(Hanan Ashrawi’s daughter telling her story)

I am Palestinian - born and raised - and my Palestinian roots go back centuries. No one can change that even if they tell me that Jerusalem , my birth place, is not Palestine , even if they tell me that Palestine doesn't exist, even if they take away all my papers and deny me entry to my own home, even if they humiliate me and take away my rights. I AM PALESTINIAN.

Name: Zeina Emile Sam'an Ashrawi; Date of Birth: July 30, 1981; Ethnicity: Arab. This is what was written on my Jerusalem ID card. An ID card to a Palestinian is much more than just a piece of paper; it is my only legal documented relationship to Palestine . Born in Jerusalem , I was given a Jerusalem ID card (the blue ID), an Israeli Travel Document and a Jordanian Passport stamped Palestinian (I have no legal rights in Jordan ). I do not have an Israeli Passport, a Palestinian Passport or an American Passport.

Here is my story:

I came to the United States as a 17 year old to finish high school in Pennsylvania and went on to college and graduate school and subsequently got married and we are currently living in Northern Virginia. I have gone home every year at least once to see my parents, my family and my friends and to renew my Travel Document as I was only able to extend its validity once a year from Washington DC . My father and I would stand in line at the Israeli Ministry of Interior in Jerusalem , along with many other Palestinians, from 4:30 in the morning to try our luck at making it through the revolving metal doors of the Ministry before noon – when the Ministry closed its doors - to try and renew the Travel Document. We did that year after year. As a people living under an occupation, being faced with constant humiliation by an occupier was the norm but we did what we had to do to insure our identity was not stolen from us.

In August of 2007 I went to the Israeli Embassy in Washington DC to try and extend my travel document and get the usual "Returning Resident" VISA that the Israelis issue to Palestinians holding an Israeli Travel Document. After watching a few Americans and others being told that their visas would be ready in a couple of weeks my turn came. I walked up to the bulletproof glass window shielding the lady working behind it and under a massive picture of the Dome of the Rock and the Walls of Jerusalem that hangs on the wall in the Israeli consulate, I handed her my papers through a little slot at the bottom of the window.

"Shalom" she said with a smile. "Hi" I responded, apprehensive and scared. As soon as she saw my Travel Document her demeanor immediately changed. The smile was no longer there and there was very little small talk between us, as usual. After sifting through the paperwork I gave her she said: "where is your American Passport?" I explained to her that I did not have one and that my only Travel Document is the one she has in her hands. She was quiet for a few seconds and then said: "you don't have an American Passport?" suspicious that I was hiding information from her. "No!" I said. She was quiet for a little longer and then said: "Well, I am not sure we'll be able to extend your Travel Document." I felt the blood rushing to my head as this is my only means to get home! I asked her what she meant by that and she went on to tell me that since I had been living in the US and because I had a Green Card they would not extend my Travel Document.

After taking a deep breath to try and control my temper I explained to her that a Green Card is not a Passport and I cannot use it to travel outside the US. My voice was shaky and I was getting more and more upset (and a mini shouting match ensued) so I asked her to explain to me what I needed to do. She told me to leave my paperwork and we would see what happens.

A couple of weeks later I received a phone call from the lady telling me that she was able to extended my Travel Document but I would no longer be getting the "Returning Resident" VISA. Instead, I was given a 3 month tourist VISA. Initially I was happy to hear that the Travel Document was extended but then I realized that she said "tourist VISA". Why am I getting a tourist VISA to go home? Not wanting to argue with her about the 3 month VISA at the time so as not to jeopardize the extension of my Travel Document, I simply put that bit of information on the back burner and went on to explain to her that I wasn't going home in the next 3 months. She instructed me to come back and apply for another VISA when I did intend on going. She didn't add much and just told me that it was ready for pick-up. So I went to the Embassy and got my Travel Document and the tourist VISA that was stamped in it.

My husband, my son and I were planning on going home to Palestine this summer. So a month before we were set to leave (July 8, 2008) I went to the Israeli Embassy in Washington DC, papers in hand, to ask 2 for a VISA to go home. I, again, stood in line and watched others get VISAs to go to my home. When my turn came I walked up to the window; "Shalom" she said with a smile on her face, "Hi" I replied. I slipped the paperwork in the little slot under the bulletproof glass and waited for the usual reaction. I told her that I needed a returning resident VISA to go home. She took the paperwork and I gave her a check for the amount she requested and left the Embassy without incident.

A few days ago I got a phone call from Dina at the Israeli Embassy telling me that she needed the expiration date of my Jordanian Passport and my Green Card. I had given them all the paperwork they needed time and time again and I thought it was a good way on their part to waste time so that I didn't get my VISA in time. Regardless, I called over and over again only to get their voice mail. I left a message with the information they needed but kept called every 10 minutes hoping to speak to someone to make sure that they received the information in an effort to expedite the tedious process. I finally got a hold of someone. I told her that I wanted to make sure they received the information I left on their voice mail and that I wanted to make sure that my paperwork was in order. She said, after consulting with someone in the background (I assume it was Dina), that I needed to fax copies of both my Jordanian Passport and my Green Card and that giving them the information over the phone wasn't acceptable. So I immediately made copies and faxed them to Dina. A few hours later my cell phone rang. "Zeina?" she said. "Yes" I replied, knowing exactly who it was and immediately asked her if she received the fax I sent. She said: "ehhh, I was not looking at your file when you called earlier but your Visa was denied and your ID and Travel Document are no longer valid." "Excuse me?" I said in disbelief. "Sorry, I cannot give you a visa and your ID and Travel Document are no longer valid. This decision came from Israel not from me."

I cannot describe the feeling I got in the pit of my stomach. "Why?" I asked and Dina went on to tell me that it was because I had a Green Card. I tried to reason with Dina and to explain to her that they could not do that as this is my only means of travel home and that I wanted to see my parents, but to no avail. Dina held her ground and told me that I wouldn't be given the VISA and then said: "Let the Americans give you a Travel Document".

I have always been a strong person and not one to show weakness but at that moment I lost all control and started crying while Dina was on the other end of the line holding my only legal documents linking me to my home. I began to plead with her to try and get the VISA and not revoke my documents; "put yourself in my shoes, what would you do? You want to go see your family and someone is telling you that you can't! What would you do? Forget that you're Israeli and that I'm Palestinian and think about this for a minute!" "Sorry" she said," I know but I can't do anything, the decision came from Israel ". I tried to explain to her over and over again that I could not travel without my Travel Document and that they could not do that - knowing that they could, and they had!

This has been happening to many Palestinians who have a Jerusalem ID card. The Israeli government has been practicing and perfecting the art of ethnic cleansing since 1948 right under the nose of the world and no one has the power or the guts to do anything about it. Where else in the world does one have to beg to go to one's own home? Where else in the world does one have to give up their identity for the sole reason of living somewhere else for a period of time? Imagine if an American living in Spain for a few years wanted to go home only to be told by the American government that their American Passport was revoked and that they wouldn't be able to come back!

If I were a Jew living anywhere around the world and had no ties to the area and had never set foot there, I would have the right to go any time I wanted and get an Israeli Passport. In fact, the Israelis encourage that. I however, am not Jewish but I was born and raised there, my parents, family and friends still live there and I cannot go back! I am neither a criminal nor a threat to one of the most powerful countries in the world, yet I am alienated and expelled from my own home.

As it stands right now, I will be unable to go home - I am one of many.

So today is the third day of Eid Al Fitr that all Muslims worldwide celebrate right after the culmination of the month of Ramadan. Not sure if it’s only me, but Ramadan seems to have lost its glory. Years ago when I was a child, people’s attitudes towards both Ramadan and Eid (festival) were way different than now. Maybe I have grown up to the extent that I see in them nothing but the mere fact that few arrogant relatives come for a visit for a couple of minutes, and everyone just sucks them up.

It has been a gloomy day in deed. Being self-centered often times, I thought that my own family never enjoyed the Ramadan that other people celebrate. But the night prior to the Eid, I went for a drive to Ramallah with my uncle and three sisters, we toured around Al Manara and the mall a bit, and felt the legendary atmosphere. People were happy. That hit me; I am not accustomed to seeing them vividly preoccupied with the preparation for the big “day.”

So I came back home and wrote to all my contacts wishing them a Happy Eid and expressed my astonishment and satisfaction to see promising smiles in the crowded streets of Ramallah. But the sad part was that I knew it was merely fleeting moments and that those smiles would be wiped off soon. Not only have my fears become true, but I was blind. Yes, blind. Or may be I just chose not to see it. May be I wanted to believe that we are actually happy.

Would I miss Ramadan? NO. Not really. It has been made hell this year.

While Ramadan is believed to be the holy month during which people get closer to Allah by fasting from food and drink all day long and focus on their faith instead, I am not pretty sure this was the case with us Palestinians. It was only a drug. Ramadan numbed our pain. We could handle both the Israeli and Palestinian political, economic, and security pressure knowing that the day of salvation was approaching; the Eid. But after the three days elapsed, then what?

Now thousands of Palestinians are waiting for the next phase. It has been seven months now. Seven months, and thousands of the PA employees have not received their salaries. And two months elapsed with millions of students deprived form their right of education. I have three sisters and two brothers who do nothing but stay at home. They have not attended school from the very beginning of this term. It is both sad and frustrating that they have to “do the time” and pay a high price.

Reading the news headlines on the first days of Eid is not healthy at all. It lessens the effect of the drug, and one starts to get sober. Sounds funny in deed, but that was the case.

Few minutes ago, I surfed some of the blogs and came across few Iraqi bloggers writing on both Ramadan and Eid. If the titles did not mention “in Iraq,” I swear I could never tell the difference between Iraq and Palestine. The hunger, misery, constant killing, and lack of security are all Palestinian symptoms.

I am speechless now; I can hardly verbalize the so many conflicting thoughts. Heaven knows how things would be like next Ramadan, but I would not speculate it already. It is not time to worry about it now, other issues are on stake; food, money, and education. Until then, there are a lot of things to sort out.

Yesterday, I realized that I believe in love at first sight. Not the romantic kind, rather the sense of connecting with another human being without ever having to say a word. Indeed, the person I was so enthralled with last night was a five-month-old girl, who smiled at me and then hid her face in shyness. Those few moments of interacting with this baby lifted my spirits, but it also made me reflect in sadness about the fact that many children in this current conflict are robbed of their joy and their childhood.

I often contemplate how mature Palestinian children seem. Sure, they play the childhood games that we all played in our day, but there is wisdom in their words that is eerily sobering. Their age defines them as children, but if you have a conversation with a Palestinian child, you will realize how much awareness she has of the world around her, of suffering in the next village, in Gaza, in Lebanon. She is a child that has empathy and understands that life, by nature, is wrought with all sorts of difficulties.

A Palestinian child knows better; life is not as it is depicted in cartoons, where those who die are miraculously resurrected not once, but several times, where injuries are healed instantaneously, where death is a joke and life is a series of slapstick moments. A Palestinian child escapes into imagination, but she is never far removed from the reality of children and adults alike being indiscriminately shot outside her window, in her classroom, at the local bakery.

Who would have thought that normal things, simply walking down the street to grab a falafel sandwich, could result in your untimely death? Perhaps the Israeli army mistook the falafel stand for a bomb-making factory, or an ammunition shop? Make no mistake about it; the Israeli military have made too many “mistakes” that there is obviously a pattern there, wouldn’t you think?

A child that is robbed of the sense of security, therefore, is a child that is mature beyond her years. She knows that the bullets and the tank shells do not discriminate. Her father can shield her from the neighbor’s vicious dog, from the crazy drivers, he will hold her hand to cross the street, but he will not be able to capture a bullet in his hand like the mythological superheroes in blockbuster movies out this summer in theatres near you. He might be able to take the bullet for her though. But once gone, who will be her protective shield against the harsh reality of life that goes on in what seems the periphery of the conflict? And who will be there to share some of her joyous milestones; graduation, marriage, the birth of a child? Hers is a joy that is always overshadowed by a greater sorrow.

Is it fair that 31 Palestinian children have died in a 31-day period? A child-a-day; is that the new Israeli army mantra? Khaled was just a one-year-old, Aya was seven, Sabreen was only three. What lost potential, what lost promise – who knows what Khaled would have grown up to be? An astronaut? A veterinarian? A philosopher? What about Aya; she could have become a fashion designer, a teacher, a mother. By what right has this promise been so violently plucked and trampled upon cruelly and without a moment’s hesitation on the part of the Israeli soldier, who heartlessly unleashed a fiery rain of bullets and shells on a neighborhood as if he is in a simulated video game and those who die are fictitious and unreal? Perhaps that is what he is made to believe, otherwise, who in clear consciousness is so willing to pull the trigger and with one spray of bullets destroy life, potential and rob joy?

If you can see the smiling face of your own child, then how do you go out and unquestioningly take the life of others? If you value life, then how do you live with the burden of knowing that you have taken it so unjustifiably? Perhaps that is your perpetual punishment; the judgment of a child scorned is the harshest of them all.

As you are aware, there is currently a spreading global boycott of Israeli artists and arts establishments which we, as Palestinian artists, have endorsed.

Art, a powerful tool that has influenced the course of history countless times, is not apolitical. Unfortunately in Israeli society art has remained politically apathetic, lamenting Israel's historical and ongoing suffering whilst ignoring Israel's historical and ongoing culpability.

Like all Palestinians, as artists we are subject to the daily humiliation of your barrier-points, the random slaughter of your military actions, the denial of travel by your border police, detention without charge or trial in your prisons, closures and curfews of our cities by your army, continuing theft of property by your "settlers", and , as war refugees, the ongoing refusal to return home by your government. Meanwhile you have enjoyed the opportunity to create, rehearse and perform with relative freedom. We suggest that you utilize this freedom more responsibly. The Israeli government and mainstream press has been unwilling to criticize Zionism as an ideology for Israel. As a result of this, Israeli oppression of the indigenous Muslim, Christian and secular inhabitants of this region has become more and more extreme. We expect that you, as Israeli artists, therefore find the moral courage to research and reflect upon the impact of Israeli Zionism far more critically and directly than you have been willing to do thus far.

Vague sentiments for peace and against war are as useless as a speech by US President Bush on the topic. If you really are dedicated to creating a peaceful, just future, your commentary needs to directly address the way that political Zionism has effected the non-Jewish residents of this land. Evocatively share with your audiences the way Israel has dispossessed us of our property and held us under a brutal military occupation without civil rights for decades. If you do not wish to present this in your artwork, you may consider alternatives such as public statements that support the return of refugees and the end of the occupation, cancellation of your performances whenever occupied Palestinian regions are placed under curfew by your military, and a refusal to do your own annual service within the Israeli military.

It should be obvious to most of you by now that no amount of military force can promise or deliver Zionist domination over this region. Justice, peace and security will require a major shift in Israel's political goals and social conscience- one which recognizes the diversity of peoples inhabiting the region, acknowledges the United Nations Resolutions regarding Israel's duties and obligations, and accepts the damage caused by the quirky nature of Zionism. Such a shift, prompted by boycotts, brought an end to similar oppression in South Africa. As artists you are in a position to lead this shift, but unfortunately your artwork to date has failed to even attempt this. As such your art has become the Israeli government's mute mistress, drawing audiences away from any moral inquiry. So long as you continue to ignore the damage your state is causing therefore, we will continue to endorse the global cultural boycott of your artwork.

As Palestinian artists, we envision a future where every person from this region, regardless of religion or ethnicity, has their culture celebrated, just as it has been in centuries past. To reach this point, we must all enjoy equal civil rights.

Stop denying ours.

Nicholas Rowe, PARA-Culture (Palestinian Artists Resisting Apartheid-Culture)

It was destined to be a difficult meeting.

I had met Yair Vardi only once before, six years earlier in Ankara with Modern Dans Turkey, when he was a visiting choreographer and I was residing as a dancer. We rehearsed together amicably, though my strongest memory of that time remains an unspoken disagreement. "Never let them see your weakness!" he pointed to my hanging stomach in a scene I was performing with a bare torso. The aesthetic beauty of power had impressed him during his own distinguished career with Ballet Rambert in London. I wanted to show my character's heavy exhaustion, but silently edited this idea from the performance and kept my stomach in.

This meeting was going to be a very different one, however. Many things had changed. For three years we had been living less than 40 kilometres from each other; Mr.Vardi in Tel-Aviv directing Israel's premiere dance venue, myself in Ramallah in the Occupied Territories working with Palestinian dancers. Despite this proximity, we had not met again, during the years of the intifada or before.

It was turning out to be one of the hottest days of the Summer, and my shirt was thick with sweat when I entered the air conditioned offices of the Suzanne Delal Centre for Theatre and Dance. "Is Mr. Vardi in?" I asked a young man sitting at the front desk. "Who shall I say wishes to speak with him?" he smiled back with the effete enthusiasm of a part-time dance student. "Nicholas Rowe" "From?" "Ramallah." His chin raised momentarily as though waiting for the punch-line, then pulled in as he turned and moved wordlessly to the back of the office.

The clerk returned a moment later still smiling and asked me to sit and wait for two minutes. The settee in the foyer was very low, soft and suggested a lot of familiarity, so I thanked him but remained standing. He then indicated towards the water cooler and offered some water, which I gratefully drank from. The beating sun had burnt the back of my neck and left a dull ache in my forehead.

A few moments later I was told that I could come through, and Yair Vardi met me half way between his office and the reception hall. He extended his hand and asked "Nicholas?" "Yes, thank you for meeting with me. I don't know if you remember, we met once before, with MDT in Turkey, a few years ago." "With Beyhan's group?" "Yes." "That's right, you were the Australian dancer." He smiled. We were winding our way towards his office in the back. He was a little bit shorter than I had remembered him, and his complexion a darker, but he retained the wiry muscular stature of a life-long dancer. "Where are you now? Still in Turkey?" "No, In Ramallah." He paused and looked at me. Perhaps the desk clerk had thought it was a joke after all and decided not to mentioned it. "Ramallah?" "Yes." "There is dancing in Ramallah?" "Not so much these days." "My god! Was it hard to get here from there?" "Some three hours. Most of it at the military barriers." "They must hate us for this. Do they hate us up there? I can understand them for hating us." "Well, there's a lot of indignation, that's for sure." We had reached his office, he moved behind his desk, and we both sat down. "Thank you for seeing me on the spot like this. We never know which days your army will let us out of our houses."

He had swayed sideways in the chair, and his clasped hands pressed two index fingers against his lips. "But what are you doing in Ramallah?" Even with a pleasant tone, an Israeli accent with this question carried the echo of suspicious border police. "I've been there a few years now," I said, staring down at Mr. Vardi's desk. "I came to help set up the Palestine National Academy of Dance, but that's on hold since the intifada began. Now I work mostly in the refugee camps, running an arts relief program for children." "But there was dancing there before?" he was leaning back deeply in his chair and eyeing me sideways, his voice curious and incredulous. "Yes, I mainly worked with two groups, who are both trying to evolve a modern... "Men and women dancers?" "Yes, it's mostly an even split, and they are developing their folk dance into-" "Ahhh, folk dance." He visibly relaxed with this information and swung his chair to face me. "Yes, but they have been working for some years on developing a modern dance style based on Palestinian folk dance." "I would be very interested to see the folk dances." He nodded.

We stopped talking for a moment, his pause suggesting that this would be the time to bring up the reason for our meeting. I had been clutching a clumsy plastic bag since Ramallah, empty but for a magazine and an empty water bottle, and I shuffled with it under the table.

"I hear that you are hosting an international dance festival at the moment..." "Mostly not so international this year, not so many groups from abroad want to risk the security situation, all these bombings, and so on." He sighed, then added quickly "Not that I blame them for not coming." I nodded with him, and went on, "Well, from any of the groups performing, has there been any work that expresses criticism of the Israeli government's action in the Occupied Territories?"

Mr. Vardi stiffened a little in his chair, and paused. "Most of the artists here are just struggling hard to put shows together. The economy is terrible. You see this building around us, this centre, it is very nice, but we are really struggling just to hold it all together, financially. You know we are going through a very difficult time here as well, with the security, economically..."

"Yes, I can imagine." I tentatively placed one hand on his desk. "But your military is currently violating a lot of international laws. Millions of people are suffering terribly because of this, very nearby. Are any dancers here reflecting this?"

Mr.Vardi leant forward and ran his fore finger across the desk "Well, I'm sure that there are many artists who feel very critical of the current government. As director of the Suzanne Delal Centre, I am not in a position to give my opinions on this, there are many people -funders, governing boards- that I must answer to. So I can't present political opinions from this position. I can tell you that we all feel very sad every time innocent people are killed, on either side."

He swung his chair sideways again and winced at me through the corners of his eyes, suggesting that if I was just coming down to complain about the political situation and maybe get a response from him, that was it. Leaning forward, I opened the plastic bag below the table and withdrew the magazine.

"Actually, the reason I wanted to come and see you is not particularly pleasant." I lifted the magazine and moved it forward, hoping that he might recognise it and understand everything. He showed no recognition however, so I went on. "I have been helping to co-ordinate the international cultural boycott of Israeli artists and arts establishments, like the Suzanne Delal Centre. I wanted to come to you and explain why."

Yair Vardi's face did not move, but he kept me in his gaze, which I intermittently tried to return. I placed the magazine awkwardly onto his desk. "This is a copy of the June Issue of Dance Europe. In it there is an article I wrote which includes some interviews with Arab artists from around the region, discussing the boycott. It basically analyses why the boycott exists and what it hopes to achieve."

He leant forward across the desk and pulled the magazine towards him, turning it around. Frowning as he stared hard at it, he said softly "I haven't seen this magazine." As he flicked through the pages I moved forward and gently pointed towards the index and the page number of the article. We each mumbled some directions into the magazine as we scanned for the page, a brief respite as Mr. Vardi absorbed the confrontational nature of our meeting. Opening the article, with it's four boxed interviews, he leant back deeply into his chair and began to read it.

He looked up after a moment "There are no Israeli artists interviewed here. That's hardly fair?" It came out as a question, and his eyes looked over the pages at me, awaiting a response.

"Well, I did try to find an Israeli dance artist who was willing to criticize Zionism, but none were willing to-" "No, none would." "Precisely, and I didn't want to get bogged down on a debate over Zionism. This colonial idea- coming and setting up a state for just one group of people, pushing the rest out -it doesn't really interest me." Mr.Vardi continued to look at me impassively, so I went on. "What I did want to do...what I wanted to keep the discussion focused on, is- what should be done about it? How do we stop this colonizing, these settlements, and solve the problems this segregation has caused."

"But not even giving the other side a chance to speak..." He left the sentence hanging.

"I don't think that every time a Palestinian speaks about something, fairness demands that an Israeli must also be heard. A Palestinian opinion is valid on it's own, just as an African voice is valid without a European one to counter it. But more importantly, I wanted to look for an answer. Sometimes presenting two polarized opinions in a magazine article just makes the problem seem unsolvable." "And you think a boycott is the best solution?" he asked, his head hanging to the side doubtfully. "Well, you know how Arabs are often shown in the media, only using terrorism to get what they want..." He did not register this either way, so I went on. "This boycott is an example of non-violent protest that Arabs have been supporting for years. That, on it's own, I thought deserved attention."

He returned his gaze to the magazine and scanned a bit further. "You don't really say here what you want to achieve with this boycott." His manner was disarmingly patient, that of a school-master examining a student's homework. "I don't really see how stopping communication through the arts is at all helpful."

"The problem is that Israeli art itself is not currently helpful. It would be great if some protest art was happening, but Israeli artists have been a mute mistress for their government for too long. Keeping everyone entertained and not questioning the occupation, the refugees-"

"So you want only political art?" He countered.

"If artists don't want to create political work, they can always make public statements, supporting the Palestinian refugees and a military withdrawal from the Occupied Territories. They can cancel their shows in solidarity whenever Palestinian cities are placed under curfew. At the very least they can refuse to do the annual military service that they all do for the occupying army. So far however, none have."

"That's a little harsh." Mr. Vardi pulled his chin back reproachfully. "People here do care, you know. There are many Israeli dance pieces that express a lot of support for peace." "Yes, like Rami Be'er's Aide Memoire." I suggested. Mr. Vardi's eyebrows raised and he nodded to agree that this was a worthy example. "It's very popular, all over the world, a lamentation of war. I first saw it in Finland, of all places. Unfortunately, it doesn't at any point admit that the Kibbutz Contemporary Dance Company created and rehearsed the work in studios they had built over a Palestinian village, once the local population had been cleansed away. The exiled families are still alive, still living in a refugee camp in Lebanon and still want to return to their land. But despite international law, Israel and Kibbutz Ga'aton and even Rami Be'er do not want to let them back. Aide Memoire became a little hollow for me after that." Mr. Vardi breathed slowly and looked up at the ceiling before returning back to me. "These are very complicated issues-" "And so they need to be addressed, not ignored." "Yes, and co-operation through the arts can help bring these problems forward," he went on patiently. "It would be wonderful if we could have more artistic collaboration with the Palestinians, not less." He kept the article open on the desk and drew back from me, satisfied with this point.

"Of course it would. Palestinian and Israeli artists can gain a lot from each other. Only some sort of racist would doubt that, or need that proven. But when a soldier and prisoner dance together, you can't call it a collaboration. That's just something to help the soldier sleep better at night. After any show now, the Israeli will return to their home, well-watered garden and military duty, and the Palestinian will be returned to their refugee camp, communal well and military rule."

Yair Vardi furrowed his brow. Perhaps he had heard it all before. "I still don't see how having no communication at all is going to help. What do we do then? Just keep bombing each other instead?"

I leant forward and touched the edge of the magazine, shaping the corners of it's pages. To my left was a collage of photos of Mr. Vardi with his wife and child. They were very casual, personal photos, from birthdays and holidays and home-life. Between the photos and Mr. Vardi sat his computer screen, and it seemed that he would have to come to my side of the desk to see them.

"There is a middle path. Just because we aren't dancing together doesn't mean we can't talk." I looked back at him, wondering how to ever convince him. "Cultural exchange is very normal -but military occupation, home demolitions, deportations, ethnic cleansing- these things aren't. So we have to solve them first. One step forward would be for you, as Israeli artists, to start reflecting these injustices on stage. At least then rest of the world would be able to distinguish you from the problem."

Mr. Vardi took me fully in his gaze, which was very patient yet commanding.

"The Suzanne Delal Centre is reliant on government funding, and one of our guidelines is that we don't get involved in politics. We can not hold political meetings here. We are here to create art for the Israeli people, that's it. Do you want us to just destroy everything we have worked for? What would that achieve?"

He asked the question calmly, and the calmness of our meeting was becoming disquieting. I did not know if it was age, apathy, confidence or just the heat of the day that allowed Mr. Vardi to remain so listless. If he felt any fury or indignation at my charges, he gave no energy to expressing it. Let him rant then leave, I could see him thinking. I looked around his office and felt overwhelmed by how undisturbed it seemed. The walls were covered with posters of Israeli modern dance shows and past festivals, whilst the art centre where I worked had been trashed and looted on a whim by Israeli soldiers. This power imbalance made it so easy for us to slip into the roles of patient father and the zealous son. Did I have to drag him to Ramallah for him to see it? Would even that make a difference?

"These times demand some moral courage!" I breathed out hard. "If the Israeli media and government are not willing to question the morality of Zionism, your artists need to start posing some political questions that-"

"Any Israeli dancer that starts to get involved in political issues will lose their funding and not get to show their work anywhere." He replied, as though I seemed to have missed the point.

"It's not an easy situation." I looked at the dance posters around his office once more. All composed of beautiful bodies and innovative shapes, each trying to stand out more than the other. "I empathize with Israeli artists facing this problem. Really I do. No dancer or choreographer in the world would really want to have to deal with this, everybody just wants to get on with their art. But this military occupation is forcing us all to make sacrifices. For two years nobody in the Occupied Territories, myself included, has been able to choreograph or perform, because of the siege."

Perhaps out of pity at my impotent passion, he leant forward and tried to sound optimistic for the first time. "Maybe there is one possibility. We could arrange for a group of Palestinians, artists, students, whoever, to come down to the Suzanne Delal Centre to see a dance show, for free of course. It would be difficult, but we might be able to arrange it."

I felt very puzzled as I looked at him "And how would they get here? It took me four hours, and I have a foreign passport. They wouldn't be allowed past the first check points."

Feeling more comfortable, he waved his hand at this idea. "That would take some organizing, but I'm sure we could arrange some sort of bus and a pass from the military and..."

"It sort of misses the point though, doesn't it?" I cut in. He did not move, so I went on. "No Palestinian is going to want to do this. Be given "special permission" to allow them to leave their homes? For the privilege of being able to see an Israeli dance performance? To then be happily returned back through the curfew by Israeli soldiers?"

I thought of how Khaled Qatamish, the director of the El-Funoun dance troupe, would laugh at this. A month earlier he had received a knock on the door in the middle of the night. Before he knew what was happening he had been dragged in his pyjamas to the street and was being beaten by Israeli soldiers. Then, as his children and wife watched from the window, he was held in front and used as a human shield by the Israeli combat unit, as they moved on a house to house search. And of Omar Barghouti, a choreographer with the same company, whose home had been destroyed by a missile from an Israeli tank, and then, a year later, his new apartment had been filled with Israeli soldiers wanting to remove him and his young family and use it as sleeping quarters. And of Khaled Elayan, director of the Sariat Ramallah, who had only just been released from an Israeli prison after three months without charge or trial. Almost every male Palestinian dancer I could think of had, at some point, been imprisoned and tortured.

I looked back at Mr. Vardi, who still considered the idea in a positive light. "Some of them may be happy to come down here, but to tell you about human right's violations in the Occupied Territories, not to sit and admire Israeli art."

"Well, there could be some sort of after-show discussions between the artists, in which individuals could talk about different things. Very informal of course, we could not say that this will be any sort of Israeli/Palestinian meeting, but maybe, between themselves, after the show the artists might discuss things."

"There will be plenty of time for artistic meetings once we have sorted out the political inequality. This boycott is being taken to prompt political action from you, as Israeli citizens and artists."

"But we would lose all our funding if we did this!" At last his exasperation was beginning to show as his words became more punctuated. He did not want to have to repeat this last concept. "We would end up in Israel with no art at all, or only art from very pro-government artists."

"And perhaps that would be better." I leant back into my chair, breathed deeply and tried to think of how this idea could possibly be palatable to Mr. Vardi. "Sometimes I argue with people in the Occupied Territories who support the suicide bombings. One of the reasons they give is that these bombs at least make Israel remember it is holding millions of Palestinians under military rule in two large prisons called Gaza and the West Bank. They know of the wonderful concerts and shows you enjoy from abroad, the way you tour your shows internationally, and yet you don't even let them travel to the next town to visit a sick mother, let alone have a cultural life. Then you each join the army once a year, but pretend you are not part of the problem."

It seemed I had traveled into sacred area by attempting to justify the suicide bombings, as Mr. Vardi's face stiffened. I waved my hand vaguely and tried to return to my original point, to why I had come down here. "Hence, this boycott. Disrupting your cultural life is a non-violent way of gaining your attention. When international artists boycott you, they are at least acknowledging the abnormality of this situation. This takes the despair out of the Palestinians and prompts you, we hope, into some sort of moral inquiry."

Mr. Vardi closed his eyes and raised his eyebrows, and nodded slowly.

"Actually, one of the good things, possibly the only good thing, to come out of this situation is that more Israeli work is being created, and more audiences are coming to see home grown talent, because there is nothing else for them to see. So local choreography is going through something of a renaissance." Any empathy that Mr. Vardi might have had was ebbing away, and as he stood his stomach drew in and his chest swelled with resilience. The meeting was obviously drawing to a close.

"Well, if any of them want to learn about the situation..." I stood sadly, the empty water bottle sagging lightly in the plastic bag. "I would like to meet with them and introduce them to-"

"For political meetings, we can't help, but for something artistic like seeing a performance in the festival, that might be possible." He jotted down my phone number and email address for reference, but it was perfunctory.

"So long as you know that Palestinians artists are ready to talk about the problem, even if Israeli ones are not yet." I looked at him and this time his eyes moved down and away. As we wordlessly made our way to the foyer, Mr. Vardi's secretary beamed up at me, oblivious to the nature of our meeting. We bid farewell without any expectations, and I stepped back out into the searing heat of Tel-Aviv.

The journey up to West Jerusalem was uneventful. Stretched out across two seats, the air-conditioned Israeli bus made me forget about the sun again for forty-five minutes. Walking across to East Jerusalem through the old city was a disconcerting shock however, as though stepping out of a bubble into a much denser world. Within a minute crowds were pressing from all sides and noise accelerated. I soon found myself wedged into a stuffy minivan with a dozen others Palestinians desperate to get home before curfew.

At the first military barrier the Israeli soldiers showed no interest in checking ID, so we sped through. Then somebody said Ramallah had been closed early, which set of a babble of sighs, curses and mobile phone calls. The next barrier, at the Qalandia refugee camp, was imbedded in traffic. Palestinian workers stood in several lengthy and haphazard cues between concrete blocks and barbed wire, their shoulders hunched as they shuffled along beneath the gun towers. I joined one line, and felt very thirsty as my head seemed to press against the afternoon sun.

After 35 minutes I reached the shaded desk surrounded by Israeli soldiers. A blonde adolescent girl in heavy combat gear curiously thumbed through my Australian passport and passed it over to two of her colleagues, pointing at the emblem on the cover and squealing "Kangaroo!". Slouching under the weight of their M16's, they smiled at it. Looking up at me, one said "Why are you here? Australia is so beautiful!" then looked away. "So, where are you going now?" The female soldier asked, still smiling. One minute before she had barked "Go back! Go back!" in poor Arabic to an elderly Palestinian man. "To Ramallah." "Ramallah is closed now." She replied simply, as though it were a supermarket. "Nobody can go in to Ramallah." "Then I'll stay the night in Semiramis." I lied, referring to an urban area before Ramallah. "But what are you doing in Ramallah?" she pressed on, curiously. "That's where I live...With my wife." "She is Palestinian?" "Yes." "You met her here?" Holding my passport and a gun, she managed to ask this with a cocktail-party tone. "Yes." "So, why did you come here?" "So, why did you come here?" I sighed and smiled, trying to parrot her pleasantness. "I was born here!" she snapped, as though suddenly joining the chorus of a patriotic song. She asked the question again, this time as an Israeli officer "So, why did you come here?" "Don't know," I shrugged. To hell with it, I thought. I'll sleep in a ditch if I need to. But then she flicked her wrist to indicate I should move on, and listlessly called for the next in line.

From Qalandia I traveled in another crowded minivan to Semiramis. The sun was now low in the sky and one of the last passengers to disembark explained the safest route to Ramallah. I set off on foot across the hard stony hills, swinging the bag with the empty plastic water bottle and enjoying the pink hue on the small white cliffs. After an hour I reached the centre of town, which was deserted with all the shops shuttered. The sun had gone down, the moon had come up, and from one intersection I could look over dark hills south to the lights of Jerusalem and east to the lights of Jaffa. I snuck along side streets to avoid the patrolling jeeps and tanks, until reaching home.

My wife sniffled as I kissed her. She explained that her nose was still running from a tear gas canister that an Israeli patrol had lobbed outside a bookstore earlier in the day. In the background, President George Bush's neolithic gaze pressed out of the television set. She turned up the volume to see if he was explaining why Iraq needed bombing, but CNN were instead running an oddball story on how he is the healthiest president in US history. As he strutted across the Whitehouse lawn, his physical-workout regime was described. Urging young people across America to exercise more, his taut stomach and thick arms helped define for them the aesthetic beauty of power.