Today was the anniversary of the beginning of the latest "Intifada" or uprising in this area. It is appropriate that today, I made my first trip to Nablus, the most unstable part of the West Bank

We wanted to go into the old city; a small part of Nablus nestled in among the buildings. It is a place where many of the Palestinian fighters congregate and frequent surprise Israeli incursions into the area make the news daily. Because of the latest rounds of violence in that area the closest we got to the old city was driving within 50 yards of one of the entrances in a taxi, we listened to the advice from Nablus residents to stay out of that area.

Nablus is nestled between two mountains Mount Ebal and Mount Gerizim, 39 miles north of Jerusalem. As I stood looking out over the city and surrounding refugee camps from numerous elevated points, the buildings took on the form of beehives, the windows honeycombing the white washed rectangular structures, many of which are empty. In the distance I could see one of the refugee camps, a huge section in the center destroyed earlier this week, the crumbling grey rubble of the buildings easily discernible from a distance. We climbed up and down stairs, visited the school where our colleague is currently working, stopped in at Project Hope and toured the enormous beautiful university in the area. The trip to the university was marred by a huge fight that broke out when one of the students was smoking in a public area, a big no-no during Ramadan.

The posters lining the walls of Balata refugee camp, the largest in the West Bank with over 20,000 inhabitants are filled with pictures of martyrs. The streets are even narrower than Dheisheh and the alleyways between the buildings barely leave room for two people to walk down shoulder to shoulder. Children play in the streets, many carrying plastic imitations of M-16s and handguns that look eerily real. It's something I remember from being a child. The children buzzed around us, eager to try their English. One young boy, in a red striped ragged polo shirt and dirty blue jeans stared up at me, with one eye almost complete white, his pupil a hazy dot, red welts on both sides of his face, he asked me for money.

On the way back out of Nablus the Hawara checkpoint was a different story. We were corralled like cattle with about 150 people trying to get out of the area into a small area, the mesh wire fences trimmed with barbed wire, soldiers strapped with some of the more massive weaponry that I have seen, some of the guns fitted with inch diameter black ominous grenade launching tubes welded beneath the barrels. Two of the lines led up to cold metal turnstiles with two lights above them, red and green. Every so often the light would turn green and another person would pass through. I diffused a bit of the tension for the surrounding people by chattering in Arabic for a little while out of earshot from the Israeli soldiers weighed down up heavy bullet proof vests and battle gear. The Palestinian women and families were funneled through a small chest high gate to the right where one soldier checked the ID's against a crumpled white list he had in his hand before waving them through. My US passport allowed me to go through this way, not through the turnstiles but I was still made to go over to the X-ray van and run my bag through before I was given my passport back and walked through to the other side. Staring back through the wire, I wondered how long all the others would be standing there waiting.

Two more checkpoints later and we were back at my favorite one, "The Container". The soldier slid open the door of our mini-van taxi and started to ask me the usual slew of questions in Arabic. Again, I feigned ignorance and looked around the taxi for someone to translate. After the soldier determined I was American his eyes lit up a bit and he said, in Arabic, "All Respect." I assume that he was referencing the fact that American tax dollars probably pay his salary and bought his weapon. I didn't realize that he had said this till a few minutes later, this was the only phrase that he said in Arabic that I did not know but now, I will never forget it. A foul distaste entered my mouth when Areej told me that was what he had said. Only a few minutes after pulling away from this checkpoint a truck right around the bend stopped us. The truck was filled with small lunchbox sized cardboard containers, each having a cup of buttermilk, a cup of yogurt and two dates in them. These were passed through our windows to us. It was 5:30pm at this point, minutes away from the call to break the fast. This truck is sent out by a yogurt making company for people who will not make it to east when the mosques around the countryside take up the call. The soldier at the checkpoint had asked me if I was fasting and, of course, to keep attention off myself I said "No" but as we were winding up through the hillsides and we heard the call, I gulped down half a bottle of water and tore into the dates since today marks the 18 th day I have been fasting for Ramadan.

There is so much more to put here yet I am still trying to process it all.