(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.

My dear friends,

You have no idea how happy I was when I found out I could write you a letter. Ireland is still carved in my heart because it brought back most of the peacefulness I lost living in my war-torn homeland.

War-torn homeland is a somewhat sad expression. Why do we cling to this country where peace is sliding away and pain is invading our thoughts and piercing our hearts?

I pondered this thought in my head as I walked across the streets of Ramallah. Ramallah is my city, thrown on the edge of the horizon, where people sing when the occupation persists. Ramallah is my own familiar place in the West Bank, in Palestine.

As we grow older we become immune to the petty things in life and we chain ourselves to a daily routine. Living in Palestine forbids us from surrendering to an everyday existence that seems to repeat itself. We are thrown into a plan-less existence that reforms who we are as we live our life from day to day. This is a characteristic that the occupation has forced us to “gain”.

I decided to start my letter to you on a positive note, or maybe I did not know what else to say, since all this darkness and sadness around me is exhausting. I consider myself lucky compared to Palestinians in Gaza. Today the count of Palestinian victims reached 120; lives that were stolen by the Israeli army’s heavy weaponry. The lives of 120 artists, writers, students, children, mothers, engineers, doctors and fighters were extinguished. They were 120 persons whom we might have loved knowing, simply wiped out off the face of this world. The thousands of Palestinian victims are not just cold numbers; they are people just like you and me. Death harasses my very being and I am scared to become the next faceless victim.

Sometimes my friends, I wonder about a distant future, about things that might matter to me. Will I care anymore about my college degree or shape? Will I still care to count the books I read and listen to the songs I loved? Will I be able to busy myself with planning my life or simply doing something ordinary, like sitting on my front porch? Or, will I still be waiting endlessly at checkpoints, writing down the names of victims in an attempt to invoke their memory? I also wonder whether I will still be demonstrating against the Apartheid Wall that is yet to steal more lands and strength.

As I continued to walk home, tears streamed down my face at these thoughts and at recalling the tens of young people killed in downtown Ramallah by Israeli tank shells when their forces reoccupied it two years ago. I remember as I cross towards my old house, the Israeli soldiers that invaded it, holding me and my family at gunpoint and going through my books, CDs and pictures, by that disrupting any of my previously peaceful memories. Across the street from my house, I saw al-Khalil al-Sakakini cultural center where my little brother had his first piano recital and with it, came a sense of pride in him that replaced all our silly quarrels. A few meters down the road stands my school, where I read the graduation speech and made my mother proud.

How could I be anywhere else but home? This small universe has contained my laughter, dreams and indescribable fear and has shaped who I am today. Ramallah has defeated one of the strongest armies in the world just by the very act of holding firm and never giving up in the face of a force that wants to break our spirit and deny our existence. We will probably continue to suffer for a long time and your grandchildren will probably find us here 50 years from now still rooted in this soil, still waiting for a better future.

Writing to you is as comfortable as walking through my memories. I can visualize your loving faces from across the world, listening sympathetically to my story. Your support helped me then, as it does now, to overcome my anxieties about living under occupation. Tonight recalling your sympathy washes the occupation’s inhumanity off my face.

I was half awake when my alarm clock went off, it was 3:00am already, my bag was crammed with books and papers, I did not have the strength to pull myself together and close it, in my head I could picture the long journey along Allenby Bridge, personally my worst nightmare.

I walked silently to the door, dragging my bag and picturing the moment when I would arrive in Ireland, which seemed so far away when I remembered the route I had to go through, from Ramallah to Jericho, Jericho to Amman, then from Amman’s airport to Dublin.

When I got in the taxi I could see the faces of people covered with sleeplessness and exhaustion yet to come, yawning took over the scene and I was lost between the desire to close my eyes and drift to a more comforting place and the obligation to stay awake and carry on pointless conversations about the weather and the situation on the Jeser (bridge in Arabic), people trying desperately to be optimistic and skip that agonizing journey, at least in their heads.

We drove through the wrecked roads and as the morning approached, the colors of dawn seemed to steal the darkness of the night as we went further on.

When we arrived in Jericho, it was already 6 am.

I could see the sea of people miles away from their actual destination, carrying cards with numbers issued by the Israelis, which by the time I arrived already seemed countless.

After waiting in the bus and then in line on the Israeli side of this short but never-ending bridge for a time that seemed like eternity, we reached the Jordan valley, and for me then everything seemed different, the color of the sky, the smell of the hot summer air and the brown scenery.

My flight to Dublin was drawing soon; I tried to imagine what it must look like, the green hills and Saint Patrick’s Day, the cloudiness and the mellow sunshine, vague images constantly crossed my mind but when the plane landed, it was nothing like the picture in my mind.

I could see the reflection of Dublin’s beautiful houses and mountains in the clouds, and as I reached the registration desk, a kind gentleman asked me where I was from. When I said Palestine, he smiled, and for the first time in a long time someone did not correct me or look at me strangely, he recognized Palestine and yet smiled!

I felt welcomed, even before stepping into the roads of Dublin, the warmth of the people seemed to steal the unusual coldness of the weather, at least for me since I was used to Ramallah’s hot Julys.

Glencree, peace at the edge of the world

Glencree center for peace and reconciliation, 12 miles away from Dublin city center was my next stop, an astounding facility built in the middle of nowhere.

This thirty-year-old Peace Centre was originally built as a British army barracks. Its purpose was to capture local Irish rebels who were fighting during the United Irishman’s Rebellion of 1798 (Civilian Uprising against the British Occupation). In September 1974 it was re-established as a renowned Peace and Reconciliation organisation.

The location was extraordinary, it startled me, the silence of Wicklow’s mountains was so peaceful, for the first time in four years silence felt comforting and not soon to be shattered by Israeli bombs.

Six delegations arrived that day to participate in Glencree’s international youth exchange program, a nine day program meant to introduce young people to different conflicts.

Our first activity as participants was to prepare a presentation about our country’s conflict, tell our side of the story to allow people from other parts of the world into our own struggle as ordinary people.

We-the Palestinian delegation- decided to tell four different stories, about checkpoints, the Annexation Wall, the April 2002 incursion into Ramallah, and a comparison between the current and the past intifada.

I wanted to say so much but was overwhelmed with the short time we had, and was striving to deliver my side of the issue in a manner in which everyone sitting in that small conference room would be able to relate to.

When my turn came, my heart was beating so fast and I was scared I would stumble on my own words, but as I started telling my story, about my experience during the invasion of Ramallah, a little peace and confidence crept into my senses, and I could hear people breathing heavily behind my voice.

Memories came back to me and I could see clearly in my head the events of the day Israeli soldiers came into my home, their green soiled boots, their rugged voices and their vicious guns, and in five minutes I was back into that black day.

As I finished telling my story, I looked around and saw tears on sad faces, I could feel despair in people’s claps, and I hated myself for a moment.

I realized in that second that I was suffering everyday, that my life makes other people cry and feel helpless, and at that exact moment I woke up from all my peaceful illusions and my daily prophesies about a better future.

Our session seemed to prolong for ages, seeing people’s faces broke my heart, their confusion about this inhumane occupation raised my attention to something I am getting used to, the incomprehensible inhumanity of the Israeli occupation.

They asked us all sorts of questions, from the history of the conflict to whether we would ever be able to forgive this enemy. I began to ask myself whether I would, and the lack of a clear answer suffocated me, I could not forgive or reconcile, with the occupation or myself, not at that moment when the feelings of fear from that specific day haunted me.

When you are living inside the conflict, you try your best to live each day separately, you try to leave the mountain of pain on another side of your soul and wake up every morning with a clean slate, again, you try but it never really works.

When the cold night fell on Glencree that day, I was exhausted, breathless and numb, I saw myself growing older by day, the wondering eyes of people as I passed, wanting to do something to console me, not knowing whether they should smile or laugh or simply hug me to retrieve that glow in my dark eyes.

After a restless sleep, little Irish sunrays tickled my face and I was ready to move on.

Belfast: my West Jerusalem

To give us a better understanding of the conflict in Northern Ireland, we packed our bags the next day for a three day trip to Belfast, Bellycastle and Derry or London Derry.

The trip was very long; the deserted green roads seemed to stretch endlessly, then all of a sudden, we stopped at a semi border and were given 10 minutes to “exchange” our euros, then it hit me! We were in a different country, counting British pounds and buying The Times.

The whole idea was not alien to me but I was looking at the scenery and dozing off, the only difference as we crossed the border was the straight, less bumpy roads.

We arrived in Belfast shortly thereafter. The weather was darkening, and as a result, our only option was a bus tour through the streets and neighborhoods of Belfast.

River Lagan is not the only barrier cutting through the capital of Northern Ireland, there is a deeper wound slicing Belfast in two halves, the divide between the Catholic and Protestant neighborhoods.

Belfast seemed like it was built differently on each side of the so called “peace” wall. I wondered about the naming since on each side of the wall was hatred for the opponent, and so much tension and hostility.

When we entered the Catholic streets, you could see colorful Irish flags covering the place, busy streets and people. Driving further, we saw huge Palestinian flags drawn on the wall, I started jumping around the bus to get a closer look on a liberation sign for my war-torn country and nation, stamped on the walls of a European city thousands of miles away, and I celebrated some freedom with myself.

Five minutes later, we entered a deserted Protestant neighborhood, the first thing that caught my eye was a huge mural that said “prepared for peace but ready for war,” it took me a decent amount of time to digest the words and realize that they did not make sense. What puzzled me more was the complete change of view, that area was so cold and empty and just that second it hit me.

A few days before my trip I had gone to Jerusalem for the first time in four years, although because I have a West Bank ID, Israel does not allow me to enter my own capital.

I had begun my “illegal” trip by walking down the streets of the Old City which were alive, busy and colorful, and then I had gone for a drive in West Jerusalem. Just as I entered that area, my heart froze and nothing felt the same, the streets, the people and the spirit of Jerusalem were completely different, and being in the Protestant area in Belfast at that moment felt exactly the same. I dreaded being there, I was afraid of my own reaction, I did not want to hate Belfast like I hated West Jerusalem, but it was too late.

I wanted to crawl out of that city as fast as possible; I felt the British and Israeli flags covering that area blindfolding me, but then the voice of the tour guide saved me.

He was talking about the hostility mounting in the city daily; he pointed at windows of Catholic neighborhoods, more precisely, the lack of windows, since Protestant stones invaded their peace and shattered hundreds of beautiful houses on both sides of the road.

There was tension all over the place, you could feel it from your bus seat, all the hatred stole the scents of Belfast, and left it haunted by ghosts and long endless winters.

I was strangely relived when we crossed the Belfast border into oblivion again, on our way to Ballycastle (in Co. Antrim), a beautiful northern coastal town which was our next destination.

Derry: lost in the middle

Packed and ready again we drove on to Derry; the unique thing about it is that it has two names, Derry for Catholics and London Derry for Protestants, two names for one small town.

Our first activity was an open-top bus tour. The tour guide was from Derry and he knew the city’s history by heart, I could feel his love for this separated city and the passion he was trying to transmit to us, despite the sudden rain that soaked and partially blinded us as we started driving.

Just as I was drifting away with my thoughts through the rain drops, I was faced with a big mural that said FREE DERRY; looking closely I saw murals of Bloody Sunday.

On January 30, 1972, British soldiers opened fire on an unarmed peaceful demonstration killing 13 people and injuring a number of others, the march was considered “illegal” by the British authorities. That event left a deep wound in Derry’s people that refuses to heal.

Free Derry was one of the first areas that were “freed” by Irish republicans, the walls and buildings were bursting with colors and pictures portraying that single sad day that carried freedom on its tail.

When we returned that evening to our hostel, the owner asked us where we were from; when I said Palestine he smiled, and again I felt very welcome just from the name of my country, something that rarely happens in the world.

We sat down for some coffee and the man turned out to be a full bred pro-Palestinian and so was his wife; and when they asked us about life back home, about how the world perceives us, I felt like I was a queen of some fairytale country.

Waking up to morning in Derry was just as spectacular, light drops of rain were falling from the cloudy sky, and it looked and felt like Ramallah’s intimate winter.

After having a delicious Irish breakfast, we got ready for our walking tour, on Derry’s wall and around free Derry.

Despite the rain, we could sense the separation between the two neighborhoods, the wall was like a knife that harmed anyone who would get close, and the grayness of the weather added a rather depressing touch to the empty pathway.

The scenery changed as we arrived to Free Derry, the murals looked so real up close, one could see and feel Bloody Sunday in front of their eyes, the enthusiasm, injustice, anger, cheering, shooting, chaos, blood, disbelief and lots of sadness.

Reading the names of the thirteen innocent victims made me wish we had a huge mural in Ramallah carrying the names of the thousands of innocent Palestinian victims, maybe this way when peace finally comes people will still be able to stand next to it everyday and say a little prayer, but then again, will there ever be peace or a mural big enough?

Back to Glencree: deeper understanding, common ground

Participants were exhausted with the amount of ideas they had to bear with after our trip to the North, seeing Belfast and Derry allowed us to form concrete ideas about the deep complex conflict in Ireland, but again, seeing is believing.

The road back to Glencree felt more familiar, I could recognize the change of colors as we passed by the pastures, but as we arrived to the main road leading to it, we could see clearly the narrow military road, Glencree’s barracks were the only survivor in that former-war zone.

Entering the main door felt different that day, we were accustomed to everything now, our bedrooms, the food, the conversations and mostly each other.

After a week I got to see the people behind the different faces and names, they were amazing, aware, hungry for more knowledge, and triggered by our testimonies to make an actual change in their understanding of our conflict.

I got to thinking about their impressions and how they could help. Being with people who made the effort to get as close as possible to the core of the issue helped me understand their immeasurably positive impact on our cause. Each individual, whether from Warrington, England or the Basque country could help spread the word.

Our final days were focused on brain storming and discussion sessions, our final art project and a trip to Dublin.

Since we reached Glencree late in the afternoon we had one short session, where several questions were addressed, mainly about our impressions at that point, and what we are to bring back to our countries after this rich trip.

Amid the discussion, several people inquired about the lack of reconciliation and peace centers in the West Bank and Gaza, mainly for children. I couldn’t agree more with the great need for such projects, but I was also wondering, what would a little kid think if he went to a center and learned about the equality of humans and love and peace, only to be forced to return home through a checkpoint manned by gun wielding soldiers, only to be woken up later that night to the sound of Israeli guns shooting at his kin? Would he remember any peace songs at that moment?

Later on they asked each individual about what they would take back with them home, and in a rather gloomy manner I answered that I would take back hopelessness. I could see people lift their heads up in surprise, and I went on to explain that if the Protestants and Catholics who believe in the same Christianity cannot find peace, what is our destiny, two nations entirely different in beliefs and power?

I felt guilty afterwards, because even though I did not believe that any peace is viable in the near future, these people have provided me with enormous strength to speak, write and stand up for years to come, each one of them gave me a priceless portion of courage and respect for my nation and self.

Dublin: beautiful Ireland

I was longing to see Dublin, and I couldn’t have been more right, it was beautiful, the Irish accent roaming the streets, Irish music flowing from the stores and pubs, I loved being in Ireland at that moment, I loved the streets, the colors of the sky and most of all the people.

We walked around the streets then had coffee and cakes, Dublin reflected a beautiful face of Ireland and Europe.

At about 7 pm we headed to the theatre, we went to see a play called “A Night in November” by the Irish playwright Marie Jones, performed by John Dunleavy.

The play is a one-man show, where Kenneth Norman McAllister, a Protestant middle-aged bureaucrat, who is trapped in a loveless marriage and a boring job, wakes up.

A night in November takes place when McAllister takes his hateful father in law to a football game between the Irish Republic and Northern Ireland, and is repulsed by the hostile behavior of the Protestant fans. At that moment the obvious truth hits McAllister between the eyes and pushes him into a different world.

Dunleavy’s face embodied every bit of emotion perfectly; I could feel my face wrinkle as he spoke and moved around that small stage, McAllister was changing right before my eyes, I was a witness to this unique transformation.

McAllister was alone, he was heading towards justice by himself, thousands of thoughts could have thrown him back into his peaceful narrow existence, but the light was too bright, there was no way back to blindness.

Kenneth started befriending his Catholic boss at work, and through him he saw the life he always wanted, the simple life that contained some love, empty of pretentiousness and coldness.

I saw myself and family in the Catholic boss, their house, their garden and the little details of the life they loved to leave reminded me of home, the flowers my mother leaves on the kitchen table every morning and the smile she has on even amidst the darkest days of invasion, she has hope.

I always say this is one of the very few virtues of being in an area torn by conflict; you concentrate on the little pretty details of life and become more human in order to survive the inhumanity that rapes you.

Later on, McAllister takes a huge leap towards “them” and decides to go to New York with hundreds of football fans to watch the match between the Irish Republic and Italy in the 1994 World Cup.

His challenge wasn’t leaving his old chauvinistic neighborhood to the airport, but leaving his old self behind and dressing in a green soccer jersey to support his Irish team, he was ecstatic, I saw a different face for the same actor, he displayed his emotions nakedly, and even I felt Irish for a moment.

He was welcomed by all the Irish people, he was one of them, they offered him rides and homes to stay in, for the first time in his life he felt like he belonged to a country, to a color and one crazy cheering crowd, he couldn’t have been more proud.

The similarities between the imaginary crowd and my people back home were staggering. Our unity, our homes and our suffering are, the same despite the vast differences between the two conflicts; we are all humans therefore our reactions are the same.

I left the theatre feeling differently about everything, it was like a leap of faith had just hit me in the face, we are not alone, never, we are surrounded by people who feel the same way we do, while I was scared in my house when Israeli tanks drew near, someone in Derry was scared of a British soldier who jumped out of his bushes in the back yard, while I was walking down the streets of Ramallah after one vicious bombing happy to be alive, someone in Belfast was celebrating surviving yet another attack.

Even though we all become so swallowed in our own conflicts, there is always this moment when we become one with humans elsewhere suffering as well, and it feels so powerful, it opens up a new window for us to breathe after a long suffocation.

We walked to our bus that night, and I could feel myself skipping through the streets of Dublin.

The final art project: flying back to childhood

To leave a lasting mark in Glencree, we had to finalize our exchange with a joint flag, so we woke up next morning prepared to launch ideas and draw a huge flag.

Before doing that, we were asked to write what stops us from using colors and drawing everyday on a piece of paper, it got me thinking about why I don’t own crayons or a coloring board, but failed to find an answer.

It’s not because I always have a million things to do, it’s not because I am busy or because I am preoccupied with this restless occupation, it is because I am growing up, I left behind childhood in a hurry and leaped prematurely into adulthood, although I promised myself not to do so. I always told myself I’m going to keep this little crazy child inside, and never give up on her, I just needed a reminder.

We had to draw our own little painting then take various ideas and put them on the big white board that was about to be invaded with colors.

We became kids, and it was such a relief. I drew a sun, rainbows and things I have forgotten existed inside me, and it was truly therapeutic.

Finally, we decided to draw darkness at the corners of our flag, representing our worries and sorrow, and then a sun bursting out of it, representing hope.

When I saw people’s different paintings I realized we all have fear and darkness inside, no matter where we lived or what we did, we all have our ghosts and demons, and we all were brave enough to confront them.

The flag was flowing with light, we all looked at each other proudly, I was 13 again, and wished I could be stuck there forever.

There was another colorful world waiting for us behind all our internal and external conflicts, a world that we could run to, any moment of the day.

The only way out is through

It was time to go home, that whole experience was over, I went that night to our meeting room to collect some papers, and as I was closing the door behind me I could hear our voices from the previous night, their faces weren’t leaving my head, I became accustomed to their laughs, words, solidarity and support, it was all so hard to leave behind.

I loved being a Palestinian that week, although it was hard to talk and remember my traumas all the time, I felt people’s hunger to understand and be part of our cause, not because they were pro-Palestinian or because we fed them with thoughts, but because our cause is a just cause and it would trigger any human being to rebel and seek freedom.

I had bits of ever person, event, city and county preserved in me. Sitting in the bus on the bridge waiting for endless hours wasn’t as exhaustive as it used to be. I closed my eyes and saw every detail of this trip clearly. My soul was still right there in Glencree, enjoying the wintry breeze.

Now I look at things from a different perspective. Just this morning I was stuck for an hour at the Qalandia checkpoint, but I knew there were people all around the world talking compassionately about me and thousands like me, as familiar faces belonging to an oppressed nation, refusing to stand still or die in ruins.

Those people with different colors and nationalities refused to be silenced or brainwashed, they opened their hearts and eyes to the truth and chose to go through that hard path in order to find peace.

I appreciate and will always remember each and every one of them. I think now is the time we go to the people, for they will help us find salvation. If you were in my place you would feel their energy, they gave me so much strength to go back home and write everyday in order to make a difference in their nations and mine.

The only sad part is the amount of hate and conflict still darkening our world; it is scary to try to imagine what might happen if we do not find peace soon, destruction is slowly eating up our planet; we have to take a stronger stand, sometime soon.

Ireland will always be in my memory and thoughts; it left a remarkable impact on my life and it will always feel a little bit like home. .

On July 13, Israeli cartographers started redrawing the route of the West Bank planned Wall to reduce “hardship for Palestinian residents,” after an Israeli court ruling, Israeli officials said.

Later this week, cartographers will present three different routes to the Israeli Defense Ministry for approval; the routes are expected to be closer to Israel than originally planned. The Wall in the West Bank is to run for 425 miles, one-fourth of which has already been built. The changes will be made mainly in the section still in the planning stages.

Israeli officials confirmed that the following changes are based on the “criteria” set by Israel’s Supreme Court in a ruling that was issued last month. The International Court of Justice (ICJ) ruling that the construction of the Wall on occupied territory is illegal has had no influence on the Israeli ruling.

According to Israeli officials, the old plan was based purely on security grounds, whereas the new one is to balance between Israeli security needs and Palestinian rights.

The biggest route changes are to be implemented in the northern West Bank, mainly in the city of Qalqiliya, in addition to Jerusalem.

These upcoming changes seem insignificant in comparison to the overall devastating impact of the built Wall which traps over 13,300 Palestinians living in 18 towns and villages, confiscates around 8,000 Acers of land and locks at least 50 Water wells which supply half of these isolated towns with water.

Qalqiliya, located in the northern West Bank, is completely walled in by the Separation Wall and a second barrier wall, effectively ghettoizing 86,000 Palestinians.

Of Qalqiliya’s 15,000 dunums of agricultural land, over 7,000 were confiscated or rendered inaccessible by the Wall, as well as 15 major water wells. A third of the city’s 1,800 businesses were closed due to the economical siege, which resulted in vast unemployment.

Furthermore, over 60% of Qalqiliya’s farmers are access to their lands isolated by the Wall, and the population in general is cut off from neighboring villages as the “gates” into and out of the city are opened only three times a day for brief periods.

Jayyous, a farming town located near Qalqiliya, with a population of 3,100 Palestinians, is yet another victim of this vicious Wall. The town was stripped of some 9,000 dunums of agricultural land, in addition to having its seven water wells confiscated, depriving over 550 families from their sole means of livelihood.

Zayta, located near the Green Line and a home to 3,000 Palestinians, endured the loss of over 875 dunums of agricultural land, 442 dunums of which were confiscated by Israel’s so called “border correction,” again depriving some 500 residents of their means of livelihood.

These numbers, grave as they are, cannot show the families that lie behind each acre of land, demolished house, and uprooted tree but they do highlight a history of deprivation and agony, disregard of basic human rights and neglect by the international community.

By the end of each day, thousands of Palestinians overlook Israeli bulldozers wiping their lands and businesses out of existence and demolishing years of work and aspirations.

The erection of the separation wall, not only in its current path, but in itself goes against any sort of cohabitation as it destroys any chance for coexistence or any future settlement.

Despite Israel’s undeterred continuation with its devastating separation wall, Palestinians make the daily choice of staying on the remnants of their lands, striving to earn their livelihoods and fight this injustice with all their strength.