May 24, 2001

We gave ourselves the luxury of sleeping late and made our way for the King Hussein/Allenby Bridge crossing between Jordan and the West Bank. The crossing itself was unremarkable. We sat on the bridge bus next to a man with an American passport. He said he was from Lincoln, Nebraska, but his accent suggested that Lincoln might not be his birthplace. He was, in fact, from Gaza - from a refugee camp there (his family had lived north of Gaza but had been forced to flee in 1948). He had studied in the US, and was returning as a nurse to work in Gaza with his family. Obviously, he chose to show the Israelis his American passport rather than his refugee ID card.

Moon above Jerusalem’s Old City walls.

When we crossed, it took two hours to fill up our shared taxi to Jerusalem because of the situation - few people are traveling, and the Israelis close the bridge periodically. When we finally arrived, one of our fellow passengers remarked that he hadn't been in Jerusalem since he and his family left in 1967. He took real joy in seeing the walls of the Old City.

We met up with friends in Jerusalem and ate elegantly and watched a movie (what's a movie?) in a theater for the first time in eight months. As we left the theater, we were surrounded by the sound of ambulances racing by and helicopters overhead. Our imaginations ran wild and we feared the worst. The sound of ambulances was non-stop, going by us in a constant stream. Our friends called another friend and asked what was happening - a wedding hall had collapsed, due to structural problems. A strange shift took place, from Occupation/Intifada tragedy to tragedy. No better or worse, just different emotionally. It's very hard to relax here.