A minaret call in Hebrew

[Gimel]

Some words are almost impossible to ignore, and some gestures, impossible to forget. On Wednesday of last week I found myself sharing a lunch table with Abdel Jalil Abu Ra'ayan and Sa'adia, a late-middle aged couple from Hebron. Abu Ra'ayan, deeply lined, has the patient manner of an educator, which he is.

I asked how many children the couple had, and Abu Ra'ayan said three boys, three girls, then paused, and said – and one more, a son who died when he was shot in the eye by a stray military bullet. When he explained this, Abu Ra'ayan lifted a heavy finger and poked it directly into his left eye, depicting the puncture. It was technical and true, and was almost too painful to watch.

A day earlier I went to Roby Damelin, who I remember as one of the few pleasant, decent, ethical PR people in Tel Aviv. Until two years ago, Roby represented any number of cool gastronomic products, many of which I enjoyed reporting on. In March, 2002, her son David was killed by a West Bank sniper.

A few months later, she closed the business. The thing about seeing Roby this time is that she had no idea who I was. She smoked and looked right through me. When I said "Remember, I was a food writer ?" she replied "Ah. That was another life," and continued looking at me for a while, perplexed, before turning to talk with a man who recently accompanied her to Italy on a trip representing the Forum of Bereaved Families.

Continued..