The day our fifteen year-old daughter was murdered by Palestinian Arab terrorists, everything changed for my wife and me. Malki died in an explosive massacre, targeted not at some military installation but at a fast-food restaurant full of holidaying children, teens and mothers. Immediately following the bombing, her cell phone did not answer and our insides started to churn. We searched the hospitals. We prayed, we cried, we hoped. When we finally found her in the early morning of the next day, Malki's body had already been lifeless for twelve hours. Our daughter was the last of the 15 victims to be identified and the last to be buried.
But don't you dare call them "terrorists". That's too, too judgemental and ethnocentric. In fact, just to make sure everyone gets the point, we'd better enclose the term in two sets of quotation marks: ""terrorists"".
After all, one man's terrorist is another man's restaurant critic.
Slithering filth. Swift justice be upon all such.