A person can only be born in one place. However, he may die several times elsewhere: in the exiles and prisons, and in a homeland transformed by the occupation and oppression into a nightmare.
The image of love reveals itself there; in a profoundly present absence.
I am not a lover of Israel, of course. I have no reason to be. But I don't hate Jews.
Perhaps death is a metaphor to remind us of a secret of life we failed to notice.