(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.

I have an Israeli friend who lives in an East Jerusalem settlement, which she insists on euphemistically calling a "neighborhood." She laments the fact that Jerusalem is a culturally divided city, with Israelis doing business on the privileged West side, where city maintenance of streets and parks is equal to that of an American City, while Palestinians live and do business in the depressed East side, where services are woefully lacking, even though Palestinians pay taxes at the same rate as their Jewish neighbors.

My friend has never been to an East Jerusalem restaurant herself, however. Until yesterday. We met for lunch, but because my time was limited, I suggested we stay in East Jerusalem. She very reluctantly agreed. We went to the Philadelphia, a typical Arab garden restaurant in spite of the name...with a fountain in the middle and a tent-like ceiling. Most of the clientele is Palestinian. Two impeccably uniformed men greeted us at the door and led us to the dining area.. "Ahlan wu sahalan!" Welcome! How are you today? they inquired. My friend turned to me and said, "They know you!" "No" I replied. They treat everyone like this.

We had a traditional spread of salads served on about a dozen little plates. And we shared a mixed grill, which consisted of kebabs, rice, French fries and some grilled vegetables. My friend liked everything and ate heartily. At the end of the meal, when she discovered that she could not pay with a credit card, she exclaimed to the waiter, " I may not have enough cash!" "Mish mushkele!" he replied. Not a problem. You can come back and pay tomorrow or next week or next month!"

YOU WON'T SEE THIS ON CNN!

After a hard and long day, I was dragging my feet toward the serveece stop on my way home. A boy, about seven years old, selling chewing gum, approached me and fell into step with me. We had a brief exchange in Arabic.

"No, thank you. I don't want any." I said. He persisted. "Look, dear, I don't want any. I am tired. I am going home." I said. His expression immediately changed to one of concern. "You are tired?" he asked. "Yes."

"Salamtik!" he said then with a shy smile and turned away. To my health was his parting wish.

YOU WON'T SEE THIS ON CNN

*** Outside the Sabeel Center where I do volunteer work, there is a bakery. I have always believed that I could indeed live by bread alone, and I find the smell of freshly baked bread irresistible. Today I walked into the small bakery to see if they also baked biscuits. I watched the fragrant round breads come down a narrow conveyor belt and being stacked in piles of 12.

An old man came from the back room and smiled at me. "Ahlan wu sahlan!" Welcome! I asked if the bakery made only bread. Yes, he said. and then signaled me to wait. From the conveyor belt closest to the oven he picked up a hot round bread and brought it to me. When I reached for my money, he laughed and waived me away. "Ahlan wu sahlan!" Welcome! he said.

YOU WON'T SEE THIS ON CNN!

The UN-marked car sent by UNRWA arrived punctually at the Jerusalem Hotel. The driver, Hassan, moved the ubiquitous cell phone away from his mouth for a moment as he whispered, "Germana?" before finishing his conversation. I nodded. He put his cell phone away, and we shook hands. He then led me to a white, small, four-door Punto, and we were off a few minutes before 11:00 am. In silence we left Jerusalem behind us as we took the road to Jericho. I tried to ignore the settlements looming on top of every hill, with their bright red roofs and their uniform, monotonous structures, as if put together by a child playing with building blocks.

Neither Hassan nor I was in a talkative mood, but eventually we discovered that he had known my brother-in-law, who had worked for UNRWA for a number of years. "He was a good man!" Hassan said. I agreed. And again I felt lucky to have married into the Nijim family way back in 1966. In another world. When the 1967 War broke out, it turned the West Bank upside down, sending a river of blood under the bridge.

The caffelatte-colored hills became gradually more bare, punctuated only by a few Bedouin tents, a few shacks, some sheep and goats, and a few camels. Narrow, dry wadis cut deep into the hills, where some stubborn vegetation insisted on growing.

Hassan pointed out the sign that told us we were now below sea level, and soon an incongruous sign appeared, advertising, "Zimmers"

We drove past the Jericho Baptismal site and the Allenby Bridge, past the No'omi settlement alongside the Jordan River, a river whose water comes to no more than a trickle. Arab villages and Israeli settlements alternated. Both people tending the soil with utmost care, intent on making the earth produce food for their survival. Cousins, bound together by a deadly feud.

We passed the Adam bridge, and finally arrived at Bet She'an checkpoint, where a few dozen soldiers stood around without showing much interest in the light traffic. "This is going to be easy!" I thought, remembering the warnings from friends who had expressed concerns for my safety.

We drove on, past the foreboding Shatta prison, moving quickly toward Afula, where the next checkpoint awaited us. The green Gilboa hills looked serenely on, a stark contrast to the caffelatte hills of Jericho.

Whereas the third passage to Jordan, the Sheikh Hussein Bridge (which we never saw), has a reputation for being lenient, the Afula checkpoint does not. "You cannot go in. No tourist allowed into Jenin." the handsome young teenager in uniform said to me. I insisted. "Don't get angry! These are my orders." he said. Then he asked if I had a UN identification card. I did not. He shook his head and leaned back a little as if to put some distance between us. "You can't go in!" Hassan repeated sadly. I leaned my head toward the driver's window and caught the eye of the soldier. "Please call your commanding officer." I said, and to my surprise, he overcame his reluctance and placed the call. We waited. A fiftiesh-looking man emerged from a tent across the street and slowly walked toward us. The commanding officer in person! He exchanged a few words with the young soldier, and then without as much as a look at me or my passport, he waived us on. Hassan and I drove a few meters off before grinning at each other.

At the third checkpoint, about a kilometer away, the scene repeated itself. "No, you can't pass. You don't have a UN identification card. No tourist allowed." Hassan talked to him in Hebrew suggesting he call the Afula checkpoint, where we were given clearance to proceed. About a dozen tanks parked on both sides of the street seemed to stare at each other, ready to spring into their nefarious work. In the meantime, the driver from Jenin called informing me that he was waiting for me at the other side of the checkpoint. From where we waited, I could see his car parked behind the cement blocks. We waived.

Only a few minutes later the soldier handed me back my passport, smiled and said, "Have a good day!" He then gave Hassan permission to drive me to the waiting car. Hassan drove slowly and stopped the car but left the engine running. My overnight bag was quickly moved from one trunk to the other; there was a quick handshaking and then Hassan turned his car around for the return trip to Jerusalem. He would not come back to pick me up on Sunday. I would return home by bus with a group of American who were to join me. It was like being in a scene from an old spy movie.

My new driver and his friend warmly welcomed me to Jenin. "We are honored that you should be here! Our house is your house. Always. You are welcome anytime!"

Everything was ready to welcome the group of Americans and one Canadian coming to help with the construction of the kindergarten in Al Aqabah, the little village struggling to come back to life.

The sixty little children had practiced their welcoming song, and the less shy ones were assigned the task of offering individually wrapped flowers for each of the guests. The mayor had ordered lunch delivered to the school from a restaurant in the nearby village of Tubas. (Al Aqabah does not have a restaurant.) Palestinian volunteers were on hand to join in the work. A photographer/videographer was on his way from Jerusalem to record the joyful event.

The morning mist had lifted, and the sunny weather seemed a good omen. Best of all, all was quiet at the army training camp at the foot of the hill. We were full of excitement.

By mid-morning the telephones started to ring, bringing nothing but bad news. Checkpoints were closed. Soldiers were not making any exceptions. "No tourist allowed to enter the territory." Jerusalem was on high alert. Again. The photographer was turned away. Our group traveling on a small bus was turned away. Not willing to give up, local people gave instructions on how to take back roads to avoid established checkpoints. We stared at one another while the tension mounted.

To make matters worse, the cell phones often brought garbled or incomprehensible messages, or one could not get reception.

It was noon by the time the group drove to the checkpoint on the back road only a few miles from the kindergarten. When they were again denied passage, we decided that I would try to intercede in person. After all, I had been successful on Friday. Surely the soldiers would listen to reason.

We drove to the checkpoint, and I walked not overly confident but full of hope toward the soldiers, passport in hand. The bus with the group was parked only a few meters away, on the other side. Only the guide and the group leader were allowed off the bus. We greeted one another, maintaining our distance.

Three soldiers were on duty in the small booth in the middle of the road, one of them in shorts and an army undershirt. He was the only one who spoke both Arabic and English in addition to Hebrew. He was engaged in a drawn-out argument with a young couple with two small children. While he argued with the husband, the young woman and her children were ordered to stand in the noon sun on the side of the road. The soldier would alternatively talk with me and argue with the young Palestinian. We seemed to go around in circles.

Cars and trucks coming from Jenin started lining up. No one paid them any attention. I was asked to move to the side of the road. I was blocking their view, the soldier said. It made me laugh.

After a good hour of waiting I was permitted to walk to the bus to greet the group while my passport rested on a ledge of the army booth. We were waiting for an answer from "a higher officer" I was told. Still confident that reason would prevail, I left the group after a short visit promising to see them "on the other side."

Soldiers came and went, taking time to eat, drink and talk with each other, arguing with the Palestinian and looking through me, pretending I was not there. I waited. I sat on a cement block, removed my socks, wiggled my toes and put my sandals back on. I waited.

The English speaking soldier left but returned after half an hour in full uniform. "Are we making progress?" I asked him. "Progress?" he asked in return. Israeli soldiers are probably the best trained people in the world to go from speaking English like natives to not understanding a single word. I quietly addressed him again, assuring him that we were not on a sight-seeing tour; we were not going to Jenin; we had lunch waiting for us. We would have lunch, visit with the people and come back through the same checkpoint, I promised. The bus could stay where it was. The group could walk across, and we would take them to the site with our van. The soldier grinned as if I had said something funny and shook his head. "Please try to call your superior officer!" I pleaded. "I did. He said no" he replied. "Please try again. Call his superior officer." I insisted. He picked up the phone, and I moved away.

Time ticked by. The young woman and the children were finally invited by a newly arrived soldier to stand in the small shade created by the booth. I waited in the sun.

Time ticked by. Finally I approached the soldier again. "Did you get an answer yet?" "Yes, and the answer is NO." "Then why not tell me?" I said raising my voice. "Why let me wait here for nothing? Why the rudeness?" He shot back, "I don't care if you want to wait here until night. The answer is still no."

At this point I accepted defeat. I asked for my passport, went to collect my overnight bag and hugged my patient friends who had been watching helplessly from a distance. I hid my eyes behind sun glasses and with angry tears running down my face, I crossed the checkpoint one last time, turning my head away from the soldiers. They would NOT see me cry.

The woman and the children were now standing in the sun again. The young man was still arguing with the soldier.

I boarded the bus for the return trip to Jerusalem, devastated by what I considered a personal failure.

Al Aqabah. A village so small even most Palestinians don't know where it is. Nestled in the luscious green hills south of Jenin, it can be reached only by roads partially paved and trecherously full of pot holes. Cars going in both directions zig-zag across the street to try to avoid the larger, deeper holes. It is impossible to avoid them all. Cars coming toward us miss us by inches. I don't even flinch anymore.

At its most prosperous and peaceful time, the population consisted of a little over two hundred and fifty people. Now it is virtually deserted, but struggling to come back to life. The bucolic setting is totally misleading. After the 1967 invasion and occupation, Israel set up army training camps in these lovely hills. The village was sandwiched between two training camps, and life became a nightmare for the villagers.

Soldiers used the few houses to practice night intrusions. Families were made to leave their beds in the middle of the night time and time again while soldiers went through their homes causing havoc. Soldiers went so far as to use the inhabitants for target practice. People started dying in the streets.

A young man in his early twenties was shot in the back and remained paralized. He went on to become the mayor of the village and to conduct his business from a wheel chair. He is a handsome, serene-looking man with smiling but sad eyes.

Terrified people worn out by constant shooting, death and destruction started abandoning their village until only seven families remained. The mayor, enlisting the help of anyone he could reach and was willing to listen, after years of bringing up the matter before the courts, was able to have the two major training camps removed, and families who had moved away started to return to their abandoned homes.

High on a hill, a mosque is slowly growing, and nearby there is a school from which happy voices are heard. And tomorrow a group of Americans will try to come to Al Aqabah to put some finishing touches to a kindergarten that already serves sixty bright-eyed little souls. Palestinian from nearby villages will join them. There are doors to be painted, ceramic tiles to be installed, electric wires to be put in place, and trees to be planted. Israeli peace activists are prevented by Israel from joining hands with their oppressed Palestinian brothers and sisters, but they are present in spirit.

A training camp remains at the foot of a nearby hill. Our work may proceed at the sound of rifle explosions, an ominous reminder that what takes years to build can be destroyed in a matter of minutes.