As the day gets up I follow the wavy lines of darkness that disappear into the stone. I try to imagine its heart and the colours yet to be revealed. Are there any colours inside the stone? How can there be colours if there is no light? The only way to look into the heart of a stone is to wait for its slow erosion. But as soon as it happens, as soon as its surface is scratched by water and hard rubbing, a new surface emerges and pushes the limits inside. Is there anything behind the mask? As soon as you peel it off the skin, the emerging layer becomes a new mask. Faces are masks. What's inside can only be imagined, dreamed of, fantasised.
Sitting on the riverbank I watch what floats by. The stream brings a child sitting on a hospital bed. He must be 12, about my son’s age. A bandage hangs from his left shoulder where his arm should be. He cries conpulsively, in a foreign language, so I can only imagine what he is saying. His wailing reminds me of phantom pain, and the tearful words seem to mourn the sudden amputation of his childhood, possibly performed without anaesthetic. But then I realise that his cries may refer to a deeper pain. Maybe the blast that took his arm also took his mum. Maybe all his family, as many in Gaza these days. Before this story enters into a loop, I flick it away with my thumb, making the stream move forward. Another image stops in front of me. Three young men on a desert road dance to Staying Alive by Bee Gees. Their faces look very familiar to me. But it’s not easy to see their faces. They are partially covered with helmets and their bodies are surrounded by military gear. They don’t sp...