Andrea Becker

6:30a.m, and the refugee camp is alive with noises. There is electricity this morning and the appliances whir; the television is loud with news of lives no longer, re-occupations of Ramallah and al-Bireh.

Squint and you can see more. Concentrate on a patch of blue into liquid mauve sky and there are little dots floating, small kites floating in the wind, from the rooftops under curfew.

Finally home to Ramallah today to find my plants—dried, limp, purple flowers browned. My home dusty and unlived in, dishes waiting in the sink. Since last week, the strong wind from the valley swept the earth that I had used to cover the little box grave for my dog, Nutmeg.

It has just taken me almost two hours to get through Qalandia checkpoint, have just stepped around the last of the barbed wire. There are a few more checkpoints to go before I reach the office. None could be as bad. Partly to settle my nerves, partly to check in, I dial a colleague’s number on my mobile. My hands are still shaking.

The breaking points are sometimes small, innocuous. You can’t sleep for a week because the Israeli shelling is so bad, there are continuous and horrible reports of death, but we’re fine- “I’m fine. No, I’m ok. Really.”—- then something as silly as trying to fold an omelette in the frying pan, it breaking, and then- the tears fall.

Almost 3am, and there is no point in trying to ignore the sounds and to try sleeping anymore. It is just too loud, too near. The heavy machine gunfire, the thuds of tank shelling.

Sitting in between boxes of medicines, latex gloves, insulin and needles. Boxes all around me, I can’t see outside. We stop for short moments, and I wonder if the first convoy cars are running into trouble with the Israeli army.

A joint convoy comprised of representatives from 14 international and 9 national humanitarian agencies working in the West Bank and Gaza set out to Nablus on Tuesday, April 9th. The convoy consisted of 16 vehicles, five of which were carrying basic food and medicines for distribution to the most vulnerable families.

The sun was finally shining, I start to feel a little better but the feeling is temporary - were I at my place in Ramallah right now, it wouldn’t even be safe enough to step out on the balcony. The shutters would be drawn, I would be in darkness, and my usual short supply of food would have been exhausted long ago.

Alarm, wake up. beepbeepbeep. My hand hits an unfamiliar bedside table, no alarm. My mobile phone. Groggy with not having slept properly in days, feels like weeks. But alert - the exhaustion of adrenaline pushing through my veins, coffee and wine dried on my lips. I can hardly remember what my own bed feels like.