‘Oh God, please tell Sharon to end the curfew by this Saturday so I can go to school.’ This is how my secular, eight year old daughter, Areen, has put herself to sleep for the last two weeks. Areen, like so many others here, have turned to the divine powers to intervene in ending the five-month Israeli military curfew that is imposed on Palestinian cities, villages and refugee camps in the West Bank. Read more about The Violence of Curfew 

The sophistication in the methods used by Israel in its systematic destruction of Palestinian society today struck a raw cord with every Palestinian parent and child. Read more about Perfecting the Violence of Curfew  

Twice in a row, my friend Maha and I have been lucky at the Kalandia checkpoint: A breeze provided occasional relief from the blazing mid-day sun, and the wait to get through was only an hour each time. Regardless, Kalandia was very disturbing. Read more about The Secret Weapon 

Quiet nights have returned to Bethlehem after the Israeli withdrawal from the area on the 20th. No more waking up to the roaring tanks, sudden burst of explosions and shootings, or not being able to sleep in anticipation of military operations. Read more about Bethlehem After The Withdrawal 

Curfew was lifted from 9AM to 6PM today, after the terrifying night of house demolitions. In fact, right after I had sent out my last email, another blast vibrated the air, bringing the total number of demolitions to three. The last one was in Aida refugee camp, near the city of Bethlehem. Read more about Another Sleepless Night 

A day after Israel’s supreme court’s ruling permitting the government to demolish Palestinians’ houses without warning, the demolition men are already working extra time. Read more about The Tanks Come Rolling In 

I am writing from gaza, where I have been for the last three days to coordinate a volunteer program with youth groups here. Compared to the West Bank, Gaza is not so popular for internationals to come and work. Read more about Hi from Gaza 

There is a bouquet of plastic purple flowers in the center of a cheap wooden table. It’s easier to stare at it than into the faces of either of the men speaking. The air is suffocatingly hot — no breeze passes through the half-open window. I’m thirsty but won’t drink the orange soda our host passes around in paper cups. Read more about Gaza: Blood for blood, a meditation on power 

Abu Ismail is sitting on a sofa as he speaks. The tape recorder sits on a low table in front of him, absorbing his voice, and the noise of mopeds and people from the alley outside. He is in his mid-sixties, but looks perhaps a little older. Read more about Back to Shatila