Khirbet Khizeh Read Online Free PDF

benefit, in getting rich quick, in picking up ownerless property and making it your own, and conquering it for yourself, and plans were already being made, right away, and it was already decided what was going to be done with almost all of these things at home, and how it would be done—except that we had been in so many villages already, and picked things up and thrown them away, taken them and destroyed them, and we were too used to it—so we picked up the fine-looking ownerless hoe, or pitchfork, and hurled it down to the ground, if possible aiming it at something that would shatter at once, so as to relieve it of the shame of not being of use—with real destruction, once and for all, putting an end to its silence.
    On the other hand, when we moved on and arrived at the cultivated land near the village, there were clear signs that the yards and houses had been abandoned only a short time before. The mattresses were still laid out, the fire among the cooking-stones was still smoldering, one moment the chickens were pecking in the rubbish as usual and the next they were running away screeching as though they were about to be slaughtered. Dogs were sniffing suspiciously, half-approaching, half-barking. And the implements in the yard were still—it was clear—in active use. And silence had not yet settled except as a kind of wonderment and stupefaction, as though the outcome hadn’t yet been determined, and it was still possible that things would be straightened out and restored to the way they had been before. In one yard a donkey was standing, with mattresses and colorful blankets piled on its back, falling on their sides and collapsing on the ground, because while they were being hastily loaded, the throb of fear, “They’re-here-already!” had overcome the people, and they’d shouted: “To hell with it, just run!” And in the next-door courtyard, which contained a kitchen garden, with a well-tended patch of potatoes, the fine tilth of its soil and the bright green of the leaves calling to you and telling you to go straight home and do nothing but cultivate beautiful potatoes—in this next-door courtyard, two witless ewes were huddled in a panic near the corner of the fence (later I saw them again bleating on our truck), and the huge water jar was lying across the threshold, calmly dripping the last drops of its water in a puddle, half in the room and half out of it. Immediately after this yard there was a plowed field close by and beyond it the outskirts of the village.
    We had just reached the track when a swaying camel came toward us piled high with objects and bedding, its rope halter tied to the saddle of a donkey in front of it, which was also laden with household effects, great sieves and piles of clothing; it was standing and chewing the grass beneath the acacia bushes with exaggerated enjoyment, plunging deeper in pursuit of their juiciness with total disdain for its rope-partner that was anxiously lifting its small head to the full extent of its neck, leaning it backward as far as possible, as if to avoid a collision, expelling diabolical gurgles and fearful grunts, emitting a stench of greasy camel sweat. At the sight of the jeep it tried to break free and run, but its halter, tied to the donkey’s saddle, held it back; it tugged and shook it with mounting force, but the donkey paid no heed to this camelious panic, it didn’t allow itself to be distracted and just went on feeding lustily. At once our Sha’ul jumped down and grunted at the camel with a grunt that would make any knee bend, and tapped it reassuringly on its upraised backward-straining neck with the barrel of his rifle, and the camel, caught by a language it understood, was gurgling and arguing and spewing bitter speech, and already intending to kneel on its forelegs, amidst anger and wailing and complaint—except that just then an Arab emerged from the thick hedge ahead of us and