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Here is Abu Zuluf, editor of El Kuds whose automobile terrorists have blown up because he is trying to follow what Saul Bellow feels is a "line of conciliation and peace."
Here is the Greek quarter in Jerusalem covered in grapevine; there is the Jewish quarter where the principal relic is the ben-Zakkai synagogue, blown up by the Jordanians when they took over in 1948 and as Saul Bellow walks toward it he hears, somewhere, as Arab boys are racing their donkeys down a hill.
Here is a Yemenite synagogue; there a Souk, the public market. And everywhere there is a profusion of communities: Arabs, Jews from Arab lands, Asian lands, Europe, Africa, Christians, Kurds, Hindus.... Everywhere a cacophony of voices; everywhere people mingling, arguing, making peace, making war, while philosophers philosophize and writers write.
And he sits down to dinner with families who have lost children and as he passes dishes (Sephardic dishes, Indian dishes, Arab dishes, European dishes all mixed together) "on the Jaffa Road, because of another bomb, six adolescents-two on a break from school-stopping at a coffee shop to eat buns, have just died."
"This is how we live, mister," a cabby tells Bellow (in what language: Ladino, Hebrew, Arabic?), "his voice cracking. "Okay? We live this way."
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