The terrifying image of the woman immured alive has long delighted Hollywood screenwriters. But here, there is no dark descent here into the depths of a cellar, no slow suffocation beneath the sands. Just the gradual construction of a concrete tower, block by block, storey by storey, in front of a window, which provides the only vista of this filmed diary, until the view is totally obstructed. The irony of fate is that the workers building this tower are Palestinian. The wall that is rising implacably month after month under the filmmaker’s eyes does not simply block her view, but locks her into her memories, into a profound grief for the death of her brother – a potter-sculptor and co-owner – before wiping out the last memories of the place, of the district with its English, German, Jewish, Arab features, of the house and of Udi, her brother.