Last night I woke up shaking and crying to the brilliant flashes of light and booms. It was a monsoon thunderstorm. I thought I was in Gaza. It was only desert summer rains. I thought I was among the 500,000 internally displaced people, scrambling like mad to avoid adding their numbers to the over 1,500 murdered relatives friends neighbors, running from building to destroyed building to targeted hospital to flattened school, seeking shelter from the 86,000 armed soldiers and the 200 tons of bombs raining daily. Like the monsoon thunderstorm, but deadly, evil, horrible. I thought I was in Gaza. I thought I will need therapy for the rest of my life for this one night. I was not in Gaza. I was safe in the U.S., safely inside the tanks, behind the scopes of the guns, directing the unmanned drones, flying the Apache helicopters. Safely armored as I rained hellfire and destruction on the 1.8 million people of Gaza for over 24 nights and days. And as I spent another sleepless night I thought I will never comprehend the horrors that the people of Gaza live every night. And I will never forgive myself for not stopping them.