Seems like everyday lately I write about the same thing. The checkpoints are becoming a part of my everyday life. Though as I sat out underneath the beautiful clear night sky peppered with stars by the side of the bus as we waited and waited at "The Container" I spoke with Asam about how I would never be able to truly experience or comprehend this piece of life for the Palestinians. He spoke about the struggle for the working people, how everyday if they worked in Ramallah but lived elsewhere they had to sit at this checkpoint for sometimes hours to get to work...or to get home. My eyes shifted over to take in the line of vehicles waiting to be waved through to begin their interview, the line of headlights extending back into the countryside. Many of the more than 70 Palestinians on the Ibdaa bus with me had to work that next day, some in Ramallah at 8am. We arrived back at Ibdaa at 1:30am, three and a half hours after we left.

Earlier we had passed through the same checkpoint. The soldiers boarded the bus and took everyone's identification. While flipping through my passport, the soldier stopped for a second on my entry stamps. I thought "Oh no", because every time they do that there is always the question of why I don't have an entry stamp for Israel. But instead, he turned to me and said, "You have been in Guatemala." I said yes and he proceeded to tell me that he was from Venezuela. I immediately piped in, "Entonces ¿Habla español? (So, you speak Spanish?" What followed next was something I had never expected. With the bus so quiet I could hear my heart pounding with nervousness and the eyes of 70 Palestinians looking at me with wonder and curiosity, I proceeded to do my checkpoint interview in Spanish. ¿De dónde eres? ¿Que estas haciendo acá? ¿Dónde quedas? ¿Que estas estudiando en los estados unidos? ¿Vives acá ahora? It was that last question, "Do you live here now?" that threw me off my stride one step. "Sí, umm No, sólo estoy visitando (Yes, ummm No I am only visiting) I quickly amended my answer while waving my two hands from side to side, palms facing towards the soldier. With a quick glance once more at my passport he said he hoped I had a good visit and handed me back my passport before descending the stairs of the bus with the 70 green plastic encased Palestinian ID's to check them out.

It was the Final Four of the Palestine Cup in Ramallah. The stadium was filled with at least 1000 founds, 100 from Ibdaa who had been bussed in on two buses. The mood in the arena was electric. This was a big game versus De LaSalle whom Ibdaa had only beat by one point in their previous meeting. To lighten the mood for the team, I wrote a hip-hop song to recite to them before they took the court. Though only a few understand English, their faces lit up as I recited the lyrics wrapped around each of their names and they broke into a huge yell as I repeated the first four stanzas at the top of my lungs for the final hurrah. The game was tight; it seesawed back and forth with Ibdaa only leading by 1 at halftime and one of our starters already sidelined by 3 questionable fouls. But the team stepped up. YaHya, playing with a strained groin that had him limping up and down the court scored 18 grueling points including 5 of the last 10. I pulled him aside after the game, looked him in the eyes and said that was one of the most inspiring performances I had ever seen. Iad dominated inside and scored 33 points while controlling the boards.   And all the other players contributed in their own important ways. The game came down to the final few minutes and a defensive switch on De LaSalle's best player who scored 31. As the clock ran down to zero the Ibdaa players raised their arms in union with the fans in the stands as Ibdaa took the game 81-74. Mabrouk's (congratulations) abounded after the game and Iad pulled me into a sweaty embrace and kissed me on the top of my head.

The scene outside the arena after the game was a mix of celebration and frustration as one player from Ibdaa who had fouled out was in a heated argument with one of the referee's. I had to physically restrain him for a few minutes and we exchanged words but made peace a little while later. It's hard when people don't want your team to win. Many still practice a subtle kind of discrimination against Ibdaa, again, since it is the only team to come from a refugee camp. I have seen my share of basketball games and I have to admit, the calls against Ibdaa were "questionable" in the most severe meaning of the word. I will leave it at that.

The mood calmed down and the jubilance after the win continued as the fans sang and cheered in the back of the bus until we got to the checkpoint. Then the mood took a silent turn as again, the soldiers boarded the bus. There were no smiles on their faces and their words (in Hebrew) were stiff and harsh. Again, their footsteps echoed in the eerie silence as two soldiers with their fingers close to the trigger walked back and forth up the aisle and two other soldiers took up flanking positions outside the bus...Seems like everyday lately, I write about the same thing.

In these writings it has been difficult to capture everything that happens in all my experiences here. My fingers try to wander across the keys and somehow encapsulate the details, the emotions of the events and the facts floating around in my head. I have tried to keep my own emotions out of my writings as much as possible but it grows harder and harder...

Tomorrow (August 14) we again travel to Ramallah for round 2 of the Final Four...