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West Bank

THE DESERTED VILLAGE

Shortly after the start of the Gaza war

the villagers sought sanctuary

for themselves and their flocks of goats and sheep

with family and friends elsewhere in the West Bank,

while their immediate neighbours – messianic

tyrants, gangsters, bullies – trashed the place,

destroying most of the olive trees

and the buildings, including a school

constructed earlier this century.

 

After due process the Israeli High Court

has granted the villagers permission

to return. Designating the village

an archaeological site, the West Bank

Israeli Civil Administration

has forbidden any re-building,

including plastic sheets covering ruins.

Some of the men have returned with a small flock.

They shelter from the sun under what is left

of the olive groves – and from the cold night

in the rubble, with one of them on guard.

 

This is Zanuta, a Palestinian

Bedouin village on the high ridge of hills

twelve and half miles south of Hebron,

a continuous settlement since the iron age,

an Ottoman trading post on an ancient

caravan route, an ancestral place.

 

On the remaining section of one of the school’s

concrete walls are splayed handprints: near the top

are the teacher’s in white, and below, mostly

also in white but some sky blue, are

the children’s in neat rows.

 

 

 

 

PLANETARY ALIGNMENTS

Against a greyish backdrop of an entire

block of concrete apartments in Gaza –

hapazardly demolished by aerial

and/or artillery and/or tank

bombardments – a photograph in Haaretz

shows a group of ten female soldiers

in olive green posing relaxedly

for a selfie. I do not know their names.

They are somebody’s daughters, who, no doubt,

would consider themselves and probably are

generally decent, and well meaning.

 

In another Haaretz photograph,

about an hour and half away by car – the time

it would take me to drive from here to Blackpool –

is a ten year old West Bank boy called Amro,

a name which means ‘To Live a Long Time’.

He has a serious look on his face

as he poses for the camera.

He is holding up a flannelgraph version

of the Solar System, which he has made.

 

I do not know what has become of the young women

posing like tourists among the ruins.

 

Sitting on the family car’s front seat

with his dad and his seven year old brother,

Amro – for no apparent reason, by design

or accident – was shot in the head,

and died. The bullet was fired by a young man

in a purpose-built concrete watch tower.

 

 

Note: Here are the links to the two photographs described in the poem and published in Haaretz on 20.3.24 & 16.3.24 respectively –

 

https://img.haarets.co.il/bs/0000018e-5d2a-d4b2-afcf-dfbe35cd0001/83/0a/07a1ddba4a94a9bc052eaacac8e1/033102.jpg?height=488&width=840

 

https://img.haarets.co.il/bs/0000018e-4466-d1ed-a7ef-55772e9c0000/ea/b3/bca7876c40a1a4f00e71ffc9afd3/55974219.JPG?height=960&width=960