the wind, the yellow lights, the fear, the wind, the wind.

It's been the biggest gap between entries so far, and for this i apologise, faithful subscribers. Know, however, that this lapse is not really due to any lack of internet facilities here in Palestine, nor to their lack of speed and such, but is rather due to my lack of proximity to any such services throughout the last week. The first part of the week has looked like this:

On Sunday and Monday ten of us were trained by International Solidarity Movement in a hotel in the suburbs of Ramallah. The hotel had a empty swimming pool, hideous cable porn and a lot of loud construction nearby. We were the only ones in the hotel. Sessions included: Identifying and dealing with weapons used by the Israeli Occupation Forces; legal matters (what to do when you are arrested, interegated etc); how to deal with media; all stuff like this. At night we played dominoes and watched Dragnet, which is the best movie Tom Hanks has ever been, or will ever be involved with (although Turner and Hooch comes close, of course).

So, then, another night in Jerusalem, and three of us headed to Hebron, then beyond to this small town called Yata, then beyond that, to this village called Carmel, then beyond that to this little place called Qawawis, which consists of ten people, four houses, a bread oven made of rocks, a couple of wells, some caves and a bunch of sheep and goats. And we stayed in this place for three days and three nights.
Qawawis is a village very close to a settler road, a lovely smooth line of asphalt cutting through the rust and olive coloured hills of the West Bank. Access to the road is forbidden for Palestinians, as it links illegal Israeli settlements, who are mostly filled with some of the most hardass crazy fuckers you're ever gonna meet. The village is surrounded by five of these such settlements, and for months the families there have been subjected to violence and harrassment on behalf of both the settlers and the Israeli army. A bomb was found packed in a stone wall around the village, settlers come at night with guns and sticks, the army comes during the winter and fills in the caves where the families have lived for countless years. You know, this sort of messed up stuff. And then the villagers got to a point when they were so scared for their lives that they asked ISM to provide a constant presence in their tiny community - otherwise they would be forced to leave.

So we stayed there three nights, getting up at sunrise to watch the old shepherds as they watched their sheep, and watching the road for passing trucks and jeeps and settler cars, flying orange anti-disengagement ribbons turned brown and frayed. We watched the approaching rainclouds and installed a door on the stone hut belonging to ISM and saw leaping gazelles and frilly lizards, and strolled among the olive plantations. We recharged our phones by the two hours of nightly electricity and fetched water from the rock wells and hissed at the sheep and played dominoes by the candlelight, under thick scratchy blankets. The people there were lovely and gave us wonderful food, and we played with the children, on those beautiful exposed hills.

After three days we headed for Nablus, which is where I am now, picking olives and staying in Balata refugee camp. I have much more to write but unfortunately it is 9pm, which is our curfew at the camp, so we must retreat and I must return in the coming days, hopefully in a faster net cafe in Jerusalem, to tell you everything everything else.

But know this people: this situation here, is entirely insane and heartbreakingly sad.

Peace to you all.