After the tanks had left about 2:00 AM this morning, we came out into the living room and had coffee. I was already wired from drinking coffee and tea, and this last cup just about guaranteed I wouldn’t sleep. I must have slept some since I was able to get up and finish the chronicle from the day before. I went out about 8:00 AM with the youngest daughter, Widad. Around the house the mother, Hamila always wears a head scarf, and you get to think it is part of her. I would now find it strange if I saw her without one. The two daughters, Widad, 20, and Neja, 24, do not wear a head scarf at home, and dress in jeans and shirt, mostly. But when they go out, they quickly put a long loose fitting dress on, and a head scarf. By this time I find their "getup" quite natural. Both girls are lively and eager to improve their English, which is not that good, having had no contact with English speaking people. I am sure we are the first to have been in their house.

I had looked out on the street where the tanks had roamed up and down last night and saw a broken water pipe about 50 metres down from our house. I wanted to investigate and Widad wanted to go with me. We followed fresh tank tracks right up to the broken water pipe which was off to the side on what had once been a sidewalk. Tanks had been there in the last invasion and broken it up, and this time the tank ran up on it on purpose to break the pipe. This is not "fighting terrorism," it’s wanton destruction to degrade, humiliate, and to cow the Palestinians into abject submission. But it is stupid. You might think that breaking a water line would be the decision of the tank driver and would not reflect on the pure morals of this Israeli army of occupation, but there is ample evidence that this is policy and orders. This occupation is a war on the civilians. Hit them, punish them, kill when convenient, harass, put them under curfew, close down what little economy there is.

Widad and I walked on down the street, and there was an even bigger break in a water line; again the tank driver had to go out of his way to get to the curb and break the pipe. I documented both breaks with my camera, showing the tread tracks going up on the side of the street, and the water gushing out. Not that anyone in the world cares. Later in the day some workers from the camp administration, UNWRA, fixed both breaks.

On the way home I was hailed by the operator of a small falafel stand, who speaks a bit of English, and wanted to talk. A handsome man about 35 with a lively personality. We discussed Canada and the U.S. for a while, then he told me Widad was his sister, but she scoffed at him. I was getting hungry by this time, so I arranged to buy some falafel. For 4 shekels (about $0.80) I got a bag full, more than enough to feed the people at the house. I watched him fry up the nuggets, a mixture of ground up chickpeas and spices. He uses a short length of pipe of about 4 cm diameter to scoop up some of the mixture in the end of the pipe, cuts off the excess with a table knife, then pushes a piston out with a plunger built into the other end of the pipe. It goes tickety-boo right along, quicker than you can bat an eye he has another nugget in the pot of oil and frying away. He paused to scoop out finished nuggets and lay then on a drain sieve. He kept up a banter in pidgin English the whole time.

Marissa rreceived news on her cell phone that the crew from Nablus, Eric, Rae, and Suzi, were coming over for a visit, and a meeting with Neta. They have been riding ambulance in Nablus, which has been under curfew for a week, but the Israeli Army of Occupation has lifted the curfew until 2:00 PM today so the people can get out to get food and supplies for the next stretch of curfew. So Eric, Rae, and Suzi, took a taxi over from the clinic in Nablus where they have stayed, and appeared about 10:00 AM here at the Titi house.

We thought our news about the tanks last night with the percussion grenades and the machine gun firings was exciting, but they also had exciting news. They had had confrontations with tanks and APCs (Armored Personnel Carriers). In Suzi’s case, as the ambulance approached, the lead tank fired warning shots in front of them. They stopped, were ordered out of the ambulance and stretched up against a wall and searched. The driver, who speaks Hebrew, explained the mission, explained the blonde young American with them, and after the ambulance had been thoroughly searched, they drove through to pick up their patient and take him back to the hospital. Eric and Rae had similar experiences, but not as dramatic as warning shots from a tank.

A call came from Neta that we should meet over in Nablus at 11:00 AM at the clinic there. The five of us walked down the street to the UN clinic here since I had left my little notebook there. Besides I wanted a tooth brush, razor, shaving cream, and vitamin pills. I got it all after searching the tiny little shops they have here in the camp. We then piled into two cabs, and for a few shekels we were off to Nablus. When we arrived at the clinic word came from Neta that the meeting would be at 12:00 PM, so Suzi lead us on a trip through the bazaar of the old city. I can’t begin to describe the noise, the variety of shops, the traffic. I did succeed in finding some made-in-USA denture cleaning powder for the equivalent of a day’s wages for an average Palestinian, if he/she had work. The unemployment rate is close to 70% in the West Bank, and likely higher in the concentration camp that Gaza has become.

After a considerable hike we arrived back at the clinic to find Neta there and on the cell phone. She seems to spend about 80% of her life on her cell phone. She reports that Jenin is the hottest spot where ISMers documented Israeli soldiers using doctors as human shields, a war crime, which of course nobody will hear about nor care about. We also learn that Ramallah has been invaded and Arafat’s compound put under siege again. She also tells us that Marissa and I are to formulate a policy statement on the ISM project to offer some protection to families of martyrs whose houses might be demolished by the Israelis. Since that project is what Marissa and I are doing (we are the first), and since there are at least two other families in the neighborhood in the same predicament, we will try to formulate a statement. It’s a dicey thing. ISM does not, and cannot appear to, condone suicide bombings. The overwhelming majority of Palestinians are opposed to them, but many can understand the motivation that can lead a young Palestinian to kill him/herself and innocent civilians as well.

About 12:45 PM Marissa and I are led by a young man from the clinic to a nearby Internet Café, nearby but about a 15 minute hike through the streets of Nablus. By the time we get there, check our email, and send a couple messages, it is time to take a taxi back to the clinic and get any further marching orders. Then we hiked up to a main thoroughfare, hailed a taxis, and were off to Balata, with about 10 minutes of the curfew reprieve left. Safely back in Balata and home to Titis we had another delicious meal, and I took a nice nap.

The Edmonton Journal ran an article in the Sunday, June 23 edition, "Alberta man in Arafta's compound." Annemarie told me about, and I wanted to get a copy faxed to me. I went out with Widad to find a fax machine. She found one, but the shop was closed. She knew the proprietor, Mr. Hamish, and went to get him. He is a rotund older man with a handle bar mustache, dressed in a "dishdasheh," a long neck-to-floor gown. It’s what you are used to thinking an old Turk would wear. Mr. Hamish opened up for us and explained that he could receive faxes unattended any time, but opened for sending or pick up only from 7:00 AM to 2:00 PM each day. I bought a 30 shekel (6$) phone card and called Annemarie to tell her the number and get Julia to send the fax. We will see. (Note: The fax never did come thru.)

But then when I asked Mr. Hamish about the Internet, he pointed up the hill from his shop, and sure enough there was a crowded, smoky, noisy, "Internet Café" but without the Café part. Ammar, the young computer engineer there, explained in passable English how things work. They have about 10 or 12 stations using Netware, but I could not get the speed of the connection to their Internet Service Provider. Be that as it may, Ammar is one sharp cookie. He asked about a laptop, and I told him about Marissa’s, which he said to bring. When Widad and I got back, Marissa packed up her laptop and we hurried back to our little part of Cyberspace right here in this dirty little refugee camp. Great. The laptop went online with very little trouble and we were off and running. My files were put on a diskette Widad had, and I sent them off with no trouble. God and the Internet may help bring this despicable occupation to end some day.

There are three parallel streets in Balata. The one up hill a bit, runs past the Balata Boys School, and is the way we took to the Internet Cafe.

As far as I know, Israel built nothing for the camp, but destroyed much. In addition to demolishing homes, the tanks smashed every car they saw.

The night of Monday to Tuesday, June 24 to 25, there were no tanks in the camp.