You know how certain memories stay with you? Especially tragedy, but also ecstasy. I can still remember sitting on a sofa bed in a Mt. Carmel neighborhood glued to the TV screen in September 1993 as Israel Prime Minister Rabin signed a peace agreement with Arafat. As a 23-year-old immigrant brand new in Israel, I had barely begun to absorb basic Israeli realities – reserve duty, politics, terrorism and wars. But the optimism in the air was compelling, beckoning people to override their other intuitions, fears and doubts, and hope against hope that a brand new day was dawning in Israeli relations with the Palestinians. The next memory I have of Rabin is when he GOT SHOT. Tragedy seared the memory into my neurons while his