It's an old memory, yet plays among us all the time. A folded picture with an outstanding smell of jasmine. It's that thing far away to be reached; that's why we ignore thinking of it. Or maybe we're afraid of thinking of it. Ashamed. It's a glance of a golden dome with old buildings all around, only old people praying, while the young ones are left to be masked fighting to pray along with the old ones. There are some blond people with shorts and cameras somewhere in the picture. Two soldiers are walking in an old narrow street. You can't see cars, though. Everything seem so old except the two guns of the two Israeli soldiers. In just a picture, you see people coming and going, people selling and buying, crowds going in a big gate leading a whole market filled with jewelry, cloth, clothes, carved wood, and everything that indicates the eastern culture, with huge walls surrounding something that must be hugely valuable, a tire on fire somewhere in the middle of the picture, it's black smoke burning your eyes that you can't keep them open anymore. Somewhere beneath all of that there's a Hebrew young worker digging the ground looking for something he doesn't know so that the jews behind that old wall would have some sort of an ancient clue that would tell them that they have the right to be where they are. While, in front of the wall, there would be an old lady with everything carved deeply in the wrinkles of her forehead, cheeks, around her lips, down in the shadows of her little eyelashes, about her being where she is. Oh I forgot to mention that it's a picture of Je… Jeru..
18August2010
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