On March 4^th, 1996, a suicide attack occurred adjacent to Dizengoff Center mall in the heart of Tel Aviv, Israel. 13 people were killed and 125 people were wounded in the attack committed by a Hamas suicide bomber. Many youths were among the casualties.

A suicide bomber was smuggled from Gaza to Israel and reached his destination- the mall. His aim was to explode inside the building. When he noticed the security man at the entrance, he made a change of plan, and exploded in the middle of a nearby pedestrian crossing. The demolition charge carried by the terrorist weighted 20kg and in addition to explosives it included nails and many pieces of metal, which were meant to increase the damage.

At that time, the city was especially crowded: it was Purim, a Jewish holiday, in which it is customary to wear costumes and to participate in precessions on the streets. Children in costumes and make-up from all across the country came to have fun with their parents, teenagers from the periphery came to celebrate in Tel Aviv. For some of them it was the first trip on their own to the big city.

I was one of those youths. I stood in line at the ATM in order to withdraw money for my bus trip back home after a day of joy. I stood only 40 meters away from the bomber. I do not recall the moment of the explosion. However, I remember waking up dozens of meters away from the ATM, lying on the floor and bleeding. I was only a 17 years old boy then. My young soul could not bear the sights. I hardly recall anything that happened in the following week, apart from one memory, which I cannot forget until this very day: the smell of burnt flesh spreading in the shattered street.  

In the subsequent years, perhaps as part of the trauma's self healing process, I had a strong appeal to Arab and Palestinian culture. As its direct victim, I felt a strong need to understand both sides of the conflict.

I especially wanted to know what made a man commit suicide in the middle of a street as part of a political struggle. I wanted to know and understand everything about that suicide bomber who almost put an end to my life. 

I called him "my suicide bomber".

I read everything I found about him on the internet and in newspapers. But I felt I had to understand more on my own, and not only through the media.

Approximately two years ago, at the age of 30, I participated in an especially secret and underground party in southern Tel Aviv. It was a party of the Palestinian LGBT community. At this magnificent party I was exposed to a community living underground and deeply "in the closet". Dozens of men and women danced cheerfully together, celebrating the temporary freedom they were given. I was drawn to the sounds and dancing, and they embraced me as if I was one of them. I felt happiness rather than fear.

The music stopped as a black drag queen entered the stage. She wore a huge white wedding dress, and the announcer shouted in Arabic: "Please welcome the fabulous Queen of Sheba!".  The crowd roared and whistled enthusiastically. She stood on the stage, black and beautiful  and perfectly performed a Whitney Houston song.

When she stepped off the stage I felt I had to take her picture. At that moment, within a second, I decided: I have to know her; I have to do a project about Queen of Sheba

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