Last year, I got a letter from Camp Koby in Israel. It was an invitation to go to camp, and not just any camp. The letter explained that this particular camp was for kids who had lost a family member to terrorism from all over Israel. It'd be 10 days long, would bring together kids both religious and secular, and it would be free of charge.

I'd been invited because my brother was murdered by Arab terrorists two years ago. I was 11 at the time. He and his friend went for a walk in the canyon, and Arab terrorists attacked them and beat them to death with rocks. Since that day, I haven't been able to communicate with people. I couldn't talk about anything that wasn't serious. And even when it was serious, I couldn't really listen because what was serious to them wasn't serious to me.

When I heard about Camp Koby, I knew there would be kids who would understand what I was going through, and I was hoping to find someone who would listen to me and have fun with. I hoped there would be somebody who could understand me--what I've been going through since my brother was killed: the grief, the pain, the missing him, and missing my old life. My parents wanted me to go but didn't pressure me. They told me they thought it would be good for me, but that it was my choice. I decided to give it a shot.

I left on July 7, 2002. On the bus to camp, I was pretty nervous. I didn't know anybody my own age there. When I got out of the bus, however, I found that I knew a lot of the kids and counselors. As it turned out, some of the counselors were friends of my brother. At first, we campers had a hard time knowing what to say to each other. I wanted to know what happened to the other kids but didn't think it was my place to ask. So we talked about how the food was and if the games and activities would be fun--normal stuff.

But within a day or two, we dropped the chit chat. We started walking up to each other and asking, "So, what happened to you?" And we would tell our story to one another and there would be an understanding between all of us. It was like, "Oh you lost somebody in your family? Welcome to the club. Now you're part of us." We all had our hearts broken, but together we seemed to make one full heart.

It was so different with these kids than it was hanging out with my friends at home. With friends from home, everything feels the same on the surface, but inside it's different. If I talk about my brother, they just sit quietly and don't say anything. They get a sad look on their faces, and I can tell they feel sorry for me. I don't like it when it when people pity me.

When I talk about my brother at camp, nobody pities me, and they really understand what I'm feeling. Often somebody would start telling a story about their experience of a family member being killed, and we'd all jump in, comparing what we hate and like about how people react to our tragedy. For example, most of us hate those who hover around us at the time of the yahrtzeit (the yearly memorial for the dead relative), and tell us to "drink something" every second. And we're also annoyed by all the people who keep asking: "Are you okay?" My brother was murdered! Hello?! Of course I'm not okay! What we like are friends who just sit next to us and let us cry without saying anything.

Don't get me wrong. It wasn't always easy at camp. There were also challenges and hard moments at camp. One day, a girl told me that her brother's yahrtzeit was the day before, and I said "Mazel Tov." There's really no easy response to what she said, and all I could come up with was this congratulatory response. She didn't hear me but one of the counselors told me it was "not okay" to say that. This made me angry. It wasn't her business, and how dare she get involved. Later the same day I asked the girl if she would have been angry if I'd said "Mazel Tov" to her. And she told me that she wouldn't have been insulted if it came from me but probably would have been if it came from someone who didn't have somebody murdered in their family.

Sometimes there were also activities I didn't want to go to because I just didn't feel that I needed it. Like the drama session of therapy. I didn't feel like I needed therapy at the camp. I deal with my grief talking to my friends, and I didn't feel I needed a therapist to do that for me.

However, in spite of the tough times, it was a huge relief to be able to share my loss with others. Even more surprising was that sometimes we–and by that, I mean only those who've been through a major loss–could laugh about our hard times. I felt really free to be myself, to let go of everything and just go with the flow. I'm home now but I 'm going back to camp during Sukkot in October. I miss everyone at the camp–both the counselors and kids. I really miss them.