The first time I saw a house being demolished in the West Bank village of Al-Khalayleh, I wanted to pick up a stone and throw it at the bulldozer. The first time I went to a demonstration in Nabi Saleh, the week after Mustafa Tamimi was shot at close range with a tear gas canister that ruptured his eye and his brain and ultimately took his life, I wanted to hurl a rock at the IDF jeeps. I did not know the family in the small Palestinian village whose house was being demolished because of arbitrary administrative Israeli policies—I only saw them standing there, watching silently, the smallest boy clutching a Spiderman doll almost as big as he was. I had never met Mustafa Tamimi—I only saw pictures posted on Facebook of a young man, about my age, lying on the road with blood pouring out of where his eye used to be. I am a proud Israeli and a religiously observant Jew and a functional pacifist. And the first time I saw a house being demolished, I wanted to throw a stone.