A MAN WALKED AND WALKED AND FELL INTO A PIT

I went walking through Givat Haviva, where for decades different groups, Israeli and Palestinian, have tried to imagine something different for their homeland. Along the paths and lawns, I found things people had left behind: a candy wrapper, a broken dish, a single sock. These objects intrigued me – their vibrancy humming despite abandonment.
 
I wanted to preserve whatever life remained in these objects. Perhaps from these remnants I could assemble a clearer picture of what—and who—Givat Haviva is.

So, I began writing her letters. Sometimes she answered, in her own peculiar way. She houses so many kinds of people, holds so many types of ideas.
"And you?" I asked her. "You are everyone's home, aren't you?"

She didn't answer.

She was my home for three months. During that time, I began to feel like her—an empty shell echoing with shadows of conflicting grand thoughts. And slowly, the destruction of everything I knew began to seep in.