Young hipsters and middle-aged couples are pressed together holding up printed signs of protest. A student shouts into her bullhorn at the top of her lungs, her neck tight and bulging. The crowd leaves the sidewalks to start marching into the middle of the street. Above us, people are taking pictures from their balconies. Cars honk and children wave as they watch us pass by. Police lights flash and traffic stops. I am surrounded by singing, clapping, happy people and am suddenly struck by how beautiful my generation is. Drummers beat behind us and I can feel their sound rising in my chest. Suddenly we sit down in the middle of an intersection flooded in lamplight. I never cared enough to protest before and now that I'm here in Israel, I finally feel free. I wonder about what I've been missing all this time. Why didn't I have a community? Why did I feel alone? Why didn't I take a chance? Why did I continue to listen to my parents? Why didn't I yell at the top of my lungs? Why did I ever let myself feel helpless?
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