The cartons and suitcases had been trucked in a week earlier. Family, friends, teenage volunteers, two granddaughters and my eighty-nine year old mother-in-law arrived to begin the process of moving into the notorious caravilla that we will call home for the next two to three years. The Expulsion Authority had sent us our final warning: leave the hotel or we will cease payment for your stay. We took a few extra days to put our caravan into order so that we would move into a livable home.



The move from our hotel, from our one small room, frightened us. We are now on our own. A hotel is a womb-like existence - food, laundry, cleaning needs are provided. But we ate according to schedule. We received an early morning knock at the door to remind us the cleaning crew was here and we had better vacate or they wouldn't be back for hours.



The Jerusalem Gold Hotel was welcoming after their initial shock at putting up with families who never checked out. The owner, Ariella Doron, provided us with rooms for day-care centers, used clothing storage, sanitary supplies, a beauty care center, a bulletin board for notices and, attached to each door, a plastic bag for internal mail. The cooks were especially caring, providing children's as well as adult food, the platters always aesthetically pleasing.



We learned to tolerate other families and their kids. We watched children grow independent, serving themselves and younger siblings. We watched parents coping with large families in small rooms. Never did I hear an altercation between families, only concern for a family in need. I watched with the deepest respect how a family of thirteen cared for their beloved grandmother.



We became inured to the sound of buses pulling into the back entrance of the Central Bus Station and the endless announcements of lost backpacks on the public address system. We watched trucks pouring out their junk products for the station's mall. We watched sappers blow up suspicious objects left at the station, always a reminder that terror lurks everywhere.



Now, it was our turn to wheel the hotel trolley to our room, bringing the last pieces of luggage and our laundry bag to the car. We kissed our friends goodbye. We are the last to leave for Nitzan. Those who remain are waiting for their caravillas now being built in the Ein Tzurim refugee camp some fifteen minutes from Nitzan.



Six months have passed since our expulsion and it is time to get on with our lives.



We came into the Nitzan refugee camp. There are 240 families here, each of us locked into our dun-colored trailer with its red tile roof. The water pipe on the lawn is still there. We have put blocks of wood around it to remind us that danger lurks under our feet.



Each day another room is made ready. The showers work. The heating system blows hot air no matter how we adjust the thermostat. We bought curtains to cover the picture window that has no shutters and overlooks two ship containers plopped down by our neighbors. I've spoken to our N'vei Dekalim gardener about putting in a small but effective garden to camouflage the view.



The problems of a community largely out of work have been brought to my doorstep. The needs of the people are enormous. Their frustration and hurt are there and smoldering. There is so much I need to do.



During the first week, old neighbors from N'vei Dekalim and from the hotel brought us prepared food. On our first Shabbat, we were welcomed by Rabbi Yigal Kaminetzky. A family from Kibbutz Sha'alavim delivered our Shabbat meals. We wanted to be alone in a quiet setting after months of shared meals. We prayed, we ate, we slept.



The first Shabbat of our new lives in the refugee camp of Nitzan.