We had another reason to celebrate, this being our seventh anniversary.

The soldier who stopped us spoke very little English, but was very good at pointing and shouting. He flipped through our passports, and looked at our cellphone, asking, "you have in Jenin?" With his middle finger he then thumped Marthame's throat, on his clergy tab, saying, "What this?" How fresh! Finally, he handed us our passports - "take...go." It takes all kinds.

The town was deadly still - no lights, save from the University, making the stars plain to view; no sounds, save the barking of the dogs and the distinct rumble of an Israeli tank.

In the afternoon, Marthame met Abuna To'mie Daoud at the Greek Orthodox Church for 5:00 prayers. Twice a day, in the morning and evening, he prays at the church in Zababdeh, usually accompanied by one or two of the congregation. It's a discipline that he keeps faithfully.

Today was every bit a reminder of the hardships, though - the Israeli army is in Tubas today, where they've instituted a curfew. None of the teachers could come. What a day for a party.

We sat out on the porch eating supper and listening to the evening sounds of the city: helicopters, gunfire, the usual. We hope tonight isn't the night either.

A local engineer shared our walk, talking about his nearly twenty years living, studying, and working in Texas and West Virginia. Like so many others, he returned to his homeland with the onset of Oslo, believing that finally peace and independence were on the way to Palestine. Now, he and his wife and kids are stuck here, with little work and little hope.

We were hoping to visit a student in Qabatiya who is moving back to Romania next week, but tanks parked on the road make our visit unlikely.

All eyes were on the skies and the constant flares fluttering off to the West. The Israeli army had re-entered Jenin and had also gone to the nearby village of Jaba. The talk in the streets was that they would come to Zababdeh tonight, but fear has a way of multiplying itself beyond reality.