I went out of my house today, for the first time in four days. The Israelis allowed us to buy food but we can only be on the streets for two hours.

The city is destroyed. Cars on the side of the road crushed flat like pizza. Tanks rolled over them. Trees lay broken and dead, shops destroyed, streets dug out, buildings burning and yet the snipers are still on the rooftops looking for prey.

I wave a victory sign to all Palestinians walking down the streets of Ramallah. They smile back with a victory sign. A foreign refugee-AID volunteer asks me to honk my horn to prove we are alive. Beeb Beeb Beeb. All the cars are now honking the horns. The Israeli soldiers are watching and wondering what is going on here? They thought they killed us all, but we're still alive.

I wave a victory sign to a carefully hidden sniper carrying an M16, then I give him the finger, he aims to shoot at my car, but, for some odd reason, he doesn't. I smile at him and speed away.

Two doctors are walking dressed for an operation, I offer a lift, and they step in my car. They both smile. No words are said, just an exchange of warm smiles. We're alive. We will not die. I know where the doctors want to go, they are looking for a supermarket. I drop them in front of a small store, but only peanuts are available. They buy five kilos. Five kilos of peanuts. They offer me some, I share their feast. The meal is most delicious. I've never tasted anything so satisfying. Peanuts.

It starts to rain. It pours. The snipers are still watching, the sounds of the horns are louder than the echo of the rain. The tanks are still there, waiting like wolves for victims.

The streets are full of life, not death. We did not die. We will not die. Life is good.

Still under siege. We remain in high spirits.

We were not allowed out of the houses again today. The Israeli army

declared Ramallah a war zone. Funny, I thought this was a vacation of some

sort. I am glad the Israelis clarified the situation. All these dead

bodies, all this destruction needed an explanation. We finally got one from

our benevolent captors. A war zone.

I called my friends in Egypt and around the world, I called my Jewish

friends too. Both are in shock. I asked my cousins, the Jewish friends,

"are you better off today than you where before Sharon?" I got no direct

answer, albeit, I got some anti-terrorism sentiments and "we must defend our

civilians" comments. I hear every word over the phone clearly despite of

the sounds of the Israeli guns shooting at, oh yes, civilians.

Limited water supply. No bread, electricity is on and off (pun is

intended) and the Israeli army is moving from one house to the next looking

for terrorists. God, with three million Palestinian-terrorists still alive,

the job is difficult to conclude. Two of my terrorist neighbors (one is

three years old the other is the CFO of Palestine's first mobile network)

are gingerly looking outside through their window. A father and his

daughter, two terrorists, in turmoil. The mother (she is a pregnant

terrorist) is asking them to move away from the window. The father, always

upbeat, calls me and invites me to his house for lunch. Just think of this

reckless invitation. He is willing to share his food and water with his

neighbor. Reckless, yet inspiring. I decline, and I offer to come for tea

instead. He insists. I decline again.

Inside our complex, two workers (blue-collar terrorists) are going about

their business...fixing the generator, checking on the water level in the

tanks, looking for more electricity outlets for emergencies and preparing

other terrorist activities. A knock at my door. I answer. He stands there

with a smile that makes me jealous. He has just changed the flat tire in my

car and he is offering me two tangerines and an avocado. I decline. I am

tired of declining those tempting offers. He insists. I accept. The

avocado looks delicious.

He is from Gaza (another terrorist haven). He insists that the Israelis

have planned this entire raid just to come and take him back to Gaza. I try

to convince him that he is safe and will remain here working in the complex.

He looks at me in shock. How can I miss the fact that he is being pursued?

"We're all pursued, my friend." I say with pride. He disagrees. A tank

hovers by, he rests his case. "I told you they are coming to get me," he

says with a smile. I am jealous again of that smile. How does he do it? I

try to smile back. I fail. I try again and again. Failure. His name is

Mohamed and he is a heavy smoker. I give him a pack of cigarettes. He

smiles. Enough already. He walks away, holding the cigarettes with both

hands. A valued gift that he will honor for the next twenty four hours.

The TV is showing a man next to his dead mother and dead brother. Forty

eight hours he's spent next to his dead mother, his dead brother. The

Israelis denied him an ambulance. A terrorist he will become. Can anyone

blame him?

A message on my mobile phone. More bad news, nine towers are down. What

do I do? I feel useless. All my training, all my experience, all the

management techniques I know by heart are deemed useless. I was not

prepared for this situation. I failed to realize or to plan for this

eventuality. I am devastated. At this low point of the day I get a call

from Khan Younis, Umm Basma, a subscriber I met in Gaza a few months back.

She is checking on me. Umm Basma offers to help in any way. She offers to

buy me refill cards to charge my phone remotely. The offer is so innocent,

so inspirational. The CEO of a mobile company is being offered refill cards

from his subscriber, free of charge, just to help him in this difficult

time. My lips are wet, it's my tears touching my mouth, comforting my soul.

Suddenly, I am somebody again.

April, 05, 2002

We were out today for the second time in nine days. Two hours allowed to

get food, drink and other necessary under siege goods. I drive my car to

the nearest supermarket. Nothing. Only honey and corn flakes (no milk). I

drive to the city center searching for more food variety. The first thing I

notice is the asphalt on the streets. I realize for the first time why the

Israeli army includes tractors and drilling machines in their arsenal. The

asphalt is all uprooted and destroyed. Another anti terrorist technique.

But the streets are in good shape compared to the sidewalks. The glass from

the windows is on the sidewalks. The glass from the stores and shops is

scattered all over. Trees are destroyed (technically killed). The buildings

are all black from the smoke, all burnt from the fire. The walls are more

holes than walls. The bullet holes are a little bigger than I imagined them

to be, a little deeper than I hoped they'd be. Every floor, every window,

every door, is riddled with bullets. They are a signature of Israel's

struggle for peace.

I see people in balconies looking cautiously. Shopkeepers are opening their

stores just to make believe that business is as usual.

The Israeli army is on every street corner next to their tanks and armored

vehicles. They seem surprised. You see, people are not crying and

pleading. Palestinians are congratulating each other for just staying

alive. Everyone is smiling and everyone is avidly telling his/her story to

anyone they see on the streets.

Ramallah city center is filled with people now, most are just happy to be

outside. "Hamdellah al Salama, Hakam, park your car and come down for a

drink of arak with me." It's my friend George with a group of guys hanging

out between the rubble. "Hi George, we're alive." I shout through the

passenger window. I drive for a few meters to the parking lot. My god,

there are at least thirty cars that are as flat as a loaf of Palestinian

bread. This is not true. It can't be true.

George is already opening my car door and demanding a big male hug. He

walwith me back to his friends. Cameramen and journalists are filming

the destruction, photographers are taking picture of "Checkers Mall." Well,

they are taking pictures of what's left of the "Checkers Mall." Every store

has a crowd of people in front of it seeking food and water. The rule set

here is Mothers with babies buy first. That really doesn't help organize

anything, since every Palestinian woman has a few babies.

George introduces me to his friends, and he insists I join him for a shot of

Arak. I don't feel like drinking, but George looks me straight in the eye

and says, "Hakam, for the past eight days I've been at home with my wife."

He didn't have to say anything else. I take the shot of Palestinian Arak.

Warm. No ice. It's sweet and minty.

I excuse myself and cross the street to join a journalist talking to an

Israeli soldier standing triumphantly next to his tank.

"Hey soldier, do you speak English?" I say slowly but loud enough for the

journalist to hear me. "Yeah, I speak English" the military man answers.

"Well, I just wanted to tell you that we're alive. You didn't kill us all.

Fuck you and have a great day." I turn away and walk straight to my car. I

can hear the soldier shouting obscenities at me, my family, my god and my

president. I will not look back. I am too scared to look back.

I need a camera. This is too much. The main square in Ramallah, the Manara

Square, is an army barrack. At least thirty tanks and hundreds of soldiers

are stationed in the main square, in my town. My town. I look at my

favorite falafel store on the road parallel to Manara Square. It's

completely destroyed. That was the best falafel store in the world. I know

every worker by name. They know that I like my sandwich spicy.

All traffic signs, lamp-posts, statues, plants, billboards are, like my

favorite falafel store, completely destroyed. Phone lines dug out, electric

cables burnt and yet people are all insisting to offer Hamdellah al Salama

to each other. What Salama? Is this Salama? Are these people crazy or are

they blind? It will take us years to re-build the city. Don't you

congratulate me for my safety. Look around you, everyone. I realize that

my thoughts are all in vain. George is in a car behind me, his wife is now

next to him and his three kids are half way out of the car window. He

blasts his horn, sticks out his head and yells "Hakam, Hamdellah al Salama."