“I suddenly remember that some twenty years ago, in the 1980s, the Israelis forbade the Palestinians to even color the Palestinian flag, let alone to hoist it in the streets. The flag was considered a danger to public order. During the first Intifada Israeli soldiers forced Palestinian citizens to paint over Palestinian flags that covered the walls of the streets. Mary still remembers those days very well. Painters sometimes circumvented the prohibition by showing a Palestinian salad containing the colors of the flag: black and green in the olives, red in the tomatoes, and white in the cheese. Or women’s embroidery containing those colors.” Toine van Teeffelen reports from Bethlehem. Read more about Flags in Palestine 

CPTers have grown accustomed to just breezing through the Beit Romano Checkpoint in the Old City where we live. We pass through it regularly and usually without question. Some Palestinians who live in the area also have this privilege once the soldiers recognize them, however they are sometimes subject to detention and harassment. When the solider took my passport and ordered me to sit on the curb, I thought of the dozens of Palestinians I see detained here daily, and I sat down without argument. Read more about From Hebron to Tel Aviv 

In the past few days I have been asked about my feelings towards the death of Arafat by a number of students at university. Just as every other Palestinian, my feelings cannot be boxed one way or the other. As this event marks the passing of a unique Palestinian. One whom powerfully resisted in the struggle for my people, at the same token, was neglectful and corrupt. Peace will not be easily achieved with his passing, as there are no plans to remove the wall, the olive orchards are still gone, the illegal settlements are still polluting ‘67 Palestine, and the exiled refugees worldwide will not suddenly be allowed to return home. Read more about Reflections on Arafat from Australia 

Following my departure from the bridge, I chatted with my aunt in the taxi and she told me personal news, then started talking generally about the situation in Palestine. The route we were taking to Arrabeh was actually, I found out, forbidden to me since I hold a foreign passport, and not the correct permission. There was a checkpoint on the way and my aunt began saying prayers left right and centre and I thought I was about to implode. Thankfully we were not made to stop; the worst that would happen in any case would be that we would have to turn back and take another route, losing another couple of hours travelling. Yet this was a significant event because it is indicative of the Palestinians’ lifestyle. So much is about where you can or can’t go. Read more about Living their lives as best they can 

I am thirsty, sitting here in the wrong corner of the ‘service’ (pronounced ‘serveece’) taxi. It is hot. The seat belt is tight, scratching my neck. I am sweating. The sun is beating down on me. I am hungry. My mind meanders, searching various avenues of escape. Could I walk through the checkpoint, leaving my fellow Palestinians behind? Would I find a car on the other side? Could I pay a sum to a private car waiting in line on the other side of the dead, closed closure point? Could I persuade someone to leave the line and turn around and take me to my destination? Read more about Valley of Fire 

We piled into four shiny, new Mercedes, and headed into a foggy night in Tunisia, speeding up and down hills until we came to an office in a suburb. Armed young guards lounged at the front door. They were smiling broadly and looked like they wanted to high-five us rather than do any security checks. Our delegation filed into the main room. A burgundy sofa-set curved around half of the room, in the middle of which was an office chair on wheels. In it sat Yasser Arafat, devoid of his trademark kaffiyeh. He was in high spirits, despite the late hour, and welcomed those he’d met before with kisses and hugs, and then shook hands with the rest of us. He looked at me and asked, out of the blue: “Are you Irish?” EI co-founder Laurie King-Irani reflects on Arafat’s legacy and failings. Read more about After Arafat: refracted reflections 

With the whole of the West Bank locked down by the Israeli army on the day of Yasser Arafat’s burial, we made our way to Beitunia, the official crossing point into Ramallah from Israel. For Palestinians with Jerusalem IDs, Israel’s Palestinian citizens and foreigners it was the sole gateway to the Muqata’a compound, the place where “Abu Ammar”, the Palestinian president, was to be buried. Greeting us at a dusty car park before Beitunia checkpoint was a short khaki-clad soldier, armed with clipboard, called Tali - we knew that because she was wearing a name tag in three languages. She and the other soldiers had also been ordered to take off their helmets and berets and wear instead customer-friendly blue baseball caps bearing the initials MP (presumably short for Military Police). Read more about Palestinians reach out to their leader for a final embrace 

The Palestinian struggle for freedom and independence is larger than the late President Yasir Arafat. The decades-long symbolism that Arafat embodied should not be underestimated. It is this symbolism that Palestinians are mourning. Despite the confusion of the hour, one fact remains clear. The Palestinian people, collectively, whether in the Occupied Territories, scattered in squalid refugee camps around the Middle East, or living in exile, will never wake up one day and accept the historic injustice that has been done to them. Read more about Palestine Greater Than Arafat  

Catching a taxi to my apartment near Arafat’s compound in Ramallah the other night, the Palestinian driver’s immediate question concerned my nationality. “Germany?” he asked. No. “France?” No. “Switzerland?” No. “Italy?” No … Before he covered the rest of Europe, I somewhat sheepishly admitted, “America.” He cut to the chase: “Do you support Bush?” With an almost desperate note of pain in his voice, different from that of the jaded drivers I usually have, he asked me about occupied Palestine, about occupied Iraq. “Why does your country do this to us?” he asked me. “Are we bad?” “Am I no good?” Read more about A letter from Palestine to my fellow Americans