We knew houses had been demolished houses there... day by day.. we drove there... a silent transfer.. or maybe not so silent...  we pass by the pile of rubble at the side of the road, that was one of the houses demolished the previous day, and stopped. An elderly man, a young woman and two babies are seen pacing back and forth, bent, strange. They sit down on the rubble, get up again, climb the hill, come down. The baby cries, forgotten down the hill. Holding on to an iron rod sticking out among the fragments of concrete. His crying continues, endless. The mother comes down, mumbles, climbs up again. Their movement detached, lost. Again and again from nowhere to nowhere. it’s freezing outside... It’s their home. Demolished. Their former home was demolished exactly a year ago. They were told that perhaps UNWRA will give them a tent. The baby has no shoes. His chubby, healthy feet are wrapped in a pair of red socks and only illuminate the somber sin that shrieks out in this beautiful valley together with the Muezzin who has starting calling for prayer, almost like a film set.