We Are All Made Of Glue Part 20

Kefar Daniyyel Lydda, 26 Kefar Daniyyel Lydda, 26th November 1950 November 1950 My Dearest Artem, I am writing with some wonderful news for you. Our baby was born on 12th November, a little boy. Every day I watch him grow a little more beautiful like his father. Truly he has your face, Arti, but he has my brown eyes. I am often talking to him about his daddy in London, and he smiles and lifts up his little hands in the air, as if he is understanding everything. I have called him Chaim after our great new president Chaim Weizmann. One day your daddy will come here to us I promise to him. Why do you not come, Arti? Why do you not write? Have you forgotten about us? November, a little boy. Every day I watch him grow a little more beautiful like his father. Truly he has your face, Arti, but he has my brown eyes. I am often talking to him about his daddy in London, and he smiles and lifts up his little hands in the air, as if he is understanding everything. I have called him Chaim after our great new president Chaim Weizmann. One day your daddy will come here to us I promise to him. Why do you not come, Arti? Why do you not write? Have you forgotten about us?

We are so eagerly waiting for you, to wrap you up with our love. My dear one the air here is so good and clean after the horrible smogs of London I am sure that your health will be improved straightaway. My friend Rachel is expectant also. You cannot imagine how it is good after half a century of death to be surrounded with new life. You will be feeling like at home among these olim who have made aliyah from every corner of the world. Many here at Daniyyel are from Manchester and everyone speaks English, though the big thing now is to learn again our own ancient tongue.

There is so much of our people's history in this red earth and in these white stones that are lying across the landscape like the bones of our forebears, sometimes I imagine their spirits sitting beside us on the hillside in the evening to watch the sun going down and the first stars to rise in the east. Finally after so much suffering they are in peace. When the wind whispers over the hilltop it is like the voices of our dead singing their kaddish prayers. Six million souls who have come home. Dear one, I am still remembering our house in Highbury and our happy evenings by the piano, and then my eyes are full of tears. Why do you not write?

With all my love, Naomi Naomi I read and reread the letter as I sat waiting for the rain to ease off. Then I folded it up and pushed it back down the side of the chair with the photograph. Who was was Naomi? She must have been the pretty brown-eyed woman-the mother of the baby. But then who was the old lady in Northmere House? How did the two Naomis fit together? Naomi? She must have been the pretty brown-eyed woman-the mother of the baby. But then who was the old lady in Northmere House? How did the two Naomis fit together?

The rain showed no sign of easing off: the water streamed down the windows as though someone was playing a hose on them. There was something almost apocalyptic about this never-ending downpour. Was it one of the prophetic signs of the End Times? Ben would probably know. I glanced at my watch. It was three o'clock, almost time for him to be back. In the end, I just resigned myself to getting soaked, and made a dash for home.

When I got in, I rubbed my hair dry with a towel, put on dry clothes, and guiltily sat down at my laptop. Okay. Concentrate. Glue. "Adhesive curing is the change from a liquid to a solid state." Sometimes the science of stickiness can be boringly obvious. Maybe it was time to start another novel-a novel about an old lady who lives in a huge crumbling house with seven cats, and a secret. I pushed the dissident thought out of my mind and forced myself to focus. Adhesives in the Modern World Adhesives in the Modern World was what paid the bills. Something else was niggling at the back of my brain. Ben seemed to be home later than usual. was what paid the bills. Something else was niggling at the back of my brain. Ben seemed to be home later than usual.

When at last I heard his key in the latch, I folded up my laptop and went downstairs to greet him. As I came into the hall, I stopped and caught my breath. I saw a stranger standing there-a bald weirdo who'd broken into my house.

"Hi, Mum." He grinned embarra.s.sedly and hung up his wet coat. "Don't stare like that."

"What...?"

All his hair, his lovely brown curls, had gone. His skull, k.n.o.bbly and pale, looked obscenely naked.

"It looks very..."

He met my eyes. "Don't say it, Mum."

I put my hand over my mouth. We both laughed.

"D'you want some Choco-Puffs?"

He shook his head.

"I don't know why you always get those for me. Dad gets them, too. I hate them."

"I thought you liked them."

"I used to. I've gone off them now. They taste funny. Sort of metallic?"

"So what would you like?"

"S'all right. I'll get it."

He made himself some toast and spread it with peanut b.u.t.ter a centimetre thick, a layer of strawberry jam on top of that, then a sprinkling of chocolate powder. I'd expected him to take it up to his room, but he pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table. Outside, the rain splashed and gurgled, overflowing the gutter. Surely such heavy rains in February were something new? I must remember to ask him. I poured myself a cup of tea. Ben, since our liminal conversation, had been drinking only water.

"So isn't it a bit...cold?"

He gave me a look of mild reproach. "Yeah. But when you think our Lord was crucified, it sort of puts it in perspective?"

The rising inflection made him sound defensive. I felt a flutter of panic.

"Is it something you think about a lot, Ben?"

He opened his school bag, unzipped an inner pocket, and pulled out a book. With a shock of recognition I saw it was Rip's old school Bible-black, gilt-edged, with the crest of his public school inside the front cover. He leafed through to a page that was bookmarked with an old bus ticket.

"When ye therefore shall see the...Abomination of Desolation..." he stumbled on the clunky words, "spoken of by Daniel the prophet, stand in the holy place, then let those who are in Judea flee to the mountains. Let him which is on the housetop not come down to take anything out of his house. Neither let him which is in the field return back to take his clothes." He read carefully, looking up from time to time to check I was still listening. "And then shall they see the Son of man coming in the clouds of heaven, with power and great glory."

He paused to take a bite of toast. I had a sudden image of the skyscape I'd seen from the top of the bus. Those gleaming galloping clouds-they were were like chariots of glory. "And he shall send his angels with a great sound of a trumpet, and they shall gather together his elect from the four winds, from the uttermost part of the earth to the uttermost part of heaven." When I didn't say anything, he added, "Mark chapter thirteen? Verses fourteen to twen'y eight?" like chariots of glory. "And he shall send his angels with a great sound of a trumpet, and they shall gather together his elect from the four winds, from the uttermost part of the earth to the uttermost part of heaven." When I didn't say anything, he added, "Mark chapter thirteen? Verses fourteen to twen'y eight?"

"Ben..."

In the silence between us, a sweet curly-haired child hovered on the edge of extinction. I wanted to hug him in my arms. I wanted him to be my little boy again, to tell him stories about rabbits and badgers, but he was somebody different.

"I'm not saying it's all rubbish, Ben. That language-it's very powerful. But don't you think it refers to things that happened a long time ago?"

"The Abomination that bringeth Desolation in't a long time ago, Mum-it's in the future-soon. Some nutter'll drop a nuclear bomb on the Temple Mount at Jerusalem. The holy place. That stuff about fleeing into the hills, not going back for anything, not even picking up your coat. The mushroom cloud. It's all there." He reached over for the cocoa powder and gave his toast another dusting, then he licked his finger and circled it round in the surplus cocoa on the edges of his plate.

"But..." How can you take this stuff seriously? I wanted to say. And yet I realised with a pang of apprehension that Ben was far from alone, and it was my own cosy secular world view that was in retreat before a sweeping global tide of belief.

"Daniel predicted it first. In the Old Testament? Then Matthew and Mark picked up on it? They din't even know about nuclear weapons, but the way they describe it...it's kind of uncannily accurate?" His voice, crackly and insistent, seemed alien.

"But isn't it just symbolic? You're not meant to take it literally, Ben."

His eyes brightened with zeal. He licked his fingers again.

"Yeah, that's what it is. Symbolic. You've got to interpret the signs? They're happening all over the world, the signs of the End Times? If you know what to look out for?"

Without his crown of brown curls, the dark downy hair on his lip and chin seemed to stand out more against the pallor of his skin. He looked like a stranger-a stranger trying to impersonate someone I knew intimately.

"But they're nut-cases, Ben, the people who run those websites."

I shouldn't have let my exasperation show. His voice became whiney and defensive.

"Yeah, a'right, some may be a bit nutty. But the big guys that run the world-they all know it's going to happen? George Bush 'n' Tony Blair? Why d'you think they're always praying together? Why d'you think they're so, like, totally obsessed with the Middle East? Why are they getting so stressed about Iran going nuclear? They They know it's the prophecy of the Second Coming that's working out in our time? Like, we're the last generation?" know it's the prophecy of the Second Coming that's working out in our time? Like, we're the last generation?"

He slapped two bits of toast together into a sandwich, and licked at the peanut b.u.t.ter that squeezed out around the crusts.

"Want to know why America supports Israel? Because in the Bible it says when the chosen people go back to their promised land, like they did in 1948, that's the start of the End Times." He bit into the sandwich with a crunch. "It's sad cases like you and Dad that'll get left behind."

"Left behind what?"

"The rapture? The Second Coming? When the elect get taken up to heaven, and all the sad gits with their Guardians Guardians and their anti-war placards'll be left behind to stew in the tribulations." A spot of jam had oozed on to the edge of his plate. He licked it off. "George Bush's pal Tim LaHaye wrote a book called and their anti-war placards'll be left behind to stew in the tribulations." A spot of jam had oozed on to the edge of his plate. He licked it off. "George Bush's pal Tim LaHaye wrote a book called Left Behind Left Behind. It's all in there."

"Just because George Bush believes it doesn't make it true."

"Yeah, but maybe they know something you don't? Like, they've got their sources of information? The website's got five million subscribers?" He gave me a look that was both angry and pitying. "Don't be so blind, Mum."

Then he took a swig of water, got up abruptly taking his bag and his Bible, and stomped off to his room, his pale skull bobbing up and down as he climbed the stairs.

My stomach clenched into a knot. I finished drinking my tea and went upstairs to my bedroom. I sat on my bed with a pillow behind my back and opened up my laptop. In the rain-washed light from the window, the blue sky of my desktop image seemed absurdly optimistic. I typed End of Time End of Time into Google, just as Ben said he'd done. There were literally millions of entries. I started opening a few at random, following links, and all of a sudden I'd found I'd stepped over a threshold into an eerie parallel world I'd never even guessed existed. Ben was right-there were millions of people out there scouring their Bibles and actively trying to calculate the timetable for the end of the world from clues in the text. into Google, just as Ben said he'd done. There were literally millions of entries. I started opening a few at random, following links, and all of a sudden I'd found I'd stepped over a threshold into an eerie parallel world I'd never even guessed existed. Ben was right-there were millions of people out there scouring their Bibles and actively trying to calculate the timetable for the end of the world from clues in the text.

At first I felt piqued. Why hadn't I read about any of this in the Guardian? Guardian? Or heard about it on Radio Four? Why hadn't Rip told me? Then I started to feel scared. Some sites had bizarre names like Or heard about it on Radio Four? Why hadn't Rip told me? Then I started to feel scared. Some sites had bizarre names like teotwawki teotwawki (The End of the World As We Know It), (The End of the World As We Know It), escape all these things, rapture ready escape all these things, rapture ready. Millions of people clearly were were getting ready. The Old Testament prophecies of Daniel and Ezekiel, the four Gospels of the New Testament and the Book of Revelations were quoted again and again in rambling blogs by individuals offering their own personal interpretations of the prophecies, and in huge complex sites with links to dozens of organisations. There were even sites that marketed 'End Times Products'. One link led to a quotation from a speech by George Bush: "We are living in a time set apart." It was highlighted in red and animated with horrid little flames, sharp like razor teeth. Another linked mysteriously to a page called 'How to Fix Self-Tanning Mistakes'. getting ready. The Old Testament prophecies of Daniel and Ezekiel, the four Gospels of the New Testament and the Book of Revelations were quoted again and again in rambling blogs by individuals offering their own personal interpretations of the prophecies, and in huge complex sites with links to dozens of organisations. There were even sites that marketed 'End Times Products'. One link led to a quotation from a speech by George Bush: "We are living in a time set apart." It was highlighted in red and animated with horrid little flames, sharp like razor teeth. Another linked mysteriously to a page called 'How to Fix Self-Tanning Mistakes'.

Alone in my dusky room, with only the fan of my laptop purring away intermittently, and these creepy fundamentalists as my guides, I could feel the boundaries of reason start to dissolve and notions from the irrational hinterland encroach into my consciousness. Was this what Ben had felt? I remembered my dream, the formless malevolent spirit, and despite myself I shuddered. Everything in this other world seemed illusive, like a nightmare in which everyday things, like bar codes, seen through a prism of unreason, take on a sinister skew, while war, disease, terrorism, global warming-the scourges of our age-are seized on with glee as signals of the Second Coming. A man who called himself Jeremiah-his website showed him with a neat little goatee beard and a Scotch plaid cap similar to Mrs Shapiro's-explained that the parable of the fig tree-'When his branch is yet tender, and putteth forth leaves, ye know that summer is nigh'-referred to seasonal changes from global warming, which were a sign of imminent rapture. Power up the central heating and the air conditioning! Roll on, four-by-fours! Fly by jet! Consume! As the earth warms up and the fig trees blossom, those lucky ones, the elect, will be seized and whisked off into Heaven! His smug little smile said it all.

How come I didn't know about any of this? I thought back to my Religious Knowledge lessons at Kippax Primary School, Mrs Rowbottom wearing her mauve bobble-knit jumper and a porcelain rose brooch; the smell of closely packed children, and Lionheart the school rabbit snoozing in his cage; the little bottles of pre-Thatcher milk waiting in the crates by the door. We'd learned about forgiveness and mercy. We'd learned about the wheat and the tares, and the Prodigal Son. I'd even got a gold star for my drawing of the Good Samaritan. Mum had proudly put it on the fridge in the kitchen, even though Dad was a subscriber to the opium-of-the-ma.s.ses theory of religion.

When we were a bit older, we discussed motes and beams, and learned to recite the Beat.i.tudes and Saint Paul's faith hope and charity Paul's faith hope and charity epistle off by heart. It had all seemed very uplifting and benign. I had no idea about all this other stuff. Did Mrs Rowbottom know? If so, she'd seemed unperturbed. epistle off by heart. It had all seemed very uplifting and benign. I had no idea about all this other stuff. Did Mrs Rowbottom know? If so, she'd seemed unperturbed.

Jeremiah's website had a Promised Land Promised Land link which took me to a whole page of links to both Christian and Jewish sites discussing G.o.d's promise to the Jews. When was that promise to be fulfilled? In G.o.d's time, in the prophesied future? Or now, in the present-day Middle East? Was the rebuilding of the third Temple in Jerusalem a metaphor for spiritual rebirth? Or was it about bricks and mortar? The cyber-arguments raged. Something else Ben had said came into my mind. When the chosen people go back into Israel, in 1948, that's the start of the End Times. My mind flashed to the letter in the music stool. link which took me to a whole page of links to both Christian and Jewish sites discussing G.o.d's promise to the Jews. When was that promise to be fulfilled? In G.o.d's time, in the prophesied future? Or now, in the present-day Middle East? Was the rebuilding of the third Temple in Jerusalem a metaphor for spiritual rebirth? Or was it about bricks and mortar? The cyber-arguments raged. Something else Ben had said came into my mind. When the chosen people go back into Israel, in 1948, that's the start of the End Times. My mind flashed to the letter in the music stool. Our Promised Land Our Promised Land. The date on the letter was 1950. When I'd read it first, it had seemed like a quaint voice from another age. Now past, present and future were in terrifying collision.

And it wasn't only Christians and Jews who were preoccupied with the Second Coming. Ben had said something about a Last Imam. Google came up with more than a million links to websites antic.i.p.ating the imminent return of the Imam Al-Mahdi. It all seemed a long way from the Prince of Wales bar codes.

As I surfed from one link to another, the light from my laptop screen threw an eerie coloured glow on the walls and ceiling. I was beginning to understand why Ben was so rattled. Compared with the vast inevitability of this Rapture machine, the world of our own little secular family seemed puny and insubstantial. Dusk dimmed into darkness outside the window, where flumes of rain still pattered on the gla.s.s. Yes, the rain. I forgot to ask him about the rain.

30.

The broken gutter By Sat.u.r.day the rain had stopped but the pavements were still wet, and soft heavy drops dripped from the overhanging trees as I walked along to Canaan House, where I'd arranged to meet Mr. Ali to take a look at the gutter. I'd set out a little early, hoping to catch him on his own. I wanted to ask him about Lydda; I wanted to find out about Islam and the Last Imam. But as I turned into Totley Place, I spotted a small battered red van parked in the lane that led to Canaan House, and then I heard men's voices in the garden, shouting. I quickened my step. The shouting got louder-I couldn't tell what they were shouting-it wasn't in English anyway. Violetta dashed out to greet me; she was running around in circles, mewing.

As I approached the gate, I glimpsed between the trees a terrifying sight-Mr Ali was dangling in the air, like a rather tubby Tarzan wearing a pink-and-mauve knitted hat. He was hanging on for grim death to a length of cast-iron gutter that had come away from the wall. I watched transfixed as he tried to reach with his toes for the window ledge, bawling something in a foreign language. All that was holding him up was a rusty iron bracket at one end, and a twine of ivy that had clambered over the roof and luckily got a grip on the chimneys. On the ground, floundering among the wet brambles, two young men in flowing white robes and Arabic headgear were grappling with an extendable aluminium ladder that had come apart.

They heaved it this way and that, their robes snagging in the brambles. The ladder definitely seemed to be winning. At last they slotted the three sections together and wielded it in Mr Ali's direction, trying to catch him as he hung with just one toe now resting precariously on the window ledge, and the other kicking at the air. But they swung the ladder too wide, then overcorrected and swung it too far the other way. Mr Ali let out a tirade of furious words. I could see the bracket straining under his weight and the ivy coming away from the bricks. If they didn't get their act together fast, he was going to plummet some thirty feet on to the stone terrace in front of the house. I held my breath, and a thought clicked in my head-these young men, they really are unbelievably useless.

In the end they managed to get the ladder under Mr Ali, but it was too short to reach the ground. So one of them held it up to Mr Ali's flailing foot, while the other one tried to extend it from below, jerking the catch-hooks down over the rungs, Mr Ali shrieking in terror at each jerk. Then he jerked too hard and the ladder fell apart again. Wonder Boy was sitting in the porch watching, flicking his tail with excitement, a beastly look on his face.

I stood on the path, petrified, thinking I should definitely keep out of this. I didn't want to distract the men's attention for a single second, for I could see that a momentary lapse might be fatal. But just as they'd almost rea.s.sembled the ladder, the one at the front lost concentration at exactly the moment that Wonder Boy decided to make a dash. Swerving to avoid the cat, his foot caught in a loop of bramble and he staggered forward, holding the ladder high and crashing the top section right through the bedroom window inches away from Mr Ali, completely smashing away the bottom frame. A shower of gla.s.s tinkled on to the flagstones.

Mr Ali was still balancing with one leg on the window sill and one thrashing the air, yelling his head off. Then he spotted me by the gate. Our eyes met. It was too late for me to back away. He called down to the two two men in the garden, and they looked round, shouting and beckoning. So I ran over to help. I grabbed one end of the ladder, determined to show that although I was a woman, I was not utterly useless like them. But it was much heavier than I thought. As I swayed under its weight, the other end swung round, clonking one of them on the head. He staggered back into the bushes and lay there, motionless. I rushed to his aid. Oh, heck! Had I killed him? Mr Ali and the other young man had gone silent, too. Wonder Boy, who had come over to investigate, gazed up at me and I thought I glimpsed in his slitty yellow eyes a look of...was it respect? men in the garden, and they looked round, shouting and beckoning. So I ran over to help. I grabbed one end of the ladder, determined to show that although I was a woman, I was not utterly useless like them. But it was much heavier than I thought. As I swayed under its weight, the other end swung round, clonking one of them on the head. He staggered back into the bushes and lay there, motionless. I rushed to his aid. Oh, heck! Had I killed him? Mr Ali and the other young man had gone silent, too. Wonder Boy, who had come over to investigate, gazed up at me and I thought I glimpsed in his slitty yellow eyes a look of...was it respect?

After a few moments the young man pulled himself out of the bushes, no harm done, and between the three of us we managed to extend the ladder to its full length and get it up securely against the wall below Mr Ali's feet. He climbed down, bawling at the other two-he was literally spitting with rage. Then just as his feet touched the ground, all the fight seemed to go out of him, and he slumped down, his head resting on his knees, breathing deeply.

"This job is for a younger, fitter man. Not double excel gentleman my age."

"But you did did excel, Mr Ali. Keeping so calm," I said, though calmness, to be honest, was not the first word that sprang to mind. excel, Mr Ali. Keeping so calm," I said, though calmness, to be honest, was not the first word that sprang to mind.

"No, size XXL, Mrs George." He clasped his arms around his hamster tummy. "My wife feeds me too much. No good for climbing up ladders."

I laughed. "Next time, you should get one of the other two to go up the ladder."

He shook his head with a melancholy sigh, but said nothing.

The other two were perched uncomfortably on the triple edge of the ladder. They had got out a packet of cigarettes, and were lighting up. I wondered why they were wearing those bizarre outfits-they looked more like extras out of Lawrence of Arabia than any Palestinians I'd seen on TV. They were younger than Mr Ali, taller, and incredibly handsome in a dark-flashing-eyes white-flashing-teeth kind of way. (Tut. Isn't this an utterly incorrect stereotype? Get a grip, Georgie. They're young enough to be your sons.) "h.e.l.lo," I smiled. "I'm Georgie."

They nodded their heads and flashed their teeth at me. It was clear they didn't speak a word of English. Mr Ali struggled to his feet.

"Allow me to make introductions. Mrs George, this is Ishmail, my nephew. He is completely useless. This is his friend Nabeel. He is also completely useless."

The useless young men nodded and flashed their teeth. "What a misfortune at my age to have two complete uselesses for my a.s.sistants."

Then he spoke in Arabic to them, and something about the way he looked at me suggested that he was saying I was pretty useless, too. They nodded politely at me and smiled some more.

When they'd finished their cigarettes and stubbed them out on the ground, they put the ladder up against the wall and Nabeel held the bottom of the ladder while Ishmail started to mount it, his feet tangling in his robe.

"No, no, no!" yelled Mr Ali, jumping up, then he yelled something in Arabic. It was obvious even to me that the ladder was too short and the angle too steep to be safe. "We must get a bigger ladder. I told you this one is no good."

The Uselesses heaved the no-good ladder on to the roof-rack of the van with a lot of purring and shouting, then sat on the step of the porch and lit up again. They were grinning at each another like a pair of naughty kids and batting each other with a folded newspaper printed in Arabic. Mr Ali reached across and confiscated it.

"This house-it needs too much work," he sighed. There was a big damp patch on his trousers from sitting on the wet ground. "I do not know if I can do it with these uselesses."

"I'm sure you can," I said making my voice especially calm, which I felt was called for in the situation. "There's no hurry. I think Mrs Shapiro will be away for a while."

"You think? Hm."

He paused and gave me an oblique look. The Uselesses were still sitting in the porch, but now they'd started arguing in loud voices and shoving each other off the step. Then Mussorgsky appeared at the broken bedroom window (how had he got in there?) and began yowling with gusto, and Wonder Boy yowled back from the garden, a smug self-satisfied yowl.

"You know, Mrs George, I am thinking is a pity so big house must stand empty."

Mr Ali stroked his neat beard and looked at me thoughtfully again. "This, my nephew, Ishmail-he has no place to stay. Sleeping on floor in my apartment. Drive my wife mad. This other useless one, too, sometimes sleeping in there."

I could see what he meant-they would drive me mad, too.

"Well...1 don't know what Mrs Shapiro would think..." I started. Then it occurred to me that these two might be useless at house repairs, but they could do a great job of keeping the likes of Mrs Goodney and Nick Wolfe at bay. And they could feed the cats. "It would have to be on the strict understanding that they move out when Mrs Shapiro conies back."

"No problem. Even if they stay for short time it will make big difference for my wife. Give her chance to clean it up."

I wondered what Mrs Shapiro would say if I told her they were Palestinian.

"I am sorry they have no money for paying rent. But they will repair the house. Everything will be fixitup like new." He saw the look on my face. "I supervise, of course."

I suppose I should have said no there and then, but there was something irresistibly cuddly about Mr Ali. And besides, I was on the scent of another story.

"Where did you learn all your building skills, Mr Ali? In Lydda?"

He shook his head.

"No. We were sent away from Lydda. Do you not know what happened there?"

"You mean the terrorist attack? I know about that," I said, pleased with myself.

"Ha! All of the world knows this." He seemed annoyed. "Terrorists shooting on innocent Israelis. But you know why? You know what happened before?"

I shook my head. "Tell me."

In a clearing in the brambles Wonder Boy and Mussorgsky were hissing and going for one another with their claws. Violetta was hovering close by, waving her tail and making little yelping noises of encouragement, though I couldn't work out which one she was encouraging. Mr Ali flicked the newspaper at them to chase them away.

"In 1948 all Palestinians were sent out from Lydda. Not only Lydda-many many towns and villages in our country were destroyed. To make way for Jews. People still are living in the refugee camps."