As it turned out, when we arrived at the settlement, the jeep’s attraction to us helped because it waited at the roadside for us to enter. The security at the gate were a little suspicious, but by this time we’d sort of befriended the soldiers and they waved to the security man that it was ok for us to go in.

All of a sudden we were in American suburbia. Black asphalt roads, not tarnished with the dust, with clear white lines on. Most outrageously (at this point) to us, was the roundabout with beautiful flowers in it bordered by green green grass. Living in a place where coca cola and pepsi were cheaper than a similar sized bottle of water and we had to ration showers in the summer heat because we didn’t know when the water would next be turned on, we were incensed.

We were on a mission though and on we carried. Totally lost, we asked a young family directions and directions we got, nothing else (perhaps abundance of water makes people less friendly).

After trapsing through a wide path overgrown with tall grass and flanked with fir trees, we arrived at what was indeed a shrine: a pebble covered grave pointing to Jerusalem and books in three separate weatherproof cases open on pages documenting what Hebron’s “hero” did and how Jerusalem will be fully part of Israel. Shocked and unsettled we looked around, didn’t touch anything, took one picture and then retreated.

I don’t think we ever told our Palestinian friends that we went to the settlement to check. So much hurt and humiliation flowed through their veins at that point that they would have seen us a betraying them by stepping foot in a settlement. For us though, it was important. Surrounded by stories that were so huge and quite frankly, so hard to believe and impossible to verify, we had verified one important fact.

I heard that the shrine was demolished within a year after our visit. And that one picture? Well, it was the only picture on the roll that didn’t turn out.

As for my water? I just heard it gurgle in the pipes as it came back on.