One saw first the boy's eyes. They held a strange and fractured gray-blue light. He pounded indignantly on the car in Gaza. He banged on it with a sort of symbolic fierceness. There was no murder in the eyes -- they were too innocent for that -- but there was something more difficult to know, a dreamy glaze, an enamel of unseeing. He and the other Palestinians, none older than 15 or so, came round and pounded on the car with fists. Their indignation was furious, but also a sort of abstraction, and mixed in it a fierce atmosphere of carnival,...
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