeli/Arab wars. It even goes back longer even, all the way back to WWI and the Belfour Declaration of 1917, when Britain promised Israelis a homeland on that sliver of land by the Mediterranean Sea. Severe and crippling was the sadness when I realized my best friend was buried alive. I woke up in bed the next day thinking the entire thing was a dream, but my brother told me that I passed out right there on the street. He also confirmed the death of my best friend. I’m almost 60 now, and I have witnessed countless young lives lost to this bloody conflict. Last week, I witnessed the death of this 14-year-old boy from New Jersey. Next week, I will witness more killings on both sides. I never understood why Palestinians and Israelis can’t come to a peaceful resolution and coexist on the land. Isn’t that better than killing children? In this writing, I’m crying out to the humanity in all of us. Yes, that includes YOU. You, my reader. You, my congressman, Thomas Kean Jr. You, my senator, Cory Booker. You, my president, yes, you, Donald Trump. And finally, you, my fellow human being. Can we stop the killings? Karim Shamsi-Basha may be reached at kshamsi-basha@njadvancemedia.com. Follow him on Twitter & Instagram. Follow Mosaic on Instagram at @MosaicNJcom and on Facebook at MosaicNJcom.