The championship trophy from this year's 27 th annual Palestine Martyrs Championship sits on the table beside my computer. Nadal set it down here for a few moments, removing it from its usual place at the front of the room. The mirror from its silver curved sides reflects my ten fingers racing across the keyboard in this solitary moment that I have away from the hustle and bustle of the refugee camp that expands beneath the windows of the 4th floor restaurant. This table and this chair have become my office in the Ibdaa Cultural Center, a community organization located in the Dheisheh Refugee Camp of the West Bank, Palestine. A quick glance out the window shows the rising white and grey brick and stone buildings placed side by side, peppered with grey and black water storage units. A montage of unequal, cramped, unembellished homes thrown into any space available.   Shifting my thoughts away from the scene outside, my mind wanders to what this simple basketball trophy means in a world I don't yet understand.

The cheering still echoes in the still quiet of my cavernous mind, a combination of rhythmic clapping punctuated with one pride-filled word...Clap, Clap, Clap-Clap, Ibdaa...

Palestine: only a month ago this was a place that I had only read in the headlines and heard debate over, most of the time heatedly, from the rolling smooth peaceful hills and winding streets of a small Vermont town where I attended graduate school, far away from this land of right angles, crumbling speed bumps and constant scrutiny. My first contact with a Palestinian came at that school and sparked my interest into a world and a conflict I realized that I knew nothing about.

Occupation?: How many of us have filled in the blank that follows this word on the generic, mass-reproduced forms that you are handed before a doctor's appointment, for a product survey at a grocery store or any such questionnaire? The bold black ink letters stamped on simple white paper. I always wonder how to answer this one line, one word, many meaning question; the nomadic lifestyle and strange assortment of non-profit jobs does not always provide an easy answer. Occupation: Now here I am, gazing at the 8+ meter high "security fence" making prisoners out of both the Palestinians and Israeli peoples with this word now twisting my stomach into a sailors knot. Occupation: Waiting to cross through checkpoints placed within the recognized Palestinian Territory and yet patrolled by armed soldiers from Israel with American made M-16's, the cold scuffed steal sending shivers through my spine; living in the huddled confines of less than one square kilometer housing over 12,000 people, miles from their original homes. I am still trying to figure out how the people who have to live through and with this everyday make it through each minute of oppression. Occupation: I used to stare at this word in a laughter-tinged quandary and try to think of the least confusing way to explain my chosen profession. Now it has taken on a new face, gnarled and twisted in the frigid inhuman grayness exhibited by the WALL. It pulses through my veins with a dull throbbing beat. In the blink of an eye this formerly innocent word has begun to take on the weight of 10 million wailing voices.

Now if this word overwhelms me, an American who has never really known this kind of struggle, then what does it mean for those who constantly face its crushing burden? How does it affect every minute of their lives? How do the Palestinians find a tiny bit of release from this weight?

One answer uncovered itself in an unexpected place. Within a week of arriving at the Tel Aviv airport and making my way through the winding paved roads into the dusty barren countryside to the Dheisheh refugee camp I had discovered this disquieting new definition of occupation. In addition, I had managed to find my way as the co-head coach of the Ibdaa Men's basketball team into one small, tiny respite from the life under occupation.

For 40 minutes out of an otherwise hective day in late July at least 500 people from the refugee camp, 500 people born into occupation, were able to step out from its shadow, from the frustrating checkpoints that they had to pass through on the long route from Bethlehem to Ramallah and find an inspirational cause to rally behind.

As the players took the floor in the cramped First Ramallah Group basketball stadium to the screaming, cheering, thumping on drums and sounding off the shrill blasts of three or four air horns of over a thousand fans, the shadow of the occupation faded slightly in the bright lights and electric atmosphere. Ibdaa fields the only team in Palestine to come out of a refugee camp, the game of basketball being reserved for the elite clubs in the past. The team at Ibdaa was only formed four years ago and yet they have now won what is considered the Palestine national championship two years in a row. Though basketball is not given as much press and does not have as much clout as soccer in Palestine and in many countries around the world, you couldn't tell that from the atmosphere in the stadium. This year I got to be there, to watch and be a part of something bigger than the game of basketball, larger than the individual players scampering around the court. The Ibdaa team is not just made up of the 13 individual players. The fans are the irreplaceable "sixth player". While other teams have fans, I have yet to see a team whose fans dominate the stands like Ibdaa's.

The final this year pitted the team from the First Ramallah Group against Ibdaa in a rematch of last years final that Ibdaa had won in the final few seconds. This years battle see-sawed back and forth with Ramallah leading the entire first half behind their dominant three versatile big men and speedy guard duo. They led by 7 points at halftime. One side of the arena was filled with Ramallah fans, the other side with Ibdaa fans. Each section trying to drown out the noise created by the other as it cheered for every basket, foul, block and even timeout, the rolling sea of faces and voices changing their tunes with every play. As I crouched on the sideline, nervously watching and analyzing every tiny minute detail I had to yell inside my own head to even hear my own thoughts. My confidential conferences with the co-head coach A'sam as we substituted a player here and there or discussed how to switch the defensive scheme were screaming matches competing with the pandemonium of the crowd.

I heard later that one family in Ramallah has two brothers, ages 10 and 12. One is a devoted Ramallah fan and the other is just as devoted to the Ibdaa team. By the end of the first half, the brother who was an Ibdaa fan was crying.

But Ibdaa never gave up. In a showing of the strength unparalleled to any team rivalry I have ever witnessed, they began to systematically chip away at the lead, each player filling the necessary role required. YaHya drained three-pointer after three-pointer with his arms raised in the air; Abu Yusef bullied his way towards the basket time and time again to draw fouls; Iad quietly dominated the boards and scored 21 hard earned points in the paint; Muneer fought through foul trouble and calmly showed his veteran poise down the stretch from having played professionally in Jordan; Abdallah stepped up as the youngest player on the court in the waning minutes, draining his second   three-point basket with a defender in his face to put the final exclamation point on a 7 point victory. And every other player, whether they stepped on the floor or supported the team from the sideline injected his own spirit into the game.

As the seconds ran out and YaHya heaved the ball into the air the emotions finally poured over as all the players, coaches and fans gathered in one massive cluster on the Ibdaa side of the arena. Clap, Clap, Clap-Clap... IBDAA!!!!!!    The thunderous cheers in unison shook the buildings foundations and continued all the way back to Dheisheh.

The caravan of players and fans made its way back through the streets of Beit Sahur and Bethlehem to Dheisheh Refugee Camp. The parade of vehicles included 5 large buses with fans cheering from the rooftops and several individual cars with horns blaring and bodies hanging out of the open windows. The lead car featured Abu Yusef, sitting on the window sill holding the trophy onto the top of the taxi like a huge silver and gold siren. The cars pulled into the street and parking lot in front of the Ibdaa Center. Doors opened and hundreds of bodies flowed out of the vehicles, dancing with the trophy, cheering together and celebrating those few moments before they would return back to their lives.

I met the two brothers with opposite team loyalties a few days ago here at the Ibdaa center. They were invited here by the organization. Dressed in matching blue jeans and orange striped shirts with short-cropped hair, they lounged on the Palestinian flag colored cushions adorning one of the booths of the Ibdaa restaurant. You would have thought they were twins. The youngest brother, the Ibdaa fan, squirmed around in his seat as his father talked about how happy he was by the end of the game. His off center smile and bright eyes told the story that he didn't want to put words to yet.

Soon Nadal will finish cleaning the front of the restaurant and he will remove the trophy from its resting place here on the table beside me. It will go back to its place of honor at the front of the room where its symbolic presence will continue to remind us of those few minutes where life seemed normal and we were united in one triumphant voice...