Thirty-four years ago I sat beside a hospital bed with its tubes dangling, pumps silent, all attempts at life support shut down, as I held my child, my 22-month-old son, cradling him in my arms as I watched the last flicker of his life ebb away. He died from drowning. But you, you mothers of the Holy Innocents, you whose babies, your young sons, perhaps your 22-month-olds, there you were cradling your children, bloody from the stab wounds inflicted by the soldiers. I think of you and I wonder.