(Photo by: Greg Eckart, Eeman and Ayat)

The shimmering lights gleamed brightly in the distance, a forest of small pinpricks under the dark nights sky. We could see Jerusalem, the WALL and Bethlehem from our vantage point in front of an old sandstone Greek monastery perched on the hillside; even the lights of Jordan were visible just over the horizon. We were bathed in darkness, the only lights illuminating us came from the headlights of passing cars speeding down the winding road, buses bringing hundreds of workers home and large semi-trucks transporting heavy stone blocks. But one car didn't pass us by. Its lights pulled up in front of us and the driver immediately stepped out. Ziad walked towards the front passenger door as it slowly inched open. The short scarf-wrapped body emerging to find itself enfolded in her uncle's embrace, the two bodies lit up periodically by the passing headlights or shrouded in shadows under the twinkling night sky.

I was standing 8 feet away, my vision obscured by the darkness and infrequent pulsating passing lights but the emotions that erupted around the two embraced forms smacked into my heart and brought a tear to the corner of my right eye. I stood silently off to the side until the hug ended. Ziad's niece, Eeman, had been in the Israeli prison for three and a half years; he hadn't seen her in that entire time and thus, for this one moment, he stayed in Palestine a few extra days before his next trip to the United States.

After shaking hands with the four men including her father, two brothers and uncle who had gone to the border in Tulkrem to pick her up, I stood waiting shyly behind the other American who had come with Ziad and his nephew Nidal to meet them on the outskirts of Bethlehem. We were introduced to Eeman one by one and she quietly extended her hand to greet me, her eyes lifting up in the darkness that my vision had adjusted to slightly. I could see the strength and what I can only describe as relief and happiness at being free mirrored in their reflection.

Only one car had gone to pick her up since the checkpoints make traveling difficult for large groups of people, the possibility of them being stopped and detained increases exponentially with each additional occupant. Didn't really seem to matter this time since they had been held up at one of the checkpoints, which is why we were waiting for over half an hour at our spot on the hill. Can you imagine having just been released from prison and having to stop at a checkpoint on your way home? Ziad had wondered aloud earlier when we found out about their detention, whether she had just wanted to go back to prison at that point instead of facing the occupation outside the metal bars of a jail cell.

Eeman had been accused of being involved with the armed resistance against Israel with a faction of the Fatah party. The facts of her case, as presented by an Israeli military court; she had planned and worked with the Palestinian fighters to attack the Israeli's, that she was a candidate to be a suicide bomber. I imagine that after reading the description of the scene on the hilltop you were filled with a sense of wonder about why she was in jail. I can only imagine that as you read about what Eeman had been accused of, you feel a different sense of this experience washing over you, that you are immediately snapped back to the overwhelming images from the media of the Palestinians. I can see some of you shaking your heads, asking yourselves how I can meet with people accused of promoting violence with no regrets, who have participated in acts that you might call "terrorist."

I meet and am around people who might fit your preconceived ideas of the Palestinians every day. Former political prisoners, activists, and fighters who have chosen a certain path in their struggle mingle with athletes, mothers, dancers, children and musicians, people who have selected other routes in their lives in the halls and rooms of Ibdaa, on the streets of Dheisheh. Yet in some minds, all of these people are lumped together into one category that screams for definition. I leave it to you to determine what that category is for you.

I wish you could see Eeman's face up close, in person. I wish that you could walk the streets of the refugee camp where she grew up and see what I see. I don't support violence on any level but I understand home, community and family. I have spent hours talking about this topic, reflecting with others and on my own. I understand running out of options. While I don't think violence is the option that should be selected, while I truly believe that non-violent practices like what happens here at the Ibdaa Cultural Center is the way to go, I'm not from this world; I haven't had to grow up with this life. Is America any better? Didn't our government say we had exhausted all diplomatic options in Iraq and so we had to use violence? And then I think about my friends in Guatemala who ran out of political space in the 1960s and were left with only the option of taking up arms for over 30 years against a government backed by the United States. Are they any different? Fighting for their homeland...

Along the way into Bethlehem and down the street to Dheisheh we picked up other cars. Soon we were a long procession whose riders were hanging out of their windows, waving Palestinian flags, honking horns and escorting Eeman home. As the car carrying Eeman entered the narrow street, a mob of people packed around it, closing in from all sides. When she finally emerged from its interior she was grasped in what seemed like hundreds of arms, hands reaching out to touch her, tears flowing openly, the music from a large speaker system pulsating in the background, children dancing in the streets, fireworks erupting in the sky, she was greeted as a hero. The mob around her moved like one body as she walked towards her home for the first time in three and a half years.

It didn't hit me till much later what I had seen that evening, the emotions beginning to pile up one on top of another. I was sitting quietly with Ziad at Ibdaa. For me, I had been a casual outsider looking in on a scene that I couldn't come close to understanding, looking in on a world that was far from my reach. I had met people today whose lives were filled with more pain and suffering than I will ever know, who somehow fit the description yet don't fit the images that have been poured upon me in my years previous to these last months, and I still am trying to figure out how to bring all the whirling emotions and feelings down to earth...

Along the lines of non-violent projects, I helped produce this video called "How do we tell our story? 4 Palestinian Youth and Media." (Quicktime .MOV 23MB)

And I would encourage you to read Greg's Blog as well (he is one of the other Americans from my graduate school living and working here at Ibdaa.)