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EXCERPT:
   The Defense Minister's son feels the power of the behemoth Merkva 3 Baz tank underneath him as it creeps toward Aide, the Palestinian refugee camp south of Jerusalem. Beneath him in the armor-protected compartment sit Yodye, the shell loader, Tzviel the gunner and Migdana, the driver. He is proud of his tank team; they are veteran reservists, having served their two years of active duty like all Israeli citizens must do, and now are called up from the reserves for this mission. Yodye, the dark hair, blue eyed man, so boyish that he still giggles when given an order he does not understand, is the grandson of German Jews who lost their lives at the Nazi camp, Auschwitz. Tzviel, which means gazelle of god, is the son of Best Israel immigrants from Ethiopia, whose parents Jonathan's father almost single handedly brought from Africa, along with thousands of other black Jews. Although separated from Jewish culture in Africa, they had kept their faith for a millennium. He is most proud of Migdana, his female driver, the tall, statuesque woman, whose name means gift. She has proven herself to be just that, turning out to be not only as macho as his toughest tank soldier, but as patriotic as anyone in the Israeli Defense Force. The crew is young, not one over thirty, the generation that follows his one, so loose and likeable that they do not address him as sir, but as Jonathan. Two other Merkvas tanks follow his lead in the pre-dawn hour.
   At his signal, two huge armored bulldozers, American-made Caterpillars, will begin smashing a path for the tanks through the Palestinian camp, toward the suicide bomber, Mahmoud Hassiessi's house. A platoon of soldiers, twenty-four in all, are in the process of evacuating the Palestinians from their dwellings; they will be given fifteen minutes to grab their children and possessions before the bulldozers plow over the houses. Small loss to society, as the structures are more hovels than houses, he tells himself. The minister's son marvels at how those people live: almost a half century since the War of Independence when they fled their homes and property, finding shelter in this refugee camp, and they have not improved their conditions one iota. He thinks these Palestinians are an inferior people, not even remotely close to the Jewish people's lifestyles in the surrounding settlements.
   The defense minister's son grits his teethover the frustration he feels, having to constantly police the troublemakers from completely getting out of control, they are all mad with this second intifada of theirs, the one his father allegedly triggered by visiting al Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem, one of the many holy places of Islam. They should be in Jordan, not here in the West Bank, Israel's ancient land ceded by God. Here in the Jewish peoples' holy land, this surly bunch is obsessed with regaining what they believe to be their land. No matter how pious they profess themselves to be, no matter how many times they prostrate themselves in prayer, facing their holy city five times a day, they are still heathens to him. He cannot accept a people or a religion that sanctions a mere boy, a pre-pubescent, or anyone for that matter, blowing himself up to kill innocent people. A cold chill runs through his body when he imagines one of his own sons, trading places with the dead Palestinian boy. The mere thought of sacrificing his son in such a horrible way, even for Israel's need to survive its many enemies, causes his stomach to turn sour.