A peaceful and quiet Friday, as befits this day of rest. But the last thing people need is another day of (imposed) rest, after all the days of curfew since June 24th, broken only by occasional breaks for stocking up and doing urgent business.

The tension starts building up in the afternoon: will they or won't they, tomorrow? Will it be all day, or only 9-2? What about this night curfew that we've been told about? A few tentative calls are made to friends, but no one knows. Maybe the baker, who seems to be the authority in such matters, has received word from "them" that tomorrow morning he may open his bakery ahead of the curfew lifting and prepare for the crowds. But no word has come. Not yet. We check Israel Radio, Arabic service, for a clue. Not a word.

Saturday, 6 July 2002

6:30 a.m. It's not appropriate to call anyone so early. We tune into Israel Radio at 6:30 on the dot, waiting for the news broadcast. Not a word.

7:30 a.m. Another news bulletin, still nothing.

7:45 a.m. Surely it's not too early to call someone and find out? We call our neighborhood minimarket owner at his home. He is already out of the house, on his way to open his store. Hurrah, they will lift the curfew today! But in keeping with his cautious approach, my husband decides to call the baker to confirm, and to ask the two million shekel question: til when? The baker confirms the lifting of the curfew, but mumbles something vague about 2:00 p.m., but perhaps even later, either 4:00 or 8:00.

Our spirits soar. Now is the time for my son to reconfirm his arrangements with his friends (made last night, just in case they lift the curfew the next day) to go swimming as soon as the curfew is lifted today. Telephone calls are made, and they all agree to meet at the pool at 10. My son gets out his bathing trunks and towel, all ready to go. But we can't call the swimming pool yet; it's too early. What if the lifeguard can't get there? We brush aside such fears.

8:00 a.m. I finally give in and call the pool. Yes, they will be open. The two million shekel question, asked nonchalantly. Until the curfew is reimposed, comes the answer. Noncommittal.

8:10 a.m. Maybe al-Jazira TV from Qatar in the Gulf has some solid news about what's going on here in our backyard. Correspondent Walid al-Omari is reporting live from downtown Ramallah, with clouds of smoke and booming explosions right behind him. The army is shooting and lobbing tear gas and sound bombs to get people off the streets. How dare they come out before the appointed time (but no one said when it was; a force of habit, perhaps, after the first few times when the curfew was lifted at 9:00 a.m.)?

8:15 a.m. Call to my son's friend's mother, who is just going out the door to see about opening up her pharmacy in town. Don't go; there's shooting!

Hopes begin to fade about the swimming expedition.

9:00 a.m. The IDF comes through; people are allowed on the streets. The guessing game now begins in earnest: til when?

10:00 a.m. We're at the pool at ten sharp, along with a crowd of kids with an equally brilliant idea to spend the 32-degree centigrade day in the water. The question is posed again, without an answer. But the fact that they will charge only half the entrance fee is not a good omen.

After buying some vegetables, I go back home, ready to work. After all, I have until 2:00, maybe even later.

11:00 a.m. My friend the pharmacist calls; her drug salesman tells her that "they" informed some people last night that today the curfew would be lifted from 9-8. Incredible! Will the pool charge extra when we go to pick up the kids at five, as we agree to do?

11:30: Nagging doubts linger. One more call to the minimarket man; he says at 2:00, of course. Who said 8:00?

12:00 Another one of the friends' mother calls. Til 2:00 only, that's final. I'm back to the first mother: only til 2:00, regardless of what your salesman said. My source is in the know. She starts trying to locate her husband to tell him to get her son at 1:45 from the pool

12:20 My husband, in a meeting, calls to say that the army has begun shooing people away from downtown, but he's not sure; be at the ready, in case you have to rush and get our son.

12:35 Traffic jam on our normally quiet street. Cars racing down, away from town. Something is up.

12:40: Call to my pharmacist, who is strategically situated in town. Yes, there's something going on, too much traffic all of a sudden. Keep in touch.

12:43 Second mother calls. She's examining a patient and can't leave now. Could I take her kids with me and drop them off at the house if I need to leave now?

12:50 Confirmed. No questions left for today. Now let's rush to the pool.

13:04 A line of wet kids sit at the sidewalk outside the pool, waiting for parents. By now the Palestinian mobile phone network is completely jammed, and no one can be reached. Where are the parents?

13:06 I load my son and three other children into the car, but decide we can't leave until the father of one of them shows up.

13:10 No sign of the father. Network busy. We wait. Two APC's with two helmeted heads poking out come our way, and the kids freeze. The 11-year-old says, "I don't want to die." "What a silly idea, they're not going to shoot," I say. The helmeted heads yell and motion to us to get moving, and mercifully go away.

13: 15 The physician mother appears from nowhere, and whisks the kids away, including the boy who is not her son; they will have to find a way to get him home, later. Network still busy.

13:25 We arrive home. Telephone calls to everyone to make sure they all got home safely. The lost father did arrive and did get his son, almost causing an accident in the rush.

2:00 The mobile phone network is restored. Everyone is back inside. Quiet reigns once again.

18:00 A new round of inquiries begins about tomorrow. Will they? Won't they? For how long?

18:45 We thought we were finished for the day. Now there is a lot of commotion in the neighborhood. Soldiers are in and out of the nearby annex to the police headquarters (the part that was not bombed by the F-16 last summer). People in the apartment building next to the police annex are told to leave and stay away, and everyone is told to open their windows (how courteous and considerate).

19:03 It's over. A cloud of dust, and a gaping hole in the fourth floor of the police annex. Now the job, left over from last summer, is done. We can relax.