Report 4: The Stones Cry Out …
March 16, 2005, Hebron
In the old city of Jerusalem, mosque upon temple upon ancient ruin fit together in stratified layers. The stones are carved into intricate Roman palistrades, Ottoman columns and Byzantine arches. Often they cover the work of the previous empire’s artisans, but sometimes they stand in awkward coexistence, made from the same marble and sandstone with drastically different visions. The stones here have remembered the prayers of fervent Jews, Muslims and Christians and have witnessed the horrors of their empire building.
From the old city of Jerusalem, to the crumbling streets of Hebron deep in the occupied territories, the stones cry out with the names of victims and aggressors. They tumble as they are thrown, and they are crushed by bulldozers as the homes they have fashioned are targeted for demolition.
We have been listening to these stones and yesterday we had the honor of accompanying a young Palestinian woman who could not walk home because stones were being thrown at her along the street that she needed to pass. They were being thrown by young settlers, young boys with their side curls jerking at the thrust of their thin arms.
Hebron is a Palestinian city into the heart of which Jewish settlers have moved. Unlike their fellow settlers who have developed fortresses dotted among the rural Palestinian villages, settlers in Hebron have staked a claim to the heart of the old city. 
With three Israeli soldiers for every settler, they virtually have personal body guards at every moment. When the settlers took over buildings and created new ones, the soldiers stood by with their well-worn firearms. When the settlers wanted a road for themselves, they had Palestinians banished from it. Where their apartments overlook Palestinian homes, galvanized fencing covers the walkways, pregnant with its load of stony fodder. It is on such a street that this girl was afraid to walk.
Why did we assume that these young boys would cease when they identified us as tourists? We certainly looked different enough and even had our gawking cameras out. As we came out from under the fencing at the end of the street the “phwap” of a stone hit the awning nearby. They had moved to a better position precisely to target us. As we looked in disbelief they continued to lob as accurately and far as they could. Herding tourists-in-denial can be difficult, but we gathered quickly enough to be safe. “Phwap,” the stones cry out.
That evening we were invited to stay overnight in the homes of Palestinian families in nearby Beit Ommar. We arrived at the low stone building of our family, where the common room ceiling was double-vaulted. The extended family sat around the edges on couches and cushions, and we all ate a delicious meal of chicken and rice. Only the father knew English. Saket is a stone mason and construction worker, one of the lucky few to have a job nside Israel. (There is 70 percent unemployment in the West Bank)
His son Th’el has some training in stone work, but has not been able to get a permit to work in Israel. Only men over 33 who also have a family are given the honor of a permit that allows them to pass through several checkpoints that penetrate the apartheid wall that surrounds the territories.
Until his son Th’el turns 33, Saket provides the only income for his 10 children. The decorative stonework on the inside of the family home is a tribute to his skill. It curves and arches over the space, receding into a three-foot deep window and door. The stones cry out the dignity, determination and grace of this family.
In the morning, Saket left for work at 5 am and we spent time with Samira, his wife. She did not speak English but proceeded to “talk” with us with gestures, and showing us certificates that told about her life, even X-rays of her heart and legs. She is probably my age, but looks so much older. She made us coffee and tea. We shared pictures of our children, and we took turns dressing in the hand-embroidered dresses that she had made when her eyesight was good enough to do the delicate work. We ended up buying one of her dresses as a way to help her have some income. Then we also received gifts from her and her daughter that we could not refuse. We hugged and took pictures, then sat in the sun waiting for our ride on the stone terrace that overlooks the other buildings of Beit Ommar. These stones allowed us to be neighbors for a day, however distant our lives really are.
-- Claudia Esslinger, for the delegation
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