"I am Moroccan," she noted proudly. "What does this mean?" I asked, remembering quite a few incidents where I felt contempt for her community and arrogance towards me. "We are a combination of warmth, giving and intense passions." "Ahhh ..." I growled, "It sounds good," I remarked, feeling the waking libido and remembering the instructions I received from the Moroccan guys I knew in the paratroopers, the college and the construction company I worked for today: "If you give them true love from the heart, they will open your soul. And not just her. " I smiled awkwardly and noted that she actually looked very calm. "Wait for my Moroccan vein to swell, then you will understand," she said and did not understand if she was joking or real. The explosion took place in Sinai. In a chilling flashback, the feeling of anxiety I experienced near Tzur in Lebanon passed through me again, when my life was saved for the first time from a trip that caught fire. But that was not the fate of Rotem Moriah and Assaf Greenwald, whose picture appeared next to him in a black frame in a newspaper the day after they played guitar together. A huge pain flooded me and I could not stop the tears. The devil who descended between Taba and Ras a-Satan succeeded in his despicable way of killing life, and with them the buds of love.