"We'll take you there, but first you must wash up, relax and drink something," said a man by the name of Nasr, who asked his wife to take care of me as he prepared a car to take me to my destination. My phone that had been broken by the soldiers was fixed by one of the young men, and I was not permitted to leave Nasr's home without supper, a cup of sweet tea and coffee. A room was even prepared for me to sleep and I really had to press that I needed to get back to the Red Crescent Society. Nasr's son, neices and nephews seemed excited to see me as they were running around, staring at me and whispering to each other.

"They don't get to do much," told me Nasr's wife, Wafa'a. It's been two weeks since they've even been to school, with this curfew. They say you're beautiful." I smiled at them and wished my camera wasn't broken so I could take their picture, so I could show the world the faces of those terrorized by the occupation; those that are denied their education and their childhood, and were excited by a dirty-roughed up looking woman that happened to stumble into their home this evening; the sweet faces of the family that didn't ask my name before they invited me into their home and were about to risk their safety to drive me to my destination during a military curfew, rather than allow me to walk; the people that have tanks parked only a few hundred meters from their home, had 8 members of their family killed by the Israeli occupation forces, whose bedrooms were full of bullet holes, and yet smiled and said, "insha'Allah things will get better some day." Nasr's son, Mohammad, 4-years old, when he heard the rumbling tanks said "tsk, go back to your own homes you soldiers."

Huwaida
Thursday, October 31, 2002