The Dome of the Rock Was on Fire

The Dome of  the Rock was on fire, I thought. I saw people running out, shouting and fighting as smoke obscured the entrance. A long  jet of  water sprayed through the air—to put out the fire, I thought—then I smelled it, putrid as a corpse, the truck with the water cannon dousing the Arabs while the settlers fled. I watched from a distance. The men gagged on the skunkwater and held onto each other, wiping their eyes, crouching and puking. The stench made me nauseous. I saw an old man standing with his back to the scene. His eyes were closed, his face drenched. I couldn’t tell if he was crying but he was fussing with his mouth and spitting, lips trembling and crooked. When he opened his eyes he stumbled, but no one caught his fall. The air reeked stronger and he was struggling to get to his knees. I covered my mouth with my shirt and ran to him. By the time I got there, a tall, bearded sheb in a soaked T-shirt and jeans was helping him up. The three of us stood together in the awful mist.