fig tree they had weaved up into a maze of narrow side streets, eventually coming to a spot where the buildings on either side arched right the way over their heads, forming a tunnel. A group of Israeli soldiers had been standing just inside the entrance and had stared at them suspiciously as they walked past.
'See how they look at us,' her father had sighed. 'They make us feel like thieves in our own house.'
He had taken her hand and steered her towards a low wooden doorway surmounted by a lintel carved with an intricate design of grapes and vine stems. A brass plaque declared that it was the Alder Cohen Memorial Yeshiva; a mezuzah was screwed onto the stone jamb to its right.
'Our house,' he had said sadly, reaching out and touching the door. 'Our beautiful house.'
His family – her family – had fled during the fighting of June 1967, leaving the city with just a few treasured possessions and taking refuge in the Aqabat Jabr camp outside Jericho, forty kilometres away. It was only supposed to have been a temporary measure, and they had returned as soon as the fighting had stopped. By then, however, the house had been taken over by the Israelis and no amount of complaining to the city's new masters could get it back again. They had lived as refugees ever since.
'I was born here,' her father had said, running his hand lovingly over the door's gnarled wooden panels, touching the carved lintel. 'So was my father. And his father too, and his father before him. Fourteen generations. Three hundred years. All gone, just like that.'
He snapped his fingers into the air. Looking up, she had seen tears welling in his huge brown eyes.
'It's OK, Daddy,' she had said, hugging him, trying to squeeze all her strength and love into his thin, hard body. 'You'll get it back one day. We'll all live here together. Everything will be OK.'
He had leant down and run his face back and forth through her long black hair.
'If only that was true, my darling Layla,' he had whispered. 'But not all stories have happy endings. Especially for our people. This you will learn as you grow older.'
These and other memories scudded across her mind now as she passed through the gate's gloomy dog-leg and out onto the paved slope of al-Wad Road.
Normally this part of the city would be bustling, with multi-coloured stalls selling flowers and fruit and spices, throngs of shoppers jostling back and forth, boys whizzing past on wooden barrows piled high with meat or refuse. Today, everything was unnaturally quiet – a result, no doubt, of the Warriors of David stand-off further into the city. A couple of old men were sitting beneath the corrugated tin awning of a deserted cafe; to her left a peasant woman was squatting in a shuttered doorway, a forlorn pyramid of limes piled in front of her, her face buried in her wrinkled brown hands. Otherwise the only people present were Israeli military and police personnel: a trio of young Giv'ati brigade conscripts hunkered down behind a sandbag emplacement; a unit of border police in green berets lounging around on the steps in front of the cafe; a gaggle of regular police patrolling just inside the gateway, their blue flak-jackets melding into the shadows so that their heads, arms and legs seemed to disappear into an empty hole where their torsos should be.
Layla flashed her press card at one of them, a pretty girl who could have passed as a model had she not been a policewoman, and asked if she could get through to the occupied house.
'The road's blocked further down,' said the girl, eyeing the card disapprovingly. 'Ask there.'
Layla nodded and continued down into the city, passing the Austrian Hospice, the Via Dolorosa, the alley containing the fig tree her father had pointed out all those years ago – it seemed hardly to have grown in all that time. As she went she heard shouting up ahead and the police and military presence steadily became heavier. She started to pass straggling groups of shebab, Palestinian
'See how they look at us,' her father had sighed. 'They make us feel like thieves in our own house.'
He had taken her hand and steered her towards a low wooden doorway surmounted by a lintel carved with an intricate design of grapes and vine stems. A brass plaque declared that it was the Alder Cohen Memorial Yeshiva; a mezuzah was screwed onto the stone jamb to its right.
'Our house,' he had said sadly, reaching out and touching the door. 'Our beautiful house.'
His family – her family – had fled during the fighting of June 1967, leaving the city with just a few treasured possessions and taking refuge in the Aqabat Jabr camp outside Jericho, forty kilometres away. It was only supposed to have been a temporary measure, and they had returned as soon as the fighting had stopped. By then, however, the house had been taken over by the Israelis and no amount of complaining to the city's new masters could get it back again. They had lived as refugees ever since.
'I was born here,' her father had said, running his hand lovingly over the door's gnarled wooden panels, touching the carved lintel. 'So was my father. And his father too, and his father before him. Fourteen generations. Three hundred years. All gone, just like that.'
He snapped his fingers into the air. Looking up, she had seen tears welling in his huge brown eyes.
'It's OK, Daddy,' she had said, hugging him, trying to squeeze all her strength and love into his thin, hard body. 'You'll get it back one day. We'll all live here together. Everything will be OK.'
He had leant down and run his face back and forth through her long black hair.
'If only that was true, my darling Layla,' he had whispered. 'But not all stories have happy endings. Especially for our people. This you will learn as you grow older.'
These and other memories scudded across her mind now as she passed through the gate's gloomy dog-leg and out onto the paved slope of al-Wad Road.
Normally this part of the city would be bustling, with multi-coloured stalls selling flowers and fruit and spices, throngs of shoppers jostling back and forth, boys whizzing past on wooden barrows piled high with meat or refuse. Today, everything was unnaturally quiet – a result, no doubt, of the Warriors of David stand-off further into the city. A couple of old men were sitting beneath the corrugated tin awning of a deserted cafe; to her left a peasant woman was squatting in a shuttered doorway, a forlorn pyramid of limes piled in front of her, her face buried in her wrinkled brown hands. Otherwise the only people present were Israeli military and police personnel: a trio of young Giv'ati brigade conscripts hunkered down behind a sandbag emplacement; a unit of border police in green berets lounging around on the steps in front of the cafe; a gaggle of regular police patrolling just inside the gateway, their blue flak-jackets melding into the shadows so that their heads, arms and legs seemed to disappear into an empty hole where their torsos should be.
Layla flashed her press card at one of them, a pretty girl who could have passed as a model had she not been a policewoman, and asked if she could get through to the occupied house.
'The road's blocked further down,' said the girl, eyeing the card disapprovingly. 'Ask there.'
Layla nodded and continued down into the city, passing the Austrian Hospice, the Via Dolorosa, the alley containing the fig tree her father had pointed out all those years ago – it seemed hardly to have grown in all that time. As she went she heard shouting up ahead and the police and military presence steadily became heavier. She started to pass straggling groups of shebab, Palestinian
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