But during all those wanderings and during all those years, Jamal told me, he never forgot Hulda. So when I drove him in my car over the dirt road to Hulda in the spring of 1993, he smiled a wide child’s smile and murmured: Hulda, Hulda. Nothing in the world like the soil of Hulda. He took me to the site where the threshing floor for the grain harvest had been, to the pile of rubble that was once his aunt’s house, to the pile of rubble that was once his uncle’s house, and to the pile of rubble that was once his own house. He told me he didn’t know how to say what’s in his heart. Only God
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