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By Peter Fergus-Moore In December of 2013, my wife Joyce and I boarded a chartered bus in Jerusalem for what we thought was a break from our duties and a chance to see more of the country. We were serving a three-month term as human rights monitors with the Ecumenical Accompaniment Program in Palestine and Israel (EAPPI). The program had arranged for a journey to Haifa in northern Israel, for a chance to hear directly from Israeli peace activists on their work.
I held him in my arms as he died. I held him, also, for nine months within me. After a routine ultrasound partway into the pregnancy, and a subsequent flurry of tests and meetings with some of the brightest obstetricians and geneticists in the world, we were given the news of a ‘lethal’ diagnosis: our baby would not live after he was born. Josiah’s tiny body was not capable of survival outside the womb. By every standard in this world, he was frail, weak, small.
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