A Visit to the Bazaar of Hebron

We entered the narrow cobbled street leading to the centre of the bazaar and it was like walking into the tunnel of death, so full of emptiness and silence that we lowered our voices as in a church and walked without making a sound. All the metallic shutters of the shops were pulled down and locked with chains. Humidity oozed out of the stone walls; they smelled of weeds and urine. I longed for the powdered whiteness of the desert, for the blinding light of the Judean sun. But its rays couldn't reach our loneliness: fishing nets had been hung over the street to protect passers-by from the rage of the settlers, who had gradually taken over the rooftops on the east-side and would throw at the Arab merchants and customers anything from garbage to excrements, discarded furniture, wood poles or rusty ironwork. Now that they had succeeded in emptying the bazaar of all life, I wondered why the nets were still full of these incongruous projectiles. But victory had not stilled the hate of these raving conquerors. I passed a door with Hebrew words painted in white. David translated: "Death to the Arabs. They belong in the gas chambers". There was anger in his voice, as well as shock, despair and immense bitterness. "How dare they?" he whispered, as if to himself. "You know, when the few remaining members of my family came over from Poland, having survived the death camps and marches, they had a dream. They wanted to build a beautiful land of peace, tolerance and social progress, a land where they would be safe. Now, these madmen here, who claim to be Jews, are destroying our vision, our desperate attempt to vanquish death and forget horror." We walked in silence; he was gone, lost in himself. I knew these moments of existential anguish and had learned to leave him to his dark musings. I watched the damp stones of the arcades, the vaulted alleys leading into even blacker darkness, the words of hate smeared on the biblical walls. And then I saw two ghosts, the last inhabitants of this forsaken crypt. They faced each other, completely still, each sitting in his shop, surrounded by an abundance of vegetables and fruits. Their wrinkled faces were like parchment and I wondered whether they would disintegrate to dust if the air suddenly touched their ancient skin. "Salam Aleikum", I said to one of the mummies. He slowly turned to me, eyes blinking, he was alive. He murmured a greeting, bent to the ground, picked up an orange and stretched his hand to me. I reached out for my purse. "Don't", said David. "It is a present. You must not humiliate him."

(Written after a visit to the bazaar in March 2004)