It had gotten dark when my fellow CPT delegation member Doug Horst and I
approached the home of Yussef and Zuhoor Al-Atrash. We could not see well,
and I wasn't sure I was in the right place. As we got nearer, we came upon
a huge stone wall 15 feet high that hadn't been there the last time I was
there. We walked around the wall, climbed over some stone
terraces, and found the Al-Atrash tent sitting on the floor of what
remained of the house I had helped rebuild just over a year ago.

During the spring of 1998, I spent two weeks living in a tent with this
Palestinian family. In the process of rebuilding their second home in 10
years, they had requested the presence of Christian Peacemaker Teams (CPT)
to provide protection from further demolition by the Israeli military
forces. The Red Cross tent that sheltered the family of 12 and me from the
sun, wind, and heat was only 14 by 14 feet. At night, we moved foam mats
onto the floor, covering every square inch.

There was an urgency to provide the family with a solid shelter, and thus
we worked diligently, often from early morning until midnight, laying
foundation, pouring walls, laying tile and painting windows. By the time
I left, I had become their adopted grandfather.

When we arrived, 17 year old Manel was baby-sitting her younger siblings
while her parents were out. The children gave us a big welcome. We spent
the evening looking at pictures, a good way to communicate when a common
language is lacking. I showed them pictures of a public witness
against home demolitions that took place April 30 in Toronto. My church
had participated in the witness as part of CPT's Campaign for Secure
Dwellings. All the pictures my church had sent them were in their photo
album.

When we arose in the morning, the children were preparing for their 3 mile
walk to school. A local Palestinian has donated money to build an
elementary school close by, but the Israeli authorities ordered the
construction stopped a year and a half ago.

Mother Zuhoor appeared from the tent and beckoned for me to come.
Although I hold great affection for Zuhoor, I was hesitant in my greeting,
as Arab culture usually restricts gender contact to a polite handshake.
However, Zuhoor read my hesitation and with tears in her eyes reached out
with a warm hug. As we spoke, she stroked my arm. She opened her purse
and showed a picture of me painting window frames on her now demolished
home. I was deeply moved by her welcome.

As we moved into the tent, I greeted Zuhoor's husband, Yussef , who speaks
some English. Yussef was anxious to show us the rubble from the demolished
home which he had painstakingly broken apart to retrieve the metal
reinforcing rods for a fourth try on a home for his family some day. He
showed us the cistern they had made to store water, the garden
terraces, fruit trees, vegetables and vineyards they had planted. It was
unbelievable to witness the work they have accomplished in one year,
all by hand.

We visited until late morning, even though Yussef was
sacrificing a half day of fares as a taxi driver. I could not ask for a
more loving family or for a warmer welcome home.