In the living room, on the rubble, lies a
single Hebrew page from the Book of Psalms burned around the edges. “Save
me from my enemies, O my God, secure me against my assailants,” reads an
intact verse.
A
murmur in my mind tells me I am walking through people’s exposed lives, that I
am a voyeur, out of place. A murmur tells me to bear witness to their deaths.
Outside,
on the narrow roads of the kibbutz, are cars destroyed by fire or gunshots, a motorcycle used by the invaders, and one of their pickup trucks, with an iron
stand on the truck bed that once held a machine gun.