Death is inevitable, a biological fact. We have learned to expect it sooner or later; some even to accept it. We have experienced death in our families, some, that of a close friend. Death is never pleasant, always sad, sometimes tragic. But for the most part, we are insulated from it, even isolated from it.

A siren sounds. From our home, our workplace, our classroom, we glance out the window. An emergency vehicle flashing red and blue hurries by. We think: another fire, another accident, another heart attack. We may reflect for a moment: Thank God it isn't us -- thank God it is someone else.

Now, settled in and cozy for the evening, we hear a siren wail. Then, another scream. Then, another. The lights flicker and we start. A distant boom is followed by another. The floor buckles, the windows rattle. The lights flicker again, then go black. Frightened, we glance to our window to see the horizon lit like a late sunset.

Frantically, we sweep our youngest child into our arms, not knowing where to run, then rush outdoors to the violent crash of thunder and muffled rumbles. The ground beneath our feet is trembling. Everywhere we turn the night sky is flung breathless with brilliant explosive flashes, plumes of black smoke rising.

Our children cling anxiously to whatever precious hold they can maintain on us, but the fury of charged air crushes us to our knees, shattering glass. The horizon is a fire-storm.

Suddenly we are no longer insulated, no longer isolated; we are immersed in death. Death has become tragically immediate; we are looking into the devastating eyes of death.

And suddenly, we are faced with the terrifying realization that our own death, and that of everyone around us, friends, neighbors, loved-ones -- our children -- appears immediately inevitable.

Nine out of 10 casualties of war are civilians.