Hearing Abed’s account, I imagined Kafka writing a story called “Jaffa.” The main character, let’s call him Omar, wakes up for work one morning and finds himself in the wrong house, a cramped home in the ghetto where he’s sharing his house with a strange European, perhaps someone who killed his nephew in combat last week.
Read MoreThinking about the preservation of memory and what happens when that connection severs. Umar, our guide, walking us step by step over the rocky terrain of Lifta, explaining how each disappeared village is meticulously recorded, preserved, named once again. They become, again, dots on a map, destinations now accessible by internet.
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