Why I’m not a Zionist and why I should be one

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A week ago, I decided that I had to join the anti-Zionist movement.

I had been following the protests, and I knew they were a real thing, even though I didn’t think they were.

The next day, the first anti-Israeli protest took place in Brooklyn.

The protesters were peaceful, and many of them spoke Hebrew.

I spoke with some of them and tried to explain that the movement was not an extremist movement, nor was it a racist movement.

They told me that they were tired of being used as scapegoats by a powerful, racist Israeli government, and that the only reason they were being persecuted was because they had done something wrong.

I tried to reassure them that I understood their perspective, that they have the right to protest, and it is their right to do so.

But I wasn’t reassured enough.

I was disappointed.

It was not until the following day that I finally understood what they were really protesting about.

The protests were about the government’s plans to make the West Bank an international crime park.

The idea is to turn the land into a place for international tourists to tour and camp.

I didn’st want to go there, because it was going to be a horrible place.

But the idea of Israel as a “crime park” was something that I could understand.

After the protest, the Israelis in my community began to get very angry.

One day, a group of them came to my house and began throwing rocks at my house.

It happened just as I was getting ready to go to sleep.

One of them got on the couch and began beating the sleeping person, and after he fell asleep, he woke up screaming.

It didn’t take long for my mother to arrive home to find him in the bathroom screaming at her.

She was screaming at him to stop.

Then she grabbed him by the arm and said, “He’s my son, I’m going to call the police.”

My mother called the police.

The Israeli police took the man to the hospital and told him he had broken his leg, but that he was in good spirits.

They also told him that they would be sending him to the police station for questioning.

He was then released.

But that night, he began hearing the Israelis calling the police to come and arrest me.

They kept saying that he broke his leg because he didn’t want to stay in the West, but I was really worried about him, and he didn t want to leave the West.

I went home from work that evening.

The following morning, I went to my mom and told her everything.

I said, I know it is not true, but he broke my leg because of the way he treated me.

I told her that if he broke me, I would break my leg.

I got angry, and at night, I started yelling at my mom.

She screamed at me, and when I yelled back, she started crying.

At the time, I thought she was angry at me for crying, but it turns out that she was actually crying because she had been told by her husband to stop screaming at me.

She then started telling me that I was wrong about Israel and that I should stop talking about it.

She told me, “If you keep talking about Israel, they are going to come to arrest you.”

She continued to scream at me all night.

I couldn’t sleep that night.

One morning, when I woke up, my mom was already crying.

I could tell that something was really wrong.

That night, she asked me what I wanted to do.

I answered that I didn t know what to do and that it was up to me.

Later that day, she told me she was going home, but when I went out the door, she said, She’s going to take you to the station.

I thought about that for a while, and then I decided to go.

When I got to the bus stop, the Israeli police pulled me from the bus.

I looked around me, but there were no police.

I felt so humiliated, so scared, so humiliated.

I decided I was going back to my hometown of Hebron and I started walking home.

That was when I started feeling sad and anxious.

I walked home in the dark, feeling so lonely.

I saw my mother, and she told the police that she didn t like me anymore.

She said that I needed to stay away from her, and told me to stop calling her.

Then, she went to the local police station and started crying and yelling at the officers.

I left the station, and the next day I went back to the place where she lived, and there were people there.

I found my mother there.

When the police asked her what she wanted to tell them, she simply said, That was the first time I have spoken to them since the police came to arrest me in the middle of the night.

That day, I left Hebron, and my mother and I