Open Borders Open Minds

My first day in Iran and I feel shy and awkward. The scarf on my head seems constantly on the verge of slipping down my neck. What will happen if it does? I have no idea. But I am going to find out.

As I wander the shopping malls and busy streets of Northern Tehran with a female companion, other women cast what I read to be suspicious, possibly, shocked, eyes my way. After decades of sanctions, Iran has become economically independent of the West, meaning the usual West to East tourism seen in other Middle Eastern countries is virtually non existant. I am in short a tall, alien, curio. In Tehran, female foreigners seem, judging by the reaction to my presence, even rarer here, than in the besieged Gaza Strip. A besieged city scape where I've also had the pleasure of spending time in recent years. When you go to Gaza, you must endure either the humiliation heaped on you at the Egyptian crossing at Rafah. Or (far worse) the threats and searches endured if you travel via Tel Aviv and the Israeli crossing of Eretz. This makes you a comrade to the Palestinians you meet, who instantly understand and believe that caring friends go through this to come and offer support.

However, the successive rhetoric of American, Israeli and British leaders; painting Iranians as haters, extremists, fundamentalists who live primarily to wage world war 3 against 'us' infidels, has meant that as Western tourism has died a death. So has their trust of foreigners.

That is, until you say a single word.

A word that is Arabic in origin, adopted here from the longer 'Salam alaykum'.

Salam means 'peace'.

'Salam.'

I stroll in and out of fancy shops selling every colour and material of long female drapery known to mankind. I 'Salam' every woman I see.

The response? Ranging from surprised laughter from the trendy teens, to kisses from crunched women OAP's in Chodor's (long black all body veils for praying). The most common response I meet though is a rather neat, nod of gratitude. A token of thanks for my effort to meet them half way in a modern political world of false extremes. Where 'they' are always extremists and 'we' are always modern.

And rational.

And right.

I am shopping for long shirts to wear during my eight day stay here. Not to mention a scarf that won't slip off my head in public or on TV. I grab armfuls of shirts in every colour, torqouise with multi coloured arms, cream with embroidery squares, black, for visits to Mosques. I try on my favourite (the cream shirt with embroidery) and rush out excitedly to show my female guide. There are around twenty women of all ages waiting to try on clothes, plus five guys who run the store.

'Look, what do you think? ' I say giving everyone in sight a full 360 degree twirl, arms wide, smile beaming. My guide is speechless.

'No? You don't like it? It's see through what what?' My delight has turned to dismay as I try to make sense of the woman's frown and her hands which are not motioning to my shirt area but flapping around her own head.

After what seems like an age she finally finds her voice;

'You...forgot..your scarf...'

I turn and look in the full length shop mirror and see my blonde hair, pulled into a ponytail fully revealed. Behind that sixty Iranian eyes are watching me.

I actually scream, hands instinctively clap my cheeks in shame and I flee back to the changing room. Then comes the laughter from outside. Not the harsh laughter of mockery but the chuckle of an amused, friendly crowd. No one was offended. No one was angry. Everyone in that store had a fun anecdote to tell when they got home. When I next emerge, cheeks flushing, the women shoppers make sympathetic sounds and shake their heads kindly. The men look to see what hilarity I will be responsible for next.

Hardly the 'extreme' reaction to an un-covered foreigner I'd been led to expect by the British media.

Yet women living here are noticing attitudes towards dress and behaviour are changing.

On the plane over I chat to young student, Noorah, who is studying law at Cambridge university. Noorah tells me how coloured nail polish can now earn the wearer a fine. This is a relatively new development. This unwritten 'rule' about coloured polish is linked easily to the need to pray free of colourful adornment. In an Islamic Republic it is expected that everyone makes their prayers in the Muslim tradition of several times a day. Ridiculous then to apply nail polish in the morning only to have to remove it at lunchtime. Perhaps then young women, who were most likely to go for French polished fingernails, were suspected of not praying regularly. And so began the brief, but pressurising period when they would be taken aside by police and given an on the spot fine for this 'offence.' This, has stopped now. No need to carry on anyway. As the message has got through to the female population and women here all have plain nails. After all who needs the aggro?

The lady I spend time shopping with, wants me to ask a question of anyone in power I meet whilst here.

'Ask him what has happened to women’s rights?' she says shaking her head.

'Just this week another unwritten, social kind of 'law' makes it unwise for women to ride bicycles.' A lover of driving, she doubts (but fears) this is the first step towards a Saudi style ban on women driving. Although this she says 'seems' very unlikely, the notion is deeply troubling.

'Women here work in all jobs, we have education and respect' she says. 'It is much, much freer than Saudi is and we are mostly happy and proud of our country..'

She and her peers are unhappy that Ahmaddinejad has 'failed' to keep an election promise he made to the Iranian women six years ago before he became President; to protect womens rights in Iran.

And I am now correctly dressed to attend tomorrow's internationally famous Al Quds Day rally where one million Iranians will march against Israel's illegal Occupation of Palestine. And call for one of Islam's most Holy sites - Jerusalem, to be returned.

From: Lauren Booth, UK

“This morning I set out to write a piece about the looting of the aid Flotilla to Gaza, by your soldiers. As you may have read, an Israel Defence Forces officer has been remanded by a military court, suspected of stealing laptop computers from passengers. Interestingly, Haretz newspaper, now refers to the fleet as an ‘aid flotilla.’ Which it was. Rather than the ‘terror’ fleet your leaders would have had you call it. But I digress.

So, there I was, all ready to write my piece, when I came across an article on ynetnews. It sought to spell out the shock perhaps felt by some about the looted goods. A senior Israel Defence Forces officer said of the flotilla thefts: ‘there must be a serious problem in the IDF in terms of values."

I looked at those words for a long time. And, instead of writing my piece, decided to write to you instead. Because I can’t help wondering, who on earth still has any reserves of ‘shock’ to spare for the behaviour of your military? I mean really, come on guys. Beyond the comfortable avenues of Tel Aviv, the rest of the world finds the phrase ‘Moral Army,’ when applied to the IDF, nothing short of a huge, (sadly catastrophic), global sized joke. One on the same level as, say, climate change denial or George Bush’s presidency.

Now, here I’ve done it again. I’ve made you really mad at me. But please, just give me a moment or two to explain why I’m writing this letter. Because I didn’t set out to, nor do I want to insult you. Certainly not anymore than I have in the past. I’m sat here with washing up undone and housework piling up, to ask you one question. As a mother and as a fellow human being I need to know why you don’t see the evil that’s being done in your name?

How can you not see?

As you may already know, I was on the first FreeGaza mission in 2008. This means that I not only have the pleasure of knowing personally the fine ladies who founded the FGM (FreeGaza Movement). It also means that I had many friends and colleagues on the Flotilla that your military attacked in May.

You know, (again just for a second see me as a mum and not an ‘enemy’) not one of those fine people is a terrorist, wanting to run weapons to ‘extremists’. They are to a man (and to a woman) kind, concerned citizens of the world. People, who simply cannot go about their normal daily lives whilst your state, your army, your settlers torment other human beings. Every minute of every day. Of every month. Of every year.

For sixty two years.

I don’t mean to be rude guys. But there comes a time when saying ‘I didn’t know what was going on’ wears a bit thin. You know what I mean? This whole charade about being ‘shocked’ by your soldiers bad behaviour, it makes non Israeli’s, well, it makes us laugh.

Because, this week’s looting by your soldiers, it’s not the first of its kind. Is it? Come on. Think back. There have been an awful, awful lot of others. Forgotten? Let me help you. Get to a computer and type the words ‘IDF looting’ into googles search engine. You may (or may not be surprised) when this search produces more than 64,000 results. Now before you go off the deep end, crying ‘our enemies are telling lies about us.’ Please, I beg you. Read just some of the results on the first page. It won’t take you long. Okay why not spend the whole morning reading them? After all it’s kind of your duty to know what’s being done in your name isn’t it? I mean, when military crimes are being committed with YOUR tax shekels, you have a right to know.

One of the google results reveals that an Israel Defence Forces soldier confessed to stealing a credit card from a home in northern Gaza during Operation Cast Lead. Remember that? The soldier in the Givati infantry unit's reconnaissance battalion used it to withdraw NIS 1,600 in Israel. A small criminal act.

Part of a much wider crime.

A crime against humanity, that you’ve been either ignoring. Or have been deliberately blinded to by your leaders.

As I have already said though, you have access to the internet, you don’t have to remain in the darkness. Unless of course you’re comfortable there.

The most recent looting by the IDF of civilian goods, made me think of the Al Samouni women, I met them last year, on the rubble of their homes in Al Zaytoun (I’ve attached some photos for you to see). You may, vaguely recognize that name ‘Al Samouni’. Let me jog your memory. On Saturday, 3 January 2009, the Israeli incursion into Al Zaytoun neighbourhood began.

The following day, on 4 January 2009, your forces bombed the same area.

On Monday at 7:00 Am, 5 January 2009, again your forces bombed the very same area of Hay(neighbourhood) Al Zaytoun. One of the missiles struck the third floor of Tallal Hilmi Al Samouni’s home. Then came the soldiers shooting to kill.|

Overall, 26 members of the Al Samouni family were killed, including 10 children and 7 women. The Red Cross was only allowed entry three days later to evacuate the dead and injured, the majority of whom were so critical that they were taken to Belgium, Egypt, and Saudi Arabia for treatment.

Allow me, if you don’t mind to give you their names as you probably don’t know them. As kind human beings, I’m sure you’ll wish to pay them your respects, and perhaps pray for them.

Names of children killed

• Azza Salah Al Samouni, 3 years of age
• Waleed Rashad Al Samouni, 17 years of age
• Ishaq Ibrahim Al Samouni, 14 years of age
• Ismail Ibrahim Al Samouni, 16 years of age
• Rifka Wael Al Samouni, 8 years of age
• Fares Wael Al Samouni, 12 years of age
• Huda Nael Al Samouni, 17 years of age
• Ahmad Atieh Al Samouni, 14 years of age
• Mu’tassim Mohammed Al Samouni, 6 years of age
• Mohammed Hilmi Al Samouni, 5 years of age

Names of Women Killed

• Rahma Mohammed Al Samouni, 50 years of age
• Safa’ Hilmi Al Samouni, 25 years of age
• Maha Mohammed Al Samouni, 22 years of age
• Rabbab Azzat Al Samouni, 32 years of age
• Laila Nabih Al Samouni, 40 years of age
• Rifqa Mohammed Al Samouni, 50 years of age
• Hannan Khamis Al Samouni, 36 years of age

Names of Men Killed

• Tallal Hilmi Al Samouni, 55 years of age
• Attieh Hilmi Al Samouni, 25 years of age
• Rashad Hilmi Al Samouni, 42 years of age
• Tawfiq Rashad Al Samouni, 23 years of age
• Mohammed Ibrahim, 26 years of age
• Ziyad Izzat Al Samouni, 28 years of age
• Nidal Ahmad Al Samouni, 30 years of age
• Hamdi Maher Al Samouni, 23 years of age
• Hamdi Mahmoud Al Samouni, 70 years of age

Last March I was shown around the rubble of their community by the surviving women and children. I saw the racist graffiti left behind on the walls of the room where a teenage girl still had to sleep. Left for her by your ‘Moral Army’ no less. It said in places in Hebrew, in places English stuff like ‘we’ll be back’ and there was a coarse cartoon of a house exploding with the words ‘you are here’ wittily added. A beautiful young woman, told me of how she was about to get married before the attack. Her family had saved several thousand dollars for her dowry (many people of one family saving for a very, very long time, as you can imagine). It had been hidden under a bed in a suitcase for the happy event. Her mother had a few ancient pieces of jewellery that had been passed down through the generations in gold as well. Well, you see, your soldiers, bombed these people, then shot their children, then finally looted everything the survivors owned. I swear to you, look on google, look into your own hearts, you know, this happens.

You know this is how your army deliberately treats Palestinians.

Before you scream ‘lies!’ or ‘anti semite!’ please, I beg you. Parent to parent. Human to human. in the name of the God of all faiths, take a breath, suspend your disbelief a while longer, then read on. Because, oh Israel. What if, just suppose, I’m not the anti semite your wiki trained extremist supporters try to paint me as? And what if, just ten per cent of the 64,000 google entries for “IDF looting’ are utterly true? What then? What does that make you complicit in? What will you do if just for a second the truth that the rest of the world sees about your leader’s barbarism fills your mind and your hearts as it one day surely must?

My words, as an outsider will no doubt seem harsh, even naive. This then, is from today’s Jerusalem Post:

“According to information analyzed by the human rights organization Yesh Din, between September 2000 and the end of 2009, less than six percent of nearly 2,000 investigations opened against IDF soldiers suspected of crimes against Palestinians ended in indictments.

During the same period, according to various estimates, thousands of Palestinian civilians were killed as a result of IDF activities. How many of these fatalities resulted in convictions? Four.

Not four percent – just four.”

It’s becoming increasingly clear that your young men and women are being trained to behave like animals. These events, the looting, the photos posted online by Eden Abergil, they can’t be explained away as ‘one off’’s any longer.

It’s for you to ask yourselves what they mean.

I’m truly sorry if my words have offended you. I just wanted to talk with you directly for once.

By the way there are an estimated 400 laptops, 600 mobile phones plus other personal cash and effects, which your military still has not returned to the passengers of the aid flotilla. You see, when then they set sail. For some reason, those good people, didn’t think the IDF would steal from them.

Yours in Hope

Lauren Booth

One of the most striking trends following the flotilla attack has been how quickly Israeli hasbara is being exposed by internet journalists. Those doctored IOF audio clips, where amateur actors, put on mock Arab accents to hiss ‘Go back to Auschwitz’ to Israeli naval officers, didn’t take long to pull apart did they? Then there are the so-pathetic-they’re-almost-funny claims that the flotilla was linked to Al Quaeda. And former US marine, turned humanitarian activist Ken O’Keefe was going to Gaza to ‘train a commando unit in Hamas.’ I know Ken fairly well, and quite frankly I’m not sure who should be more insulted by this stupidity him or Hamas? Either way flinging the words ‘Hamas’ ‘Jihadists’ and ‘Israel’s security’ around willy nilly on every news outlet is no longer having the same shock and awe effect on journalists or the general public.

The internet now shapes the world’s story, not the Israeli Foreign Ministry.

Meanwhile, like soccer stars who, when caught cheating on their wives, whine instead of ‘sorry dear’ ‘it’s not fair to judge me all the time!’ So Israel’s dirty IDF washing is now being aired internationally via facebook and twitter to Zionist sobs of ‘this is our business, leave us alone!’ More about these bizarre, Isra-bots later on.

Israeli Intelligence have (some mistake surely?) have been busy erasing the memory sticks and hard disks of what my preliminary research estimates to be an estimated 800 video cameras, some 1200 mobiles and 600 lap tops stolen from the passengers of the Freedom Flotilla. Many of these were being taken as gifts to the people of Gaza. The camera ability of these electrical goods were the only weapons on the Turkish led fleet.

Evidence is emerging too that having been forced by Turkish hard line diplomacy to release all of the kidnapped passengers much sooner than it would have liked; Israel is (as usual) taking revenge on Palestinian relatives of activists who seek to non-violently oppose their policies of violence. I am not at liberty to say much more for fear of even further reprisals on innocent people. but the hated Shabak have seized more than one relative of a flotilla member who still lives in Palestine. Interrogating them about personal information taken from a stolen lap top on the Mavi Marmara.

As ever, the Zionist machine seeks to reminds those who oppose it of its willingness to exact a brutal revenge on Palestinian civilians for any slight to its beloved self-image.

Israel claims its troops acted in self-defence on board the Mavi Marmara. Claims refuted not only by eye-witness testimony, but by the results of the autopsies carried out by the Turkish Council of Forensic Medicine for the Ministry of Justice. According to the Guardian, which obtained a copy of the results, the nine men who were killed were shot a total of 30 times. Five were killed by gunshots to the head.

That the victims were shot in the back and head indicates that the Israelis were carrying out a shoot-to-kill policy. It undercuts Netanyahu’s insistence that the soldiers were facing a lynch mob.

Meanwhile in London, as in so many cities this week, Freedom flotilla passengers are addressing packed open meetings, recounting the bloody massacre they witnessed. At the Conway Hall in Central London half a dozen British survivors, looked in turns spaced out and toughened by their experience of eleven days ago (is that all it is? How the world turns!).

Jamal El Shayyal, is the Al Jazeera reporter who kept broadcasting as gun shots rang out behind him on the upper decks of the Mavi Marmara. I honestly thought I had heard, read and seen the worst youtube clips of the Israeli attack on the fleet’s passengers. I hadn’t and nor have you. Those three minutes clips, miraculously either broadcast live or smuggled out beneath tongues, reveal the merest inkling of the horrors these brave people witnessed. And suffered.

El Shayyal, told a silent audience of around two hundred he ‘had been invited by IHH to film every inch of the ship.’ So he did. From the bowels of the hull to the uppermost decks he filmed.

‘I checked and filmed’ he said ‘there was not 1 weapon on board. Not one gun. no lethal artillery. The most lethal thing on the ship was fruit and vegetables.’

When the Israeli commandos attack began Jamal was wearing his pyjamas under a life jacket as were so many of the allegedly ‘heavily prepared terrorists on board.’ Helicopters caused a hurricane on the decks, all satellite phones were jammed deliberately to stop SOS calls to the rest of the world. And (the IDF hoped) reporting of what was about to occur.

At this point, just after four am, Jamal saw a Turkish passenger shot in the top of his head. He spoke slowly and clearly to make sure he was understood by us all in the hall.

‘No Soldier was on the ship at this time’.

Quickly another passenger removed a white t-shirt from a bag and used it as a white flag of surrender. When gun shots rang out, greater number and bodies began falling, it was clear calls for mercy were to be ignored.

An Israeli member of the Knesset and Lubna an activist who also speaks Hebrew took turns making announcements over the tannoy in English and then Hebrew. Calls made at least 8 times;

‘We have critically injured people here, please can you come and get them. We are NOT armed. We SURRENDER!’

Soon the tannoy connection was deliberately cut off.

Sarah Colborne of the PSC and another passenger negotiated with some soldiers for the removal of some of the now 39 plus injured. But some would not go with the Israeli’s fearing they would be less safe with them getting ‘treatment’ than below decks with comrades in agony.

‘The Israelis were asked for a stretcher’ continued Jamal ‘for a man with severe internal bleeding to be moved. Use a sleeping bag we were told.’ The man was moved in agony on a blanket no doubt increasing his injuries. And his immense pain. Did he survive? We’ll never know.

As the shooting gave way to the enforced imprisonment of the passengers, or, let’s give it its right name - kidnapping, Jamal was pushed to the floor, cuffed and beaten. His possessions taken from him. It was morning on a bright, sunny, summer’s day by now. Hundreds of shocked men were taken on deck, hands bound behind their backs. Three, then four hours passed. Pleas were made to use the toilet. No water was given, they were kicked, spat at and punched by soldiers who passed by every few minutes. Eventually Jamal persuaded one soldier to let him go to the toilet, ‘with my hands still bound behind my back.’ One man in his eighties trying to get home to Gaza was jeered at by soldiers. After many hours, he finally could not wait any longer, suffering the indignity of urinating on himself in front of friends and captors.

At some point Jamal was taken back downstairs. The area had been thoroughly ransacked.

‘There was no respect for human rights or dignity. Holy books of all faiths had been thrown about, possessions strewn everywhere”.

He remembers one quietly spoken Muslim brother asking soldiers gently several times for his cuffs to be loosened, just slightly. The third time he asked one tightened them so that ‘he let a scream of agony out that made us all feel sick to our stomachs.’

In the afternoon the ship was forced into Ashdod port. Pushed ashore he was greeted with the words; ‘Welcome to Israel. Are you enjoying your time here?’

The Al Jazeera journalist wanted us all to understand something very clearly. That the civilian passengers were not ‘detained’ nor ‘arrested.’ They were plainly and in every legal definition of the word ‘Kidnapped, abducted.’

In Beersheva prison he was placed in a cell with a leader from the Turkish human rights group IHH. They had no food for 24 hours, just a few sips of water, they had no idea if the world knew where they were or what had happened. In other parts of the prison, consular reps from Greece, France, Spain and Macedonia could be heard shouting at the Israeli captors for the release of their compatriots. Yelling that their rights were not being respected, yelling for food, water, access to legal representation. From the British consul. Nothing. Finally when every other consul had visited the abducted civilians, a British rep turned up. Jamal described the obsequious nature of the visit in terms that make us cringe. Bowing and scraping to the Israelis this British diplomat didn’t even demand the right to see the victims in a private area, a legal imperative for prisoners. He didn’t demand water, or food, or a release for those he was there supposedly to represent. Under the gaze of Israeli soldiers he asked just two questions ; ‘what is your name and what is your home number in the UK.’ Then left our citizens alone again to wonder about their fate; hungry, afraid, shocked, alone.

When the Israeli’s knew the game was up and that the world had indeed seen at least clips of their murderous attack, the Turkish abductees were given the chance to leave quickly, in an hour.

Did they go? No. They refused point blank to leave ‘before every other nationality has left before us.’

Jamal, Osama, Alexandra, Sarah, Kevin, and four hundred other internationals were released ONLY because of the Turkish governments support for them. Not because the international community stepped in. Not because of the UN’S actions or God forbid, the UK government. Because of Turkey.

In all his time as a prisoner, some forty hours plus, Jamal, like all the other Brits, who had been illegally shot at, bound, beaten and imprisoned by Israel, had no legal visit, no phone call home and no proper British representation.

Finally at Ben Gurion airport being deported from a place he never wanted to enter in the first place Jamal was given a piece of paper with a photo of himself on it and Hebrew writing.

His interrogator smirked at him and led him towards the plane ‘Congratulations’ the man said. ‘This is your new passport.’

‘I want my old passport!’ Said Jamal.

‘Sue me!’ Came the reply.

There was more much more from the survivors, which was videotaped and I will post as soon as it comes online. But let’s get back to the Zion-bots now. For alongside Press TV cameras and the PSC workers filming the testimonies there was a sulky faced, dark haired woman also shooting footage at the event. Curiously as the survivors described their horrors in great depth, this woman’s camera was aimed largely NOT at the stage but at my Press TV colleagues behind their own cameras. Strange, I thought.

I went outside for a calming cigarette and there she was again, instantly recognisable as one of the waspish, tight lipped Proto Zionists, for whom doing their duty for Israel, means spying on anyone who is not adoring of the Fascist states every word and deed.

She asked if I was with Press TV. Would I speak to her for “Israeli TV?” Clearly she was not from any TV company as no valid news channel accepts shaky, amateur hand held footage of the sort she was producing. Curious about her real intention I agreed.

‘So do you think Press TV has done enough to give the Israeli side of events concerning the flotilla?’ She whinged.

‘The BBC has given Mark Regev enough space for us all don’t you think..” I replied

‘Yes but don’t you think Press TV ought to....’ and then something else about Israel’s version of events and blah blah blah.

‘Go fuck yourself’ I told her. ‘Just fuck off.’

If you’re hoping to see news about the extraordinary events taking place in the Med sea around Cyprus on either the BBC or Sky this weekend. Forget it. For now. Despite the fact that almost three dozen Brits are amongst the 700 brave souls heading to Gaza on a fleet of ships laden with essential aid. Or the incredible military and political manoeverings surrounding Israels response to the peaceful attempt, major news channels in the West remain silent. This despite the fact their news editors have the direct numbers of spokespeopleon board and access to the live news feed.

After calls to newsrooms across the UK it is clear to me that the first ever sea bound fleet of international aid to Palestine is not of itself a big enough story for our media - until if fails. On Israel’s terms. The BBC has been taking some 200 calls in an hour from viewers wanting news of the mission - to no avail. So what’s going on?

The news agenda has been decided in advance that’s what. Dictated by the well oiled Israeli propaganda machine being nothing if not helpful to all tiers for foreign press right now.

I speak to Greta Berlin, in Cyprus, an organiser of the Freegaza Movement about the BBC’s attitude that ‘nothing is happening.’ She tells me ‘I just got off the phone with the BBC in Jerusalem. They want to send a camera crew to Ashdod. It was all I could do to tell them they will be in the wrong place!!’

Ashdod. Yes you guessed it; the port in ‘Israel’ where, its military have previously towed Freegaza boats and where now makeshift detention centres are supposedly waiting for the activists of the Freedom Fleet.

Right now, the flotilla teams from Turkey, Ireland, Sweden and beyond are battling all kinds of last minute difficulties. As Israel has been busy with its own ‘goodwill’ campaign. At an impromptu press conference given by the army department in charge of supposedly delivering goods into Gaza, the message was simple; ‘the flotilla is unnecessary as there is no humanitarian crisis in Gaza.’ Journalists have been taken on a tour of the Karem Abu Salem crossing, virtually the only crossing into Gaza that goods still pass through. Fact sheets handed to journalists outlining the’thousands of tonnes of food’ that enters the strip each year. The problem being with these impressively large looking numbers is that nowhere was there, a handy graph of what is ‘allowed’ in to feed the 1.8million Palestinians of Gaza and what is actually needed by the malnourished populace.

According to the army 156,000 tones of food has been delivered in the last six months. That’s roughly 4kg per Gazan per week. A tiny amount compared to what you and I get through, but far, far worse is the quality of the crap that Israel pours into the region. The kind of fizzy drinks, low vitamin junk food that if eaten on its own, without the requisite fruit and veg for a healthy diet- still leads the consumer to be malnourished.

But let’s get back to the fleet of ships and Israel’s devil and the deep blue sea, moment.

Some of you may believe that rather like the infamous London football supporters of Millwall, Israel’s regime is happy to inhabit the world stage with the political equivalent of the chant ‘nobody likes us we don’t care doo dah doo dah!’ In fact nothing could be farther from the truth. For like all bullies the Zionist regime is agonised by dislike. It simply cannot stand not to be loved. Altogether ‘Ahhh.’

It asks us time and again as it attacks unarmed villagers in the West Bank and school children in Gaza, to believe that as a state, Israel denounces violence and acts in a controlled military manner, purely (indeed solely) for self defence. Understand this core system of lies and you will understand the current complex machinations the Israeli government is undertaking to avoid an armed stand off with the Freedom Fleet tomorrow or Monday. A stand off it is however, fully in preparation to win. The Israeli navy, the fifth most powerful and heavily armed on the planet, is itching to blow the Turkish led fleet out of the water. Its comrades onland would just love to duff up and arrest all those onboard. What they don’t want is the bad press this would get them in this post Goldstone world. So. What to do?

Israel has said it is determined to intercept and search the vessels, then tow them to an Israeli port.

Israel has prepared a makeshift detention center in its southern port of Ashdod, and officials have said the activists sailing on the ships face deportation or arrest.

"We will not let this flotilla get through. It harms Israeli security," Israel TV's Channel 10 quoted Ayalon as saying.

The ground work then has been laid for a violent boarding of the vessels in international waters. Ground work to allow its idiot supporters to say, it didn’t want such a thing and tried to avoid it. Thus, Israel's deputy foreign minister, Danny Ayalon, reiterated Saturday that the ships would be intercepted, denouncing the sea convoy as a ‘provocation and violation of maritime laws’.

Still, the aid convoy poses a serious dilemma that was debated at the highest levels of the Israeli government this week.

Scenes of Israeli naval commandos taking over vessels with aid shipments and detaining high-profile activists would further harm Israel's image. This must be balanced with the determination in Tel Aviv to avoid setting a precedent and eroding the blockade by letting the vessels dock in Gaza.

Back to this weekends events. Defense Minister Ehud Barak and Foreign Ministry Director General Yossi Gal held a round of pressurised calls with foreign ministers from countries whose citizens are participating in the flotilla, and also with foreign diplomats on Thursday.

On entering waters near Cyprus the fleet were disappointed, though unsurprised to find themselves turned away by the port authorities. Yet they need to both refuel and pick up important VIP passengers for the final leg to Gaza. The complex system of alliances and counter-alliances of the Middle East has been used by Israel’s diplomatic team to good effect. It is unclear if it will be terminal to the mission as yet.

The Cypriot government did not allow smaller boats to carry the group to the flotilla. Organizers must now find a way to have two dozen would-be passengers, including 19 European legislators and an elderly Holocaust survivor, to join the ships anchored in international waters off the island. Greta Berlin said; ‘our two passenger boats have had mechanical problems under suspicious circumstances, both are now out of order- at the same time and pretty much in the same place. They are unable to go’. Mossad dark ops yet again in operation.

Last week and Israeli government source quoted in the regional press said "Israel will try to pick off the boats before they even join the flotilla." Success!

Their second success is that according to my latest news from Cyprus, Hedy Epstein, the wonderful, brave, lady in her eighties whose parents died in the Holocaust will now not make the journey.

Success two for Israel.

Authorities in Cyprus have been amazingly upfront in admitting their reasons for making the journey of the humanitarian mission so hard. Saying the decision was made to protect the island's "vital interests" — including economic ties with Israel.

Success three to Israel!

Organizers have since appealed to the Turkish government to get the group out via a Turkish-controlled northern Cyprus port. Turkish Cypriot officials have said they want to help the group as much as they can. The rest of the Freegaza Movement passengers are right now being transferred from Famaghusta at GMT 1700 on the 29th June.

A diplomatic tangle and mechanical problems have forced the flotilla to shrink from eight ships to five.

To add to this Ameen Abu Rashid, a member of the campaign, one of the founders of the fleet of freedom’s coalition, said that the Israeli authorities, are trying to disrupt the means of wireless communication which is used between ships. Just as the ships attempt to rendezvous avoiding the pre-defined lanes of the ships.

The final tier of Israel’s attempts to disrupt the fleets mission of mercy and avoid yet another bloody PR own goal, are to use its mad right wing elements. Yes the loonies the Zionist regime tells Obama it despises, yet funds and considers its outriders for God.

Six StandWithUsInternaitonal boats departed yesterday from the port of Ashdod on Friday, May 28 at 1pm. Each including journalists from major international outlets. The boats had a massive banner draped on the side "FREE GAZA FROM HAMAS." Those on board were wearing blood-stained t-shirts that say "FREE GAZA FROM HAMAS." SWU handed out copies of it's (version of) the Hamas charter booklet. They did on-board interviews in English, Spanish and Hebrew. They carried signs to "Release Gilad Shalit." This has become a duel at sea of facts versus propaganda,” said the far right Jewish flotilla organizer Roman Baron.

Speaking from the Turkish ship Mavi Marmara, Viva Palestina's Kevin Ovenden outlined some of the concerns and realities currently been faced by over 750 people on board the 9 ships sailing towards Gaza.

“People are very aware that the Israeli authorities and indeed others are playing all sorts of mind games, with threats alternating with so called offers, which would include surrendering the aid into Israeli hands, something which the participants of the flotilla find entirely unacceptable”

The last of the ships departed from Turkey at midnight on Thursday night, and they are all currently in International waters in the Mediterranean Sea. Their journey is faced with incredible danger, given the threats that have been issued by the Israeli Government. They have stated that they will stop this Flotilla at all costs, even by force if necessary. Their safety is in grave danger, and the time has come for the international community to stand up for their safety and well being.

The Flotilla needs our help to succeed. And it must!

The news cycle this week is dominated by the murder, assasination in fact, of a Hamas leader in Dubai. It's quite hilarious to hear British news channels try to meet their 'balance' agenda in bulletins. One BBC reporter tied himself in knots this morning trying to find a way to explain that the electrocution of the Gaza man may have been done by an unknown group trying to 'frame Israel for the killing.' A great comedy moment if you enjoy such things. But for once there is a genuine sense of urgency to a story about the arrogant terror of the Mossad and its ambassadorial machinery. The outrage in Europe not aimed towards the fact a man was tortured to death by a state agency, nah, who cares he was Hamas right? No, the anger is related to the illegal use of British passports by the operatives, a move that must have been approved and sorted out high up in the Zionist network.

Collusion. That's what it's all about. The United Arab Emirates suspect that Europe's "security collaboration" with Israel has crossed a line into illegality. British passports (and those of other other EU nations) being used to send Israeli agents into the Gulf to kill Israel's enemies. Very naughty lads, not covert enough you see. The arrogance of the act, on Arab soil, has the telltale marks of an Israeli hit. Why cover up when you are above all international law?

Arab, Israeli, European or American adopt an arrogant attitude towards those from whom they wish to hide. How could the Arabs pick up on a Mossad killing? Well Interpol has been called in and today so has the Israeli ambassador to Britain. Not for a dressing down insists the BBC man, just for a polite word to clear up any confusion that British citizens passports are being nicked and copied by Israel for their illegal operations.

Last night I was on facebook when two chat windows popped up at the same time. Two of my journalist colleagues from Gaza. Sameh Habeeb who has started the online newspaper the Palestine Telegraph. And the award winning reporter Mohammed Omer.

In 2008, Omer was awarded the 2007 Martha Gellhorn Prize for Journalism. He was honored as "the voice of the voiceless" - his reports described as a "humane record of the injustice imposed on a community forgotten by much of the world."

Mohammed's brother was killed on October 18, 2003 by an Israeli sniper and nine days later an Israeli bulldozer crushed the family home. His mother was severely wounded, an injury from which she was still suffering three years later. Almost all of Mohammed's siblings have been injured by Israeli military forces.

In 2008, while traveling back to Gaza via Allenby Bridge to the West Bank, Omer reported was stripped to his underwear, humiliated and beaten by Israeli soldiers. He was subsequently hospitalized upon his return to Gaza, where it was discovered that Omer had sustained several broken ribs and various bodily contusions as a result of the ordeal. The government of The Netherlands, where he now lives, had sent a diplomat to welcome and accompany him to Gaza, lodged an official protest with Israel's Government Press Office said in a statement that Omer was never subjected to physical or mental abuse. It said his account was full of contradictions and was "without foundation."

Last night Omer chatted to me online about procedures he had this week on the spinal injuries he still suffers from as a result of the Israeli beating. Or as he calls it 'the Allenby shit.' A series of painful lumber injections have left him feeling frustrated but unbowed. Meanwhile, in London, young Sameh has got the web world abuzz with the Palestine Telegraph, a virtual paper now boasting 150,000 hits. Here is the link so you can read it for yourself: www.paltelegraph.com

As I flicked between open chat boxes passing greetings from Sameh to Omer, a central theme began to emerge. Both young writers are getting death threats to their mobile phones. This is not a new thing rest assured, such pressure is an accepted part of the Zionists methodology. If you can't blackmail someone into silence by attempting to discredit them online (see Harry's Place for a sickening example) then call them Anti semite. If they are still being read and listened too, then pressure them, threaten them, ring their homes, if they have family still within reach of Israeli forces, make implicit threats on the lives of sisters, mothers, fathers. So these threats are being made to two good men, who have never raised a fist in anger but use their writing skills to bring the truth about Palestine to an ever wider audience. What does it say about Israel's 'cause' that they have their agents out there who try to poison the web with lies and threaten the just?

As for me, my phones are tapped, my emails read, my husband and children have also been threatened by ugly late night phone calls.

Collusion is a word the Arabs understand. It speaks of the 1956 Suez War, when Britain and France cooperated with Israel to invade Egypt.

That collusion continues. A Hamas leader, a Sinn Fein leader, an Iranian leader, a British leader. All deserve equal respect and protection under international law.

Sameh Habeeb and Mohammed Omer, I salute your refusal to be silenced. Keep going my dear friends. And the next time a voice mutters a threat, have whistle handy. Blow it hard.

New buildings line the main road, the only entrance, into Qualquilya centre. Partially completed, yellow villas with balconies and terraces, overlook what is left of the arable land. A huge Mosque lacks just the turqouise blue favoured for minorettes in this region. Our hosts, the twenty young cyclists whose year old club we have joined for this leg of the journey, show off as we enter the once wealthy city. Cars are no respecters of youthful exuberance, and what with bikes being such a rarity here, inevitably one of the boys is knocked flying by someone reversing into the flow of horn blaring traffic. He rolls twice and clutches his arm. He is quickly scooped into the support van and his bike strapped to the roof. He is wincing but it doesn't seem serious.

The city of Qalqiliya, is in the northwest of the West Bank, situated about 12 km from the Mediterranean coast, on the border between Israel and the West Bank. The city covers approximately 3.5 km2, less than four kilometres. There are more people per square kilometre living cheek by jowl here, than anywhere else in the world. Yes - even Gaza. Qualuilya has the second highest unemployment rate in Palestine; twenty five per cent. The highest is in Khan Younis. Gaza's population continues to grow, whilst the populace here are leaving in such great numbers for other parts of the West Bank, where it is easier to trade and to move, that despite the average family consisting of more than five children, Qualqullya is dying.

No town in the West Bank suffers more restrictions than this once thriving city of palm trees and flowering shrubs. The population is surrounded on all four sides by the wall, which separates them from their farmland and source of income. Nearby a large Israeli settlement plunders more essential resources. Worse still is the security which accompanies these structures, with dozens of checkpoints policing the town and nearby villages. Many of these serve no purpose at all, closing months after they appear, often in bizarre locations between Arabic villages.

Alex and I have cycled for thirty (of the days forty) kilometres, the final stretch being a blissful sweep of tree lined streets. We arrive at the building homes to the cycle/youth club, gratefully finding some shade for the first time in hours. Sweat on our backs, our hair, our hands. I join the others, wheeling my bike to the shed area when one of the teenage boys, Hamed, holds his hand up stopping me in my tracks. He puts his fingers on my handlebars and leans forward gently unclipping my helmet. Another lad does the same to Alexandra. The significance of this is moving, we are in their home town and they want to take care of us. We will want for nothing, says this symbolic gesture, we are 'home'.

Ahmed, the handsome lad who scraped his arm in the earlier accident is surrounded by his mates. They are incredily sweet about his injury. Their are cries of 'Habibi' (my dear, my love) and he receives a group hug. Is anything sweeter in this world than teenagers who can, through a sense of communal love, comfort eachother in such an unselfconscious manner, in public? Boys whose lives are hard, whose families suffer humiliation and degradation not just for days, weeks or months but generations, express at every given opportunity affectionate support for their peers. And for us, new arrivals, from across the globe.

Alexandra plays table tennis in the recreation room, whilst the adult cyclists drink oceans of fanta and coke. Coca cola is massive in Palestine. The boycott and divestment campaign that is catching light in Europe and beyond, which it is hoped will punish Israel into reassessing its murderous policies, has yet to catch on here. There is no economic anger towards the US, despite her support for the 'security' fence, the closures, the bombing of Gaza. Besides, says one of the boys through a translator, 'coke is so good cold, we could never stick to not buying it, bombs or no bombs.'

Back on the bikes we trundle through more beautiful streets, the suburbs of the wealthy, until we reach, the Wall.

Mr Nabil, his mother, his wife, and their children, once upon a time, bought of a plot of land on which to build a beautiful villa. The courtyard he created, still has the only roses I have noticed so far on our journey, flourishing against the white stone of the metre thick walls. When he bought the land, it overlooked sweeping hills and valleys. The land included a citrus orchard, fig trees and a grassy plain for grazing animals. On balmy summer evenings (Qualquilya is humid most of the year round), the children would play in the vast garden, and he and his wife would sit sipping sweet mint tea in the cooling breeze.

Then Israel forcibly took over all but ten metres of the land from his front gate, and they built an eight metre wall along it, stretching, unendingly from left to right, scarring the land. It is a disaster to the environment of Qualquilya. In the winter months when the rains come, rather than the water being sucked up evenly across the land to feed the crops for the dry months to come, it now settles in murky, rotten, lakes, flooding great sections of the area, including Mr Nabil's home. The Wall has cut off the natural drainage. It doesn't just rise high into the air, it plunges metres beneath the earth too, supposedly to stop terrorists from digging their way out of this illegal prison. Whatever the true reason, in building it Israeli authorities have damaged essential drainage systems, Sewage pipes, and water access for hundreds and hundreds of thousands of Palestinians.

In sweat pants and sandals, smoking heavily, the villa owner explains that the few trees left are 'rotting from the roots up.' The rainy season leaves mud deep in the earth, the flora and fauna here can't cope.

I stand by this man's front gate and look at the monstrosity in stone that blocks his family, this city, this region, from the rolling hills of figs and citrus trees, from the coastal glory of Jaff and Haifa. There is a clenching in my chest. Tears prick my eyes. Sometimes it is the scarring of the land that makes you weep here. It is hard not imagine my own lovely garden which rolls into the French countryside, being massacred, brutalised by an invaders wall. What would I feel in the summer evenings sitting beneath cameras and watchtowers? What effect would it have on my daughters to suddenly have their joyful rolling and running games cut apart, limited to a few metres, under the gloom of such a hateful mass of gravel and occupation?

I don't cry.

I want to cry.

I won't cry.

The Nabil women stand in the gateway that leads to the courtyard in which they are now forced to sweat away the years, in suppressive heat and isolation. Pretty women in traditional Jalabyia robes, these ladies are Palestinian Bourgeousie. Able to afford the best traditional hand stiched clothes. Unable to escape the impact of this occupation, suffering alongside their poorer neighbours. Israeli occupation, like death, is a great leveller.

The women bring out plastic chairs for us to sit on and they reminisce about the smell of Bourganville, about cool breezes, gushing inland, irrigating Palestine from sea to sea.

Gone.

A lone horse, hip jutting alarmingly, is tied to a wooden pole, in the middle of the only scrub grass that can now take the baking sun of Summer and the flooding rains of winter. A climage magnified a thousand fold by the ecologically disastrous Wall.

We continue our tour of the wall, cycling to Jal Julia street in the village of the same name. Seven years ago, this was a vibrant market town that sold vegetables, flowers, bread, cheese 'everything' says our local guide. Israeli settlers and those from towns near the borders would come here to save money on high class produce.

Now it's a dust bowl beneath another section of the Apartheid 'fence'. Nothing for sale. Nobody comes here. International visitors have scrawled messages of anger on the Wall.

"Apartheid is Fascism' says one

'Zionism = Nazis' another, next to a five foot high series of spray painted Palestinian flags.

An Israeli road block outside Nablus

Fifteen minutes cycling from Nablus and a barrier erected by the IDF is before us. This has been erected to disrupt Palestinian traffic flow between the major cities of Nablus and Qualquilya. It is also here so that armed police can monitor who uses the roads nearest to the settlements littering the landscape. Stone blocks and rubble make the road impassable to vehicles. Our already over laden support van, must go perilously down a bracken strewn verge then attempt to climb an even steeper incline to the road on the other side. Our cyclists, steer their way through the obstruction. From this point on, until the suburbs of Nablus, Alex will ride in the van for safety. This is Jewish bandit country, not even children are safe on the roads or in the fields here.

The olive grove that the van must detour into, is sheltering a Palestinian farming family. In the mid morning heat, they share bread and water, sheltered by the trees, whose fruit has been their income for generations.

No sooner have the Q boys and our team crossed the obstruction point, an Israeli police car winds its way down the twisting road towards us. A collective breath is silently held. 100 m ahead is a left hand turn into a settlement, the signs are once again in three languages; Hebrew, English and finally Arabic. The police give us the once over and drive away. It has been a short but steep climb, the cyclists pause in order to close ranks, if one person is somehow left it could be dangerous for them here.

Suddenly a grey car turns towards the settlement road on our left. The driver has the curls of a settler, he takes an instant dislike to the dark skinned, local boys. Leans out of his window and demands 'where are you from? What are you doing here?' All the boys speak enough Hebrew to understand and respond. Palestinian children are used to being interrogated in that language, it's just daily life for them. Their body language is alert, but not aggressive. They are watching out for one another. They must not react with even a raised voice no matter what the settler says to them, to do so will mean arrest in minutes. And what that leads to I have no space here to write. But it ain't good.

'Qualquilya' repeats the settler 'Qualquilya.' He drives ten metres then stops, leans out of the car and stares back at their line. Another ten metres and he begins to do a u-turn. Trouble.

It is not uncommon for young Palestinians to be attacked by adult settlers, driven off the roads, stoned, verbally abused. I am filming, from the van as the settler heads back towards the boys he spots the van, sees 'white' faces and the camera and stops. Settlers hate video cameras. He drives away doubtless to inform his comrades of our presence.

Meanwhile, Alex is curled up at my feet, she refuses to get up. We have been in Palestine nearly a week and she has been met with love and friendship until now. Until the settlements.

The next Arab village is Funduk, a donkey cart, the first I have seen trundles past us. Funduk is a farming shanty village that is surrounded by 13 settlements. Sheep, hot and stained, clanging bells, sweep amongst us. It is time for a mid morning pause. We stop and eat fresh dates from crates, handed out by the boys from Qualquilya. We are in a garden centre whose Arcacia trees drip brown seed pods, called Haroub. A dry, crunchy version of peas that donkeys and goats go mad for.

Hamsa, 18, plays Arabic pop on his mobile phone ( a better phone than mine by a long chalk). Three bikes are damaged and undergo repairs by the road side. Brakes are coming unhinged on the bumpy downhill slopes. Lord knows how many punctures we have had so far. Most of them having happened to Simon, from London, whose bike has given him nothing but grief since Amman. The Q captain and men from Peace Cycle exchange skills and equipment freely until the job is done in double time.

The winding countryside is behind us for now. What lies ahead into Qualquilya is a wide, nearly new motorway, a shared on this, used by both local Palestinians, settlers, Israeli police and soldiers. Quamre Shalom, is a vast settlement on our left (I need to check the exact name as I've lost my map, but will amend any fault soon). We are in a new world of barbed, wire, watchtowers, or razor wire and electric fences. The cycling is blissfully flat or gently downhill, it's the happiest section we slower riders have enjoyed. Pity about the looming concentration camps that Jewish settlers have chosen to cage themself into.

It really strikes me forcefully being out in the open right next to them how strange it is that anyone seeking 'security' or 'freedom' much less 'peace' should choose to live on stolen land in armed cages. We are monitored by cameras, as we glide pass the mile on mile of fences seperating the 'them' from the 'us' of this scarred land. Cars beep us, some in salute to our Peace cycle dayglo vests, some irritated at our being on the road at all. At the Nablus checkpoint we use, two bored young soldiers lull, talking into their mobile phones. They are, it seems, not on high alert for so called 'terror' attacks. So why are they here at all I wonder?

Yousef, the lead cyclists has us all pull over to the sandy side of the road. Hamed, one of the Q boys comes over to me and stamps his foot, back erect, beaming smile in place 'Now Qualquilya' he says 'Welcome Home.'

Having had very low expectations of what this city, entirely circled by Israel's Apartheid wall, would look like, I am pleasantly gob smacked, by the prettiness of Qualquilya.

But for for all its loveliness and suburban investment Qualquilya is dying, being strangled by the wall. It's population peaked at over 150,000 a decade ago. It is now less than half that despite a booming birth rate.

More later got to go.

Al Farah Refugee Camp to Nablus

The Qualquilya boys, are interspersed with our group, on the gritty roads we now encounter. The roads have been far better than I had expected, or remembered. International guilt money reaches the Palestinian Authority for such things. It's the big questions that remain unanswered, like why can't we have a state or when will this illegal occupation end?

The lads are strictly ruled by their captain ‘the best bodybuilder in the area’ Yousef. He barks orders at them, not afraid to shove them into line with his tree trunk arms when necessary. The boys clearly respect and like him. Yousef is in his thirties and almost as squat as he is tall. Alex has become their team mascot as well as a surrogate little sister to them all. Her ability to cycle at their pace, and on most days, as far they can, drawing admiring chuckles. If she never gets hugged and squeezed again in her life, she will still have had her quota.

The lads are brimming with teenage energy. They hold hands with one another, stroll with arms about one another's shoulders, with a lack of self consciousness. There is so little time to chat to them and the language barrier is a problem. They are dying to talk to us, flap their hands at me, bite their lips, blurt out bursts of Arabic, but the best we can secure from one another is that I have two children and that they are all under twenty years old. Despite their hard lives they utterly lack the angst of their western peers. This surely has a lot to do with the absence of alcohol in their society.

This part of Palestine is an alcohol free zone. Areas with Christian communities and some kind of tourism trade, Ramallah, Bethlehem, Nazareth, are where alcohol and (I hear) Hashish cross the border freely. But in these rural areas lads in their late teens have energy to burn, free from hangovers. The entire team are, in short, adorable. Despite this some of our more 'serious' cyclists feel their own cycling agenda has somehow been interfered with. Very different road rules exist here, for example you do NOT speed down hills no matter how hard this makes the inevitable vertical climb up the next one. This is to save injury as loose grit and chunks of stone littering the roads can lead to nasty injuries at speed.

I am in the van once again, the first, stretch of vertical tarmac doing for me before the camp is even out of sight. At the tiny town of Wadu Al Baden, an elderly man rushes over as the group gulp down water and look, unsuccessfully for shade.

‘Thank you for coming’ he says handing out free canned drinks. Vans go past beeping and local workers yell ‘welcome to our country’ at our two wheeled convoy.

Around a bend in the sweeping, endlessly climbing route, suddenly water is pouring from everywhere at once. A series of stalls are attached to a moss grown mountain cliff. From sandy verges we have entered a hillside oasis, we are in Valley Al Badan. A village of natural springs that gush randomly from holes in the mountainside. Between cascades, basket stalls dominate the kerbside. The small bend, which is also the town’s main street, is full of locals, chatting, eating ice creams, enjoying their lunchtime. The arrival of twenty local lads and almost as many foreigners on bikes doesn’t seem to throw them in the slightest. They are mutely friendly, curious and then it happens. Inevitably, one of the qualquilya boys spots a drum hanging with others from the farthest stall, unhooks it without a thought and starts to pass his forefinger and thumb over its skin.

‘Oorah!’ goes the cry. The beat is mesmeric, a treat that intensifies the lush green branches, reminding us where we are and who we are with, a religious region, under Occupation, with a rich heritage, and an inspirational younger generation. So, the boys begin to dance, hips twisting this way and that, arms twirling. A big circle forms, with people going in two at a time. Alex’s hand is grabbed in the melee, she is shy and tries to resist but soon she and I and the wonderful elder statewoman of far flung travel, Janet, are doing the Arabic jive to claps and cheers. It’s so much fun, another drum is taken down, the owners don’t seem to mind in the least, and the drumbeat swells, the laughter builds, we are having such a good time, the bikes are forgotten. One of the Mohammed’s (there are four), gives the old Bedoin style yodel, flicking his tongue from side to side against his lips. Others join in, a joyous, aromatic sound is growing, growing. Suddenly, it’s over, the captain of the team has shouted ‘yulla’ and the boys hang up their drums. It’s time to head off.

A small way on, roadworks make it too dusty to be wise to continue, so students and a professor from Al Najah university come to take our bikes and most of the cyclists past the problem. Unknown to me, Alex has twice come off her bike behind the van and is being walked up the final terrible slope. She is helped by our guide from the Sirraj centre, Rafaa and a fellow cyclist from Canada, Methear. The sun is pounding down, as the lads pull in at last, then at last Alex appears and I rush over to take her bike and help her. She bites her lip and shakes her head insisting on wheeling it right up to the van. She really is incredible.

Alex and I part climb and are part hauled onto the open backed van with the Q boys, Martin, Kevin, Simon and Anne. Two of the boys are standing up dancing about, shouts begin at first ‘Taqbir’ ‘Allah Akbhar’ then ‘Free Free Palestine, Free Free Palestine..’ Their energy is entirely infectious, Simon is grinning from ear to ear; ‘to be here..’ he motions to the olive dotted hills, ‘with young Palestinians singing about their freedom, I mean life just does not get better’n this does it?

Nablus

October is olive picking season around Nablus and across Palestine. A timeless tradition, now obstructed, made ever more dangerous, by the presence of the Jewish extremists, known as ‘settlers.’ Despite Obama's 'Peace' prize the number of these violent psychopaths and economic migrants, (happy to live on stolen land and to protect it with guns) continue to swell.

The loathing these religious zealots have for the indigenous Palestinians knows no bounds. There are 40 settlements around Nablus alone. The settlers here are known for their violence. Attacks on Palestinian villagers are common, aided and abetted by the Jewish extremists, very own private army, aka; the IDF. Protected also by a government that no longer even bothers to deny its allegiance to their project of creating a ‘greater Israel’. This project has never recognised the so called “Oslo’ agreement, nor the laughable 'green line' whose border through historic Palestine was supposed to allow the Arab population who remained a generous 22 per cent of their own land. The Apartheid wall has already stolen half of that land too. But more of that later.

This year hundreds of dunums of agricultural land, of olive groves, the main produce here, have been razed to the ground in a series of settler arson attacks. The farmers whose trees remained unharmed must plead their case for harvesting access to their own lands with the Israeli authorities. Should ‘co ordination’ be given for this, the permits to do so allow the men a mere two to three days to harvest their own crops. At the end of these visas they are once again denied access to their agricultural land. Too little time, postponement until the crops are past their best. And local farmers fail to make the money from their crops that they rely on to feed their families.

I rejoin the cyclists for the (downhill) slope into Nablus, and the steep final climb to Al Najar universities new campus. I was here three years ago, when times were bad, incursions, nightly, right into the old town, and a curfew in place. 56 students have been killed by the IDF. Some in the campus dorms.

But things are a bit better this time. Despite the fact that there are more than one hundred checkpoints surrounding Nablus and its villages, in the past five months, students report that these have been easier to cross. I meet ‘Noor’ and her friends, a twenty one year old English student. She reports that this morning has been bad for her student colleagues.Noor, is not in a hijab, there is no dress policy nor religious code of conduct here, jeans, flowing hair, ipods and iphones, the stuff of modern universities worldwide are clearly in evidence. What is different from say Uk campus’s is the lack of a ‘bar’ and the smiling, happpy, connectedness of the students to eachother, their teachers and now to us, strangers who are greeted with handshakes and in Alex’s case sweets and fizzy drinks, hugs and warm coos of ‘ soo cuutte’ as she is carried along on the shoulders of a Palestinian cyclist.

Dozens of whom were kept waiting for more than an hour at the main Nablus checkpoint without a reason, as soldiers ‘checked’ their ID.

‘They do this so we miss our lectures. To make us fall behind, to stop us succeeding.’ she says, over hot chai with a professor from the faculty.

‘But this is neverthless a very good year’ he says ‘no one has been killed in Nablus (by the occupying forces)’.

Back in the canteen, the professor is stunned to learn that several Nablus residents have as it turns out been killed by the IDF over the previous year. The students who have joined us say one name and search for another of a civilian who was shot at a checkpoint, whose name is already forgotten. The professor is visibly shocked.

‘Here in Nablus we used to care when someone was killed, remember their name, talk about it, hear it always on the news. Now...’ he sighs ‘now we are so used to it, we are immune..’

Alex is called over to sit with her fans from Qualquilya who call her ‘our little hero’ and hang on to her every word despite not speaking English. They talk over and over again about how she has kept up with them mile on mile, pace for pace. In fact coming into Nablus, she refused yet again to come into the van to rest and to have some shade when I called her to do so. Rafaa our guide from the Sirraj centre told me it was too dangerous for her to be on the roads. The fact that three of the boys had almost been knocked off their bikes in the space of five minutes told me all I needed to know on that score. In a motherly wave of protectiveness I got our van driver to pull over slightly ahead of Alex at the next lights, I dived towards the roadside grabbed Alex round the waist, bundling her inside while Rafaa grabbed her bike and put it on top of the van.

Alex was stunned into silence a moment then said

‘Mum that felt like I was being kidnapped’ shaking her head angrily at my over protective 'silliness'.

Al Najar has a highly renowned, brand new fine art department. Here students have their own shop, as swanky as the one at Tate Modern, where the best of their work is put on sale. Ceramics of all shapes, colours and sizes are on display, Tables with mosaic tops, sit beneath oil paintings. My favourite is a work of thick brush strokes, a vast market scene, perhaps from East Jerusalem.

Music students present a traditional series of songs to our combined European/Qualquilya group. As a young man's hauntingly melodious voice rolls across the room, the lads clap and hail their respect. Once the tabla gets going they can't help themselves, in the corner (and to the fury of body builder Yusef, their trainer) dancing begins in earnest. Jumping around from leg to leg, laughing, scraping chairs back, two sides of Palestinian youth have forgotten their visitors altogether. The young man who leads the musicians shouts over to his poorer peers from the rural regions. 'You want this or this?' I guess he says. There is no judgment from one side of the jubilant energy or the other, they are all brothers, they are all young, they are all Palestinian.

And they love eachother. Checkpoints are forgotten. Palestine unites in music.

We tour the Old City of Nablus in a rush as dusk closes in. A bustling souk, cloaked in aromatic scents, turkish coffee with cardamom. Clothes hanging overhead in brown, red and green. Men and young boys wheel wooden carts through the narrow streets transporting their produce in an area where cars do not travel. Some of these carts have coffee or tea urns on them, a man in a fez shouts' Welcome, chai?' Alex, for the first time is showing real tiredness. The pace of the cycle is hard for us both and Alex loves to be at the front. She starts to cry, one of the high points of the trip, a real, ancient, Palestinian market, no fun at all when her legs need rest and her little head, peace and quiet. We head quickly back to the hotel which is minutes from the souk, the call to prayer as aromatic as the cardamom in the air. Local women, carrying their own babies look at Alex with concern, clearly wishing to scoop up the overtired little girl and cover her in kisses.

A local man with white hair, asks if I am Swedish, then walks alongside us. When I sniff the air beside a coffee grinding shop, he darts in and buys me a bag to take home. Then he dives into an ancient archway under the city where the souk has been held for hundreds of years and hands me a small bar of olive oil soap.

'Thank you for coming to Palestine' he says, waving us off.

What he means is 'thank you for not forgetting Palestine.

The day begins with a tour of the notorious, Al Farha Prison and former police station, known locally as: 'Salah Khalaph'. Built under British Mandate in the 1930's it'e exterior is a sandstone Trumpton. The shuddering horrors of the torture carried out on Palestinians by successive regimes, British, then Israeli, are described in cool detail by our guide from the camp.

During the first intifada, young men were tied back to back and made to sit on a rock for three days whatever the weather conditions whilst Israeli soldiers threw rocks at them. If they cried or shouted, they were then taken to a series of pit-rooms, or solitary confinement, where many 'were broken' says our guide. Their screams iliiciting laughter from the guards.

'Vietnam was not worse than this.' His descriptions remind me of the treatement allied troops received in Japanese POW camps. I am with my daughter who has been listening intently to all of this, she says she needs the toilet, so I lead her away, the perfect excuse to remove from the lingering atmosphere and the too vivid descriptions of torture.

We sit in a small courtyard where twenty young Palestinian lads, in black cycle shorts and white t-shirts are lolling in the shade. The Qualqulia cycle club have combined with Peace Cycle for this leg of the journey. I admire their white, entirely thorough knee pads (I need to find Alex some) and am just entering into some sign language with the least shy of the group, when there is a roar overhead that forces my shoulders up to my ears. A rumble, a throb, as if a thousand planes are above us. the boys carry on lolling- vaguely curious. One or two put their hands to their foreheads and peer into the cloudless blue. This is the sound of the countryside, Palestine 2009. Israeli fighter jets in formation, practising their lethal trade in death and destruction. On and on and on goes the roar, I try not to flinch in front of the young men but the urge to run inside and cower under a table is almost irresistible, to hide from the tonnes of metal hell in the air above us. The pilots would call this 'manoevres' the locals call it 'just-to-remind- you-we-are' fly pasts.

Alexandra and Qud stick together like glue. Qud is smaller with pale eyes and hair and seems quite besotted with her taller, European friend and her strange, thrilling new games. Rooms, cars and streets echo with their sing song chants of the French clapping game 'Dam, Dam der der, Si, si, olero olay...'For Alex's aprt her natural reticence with new people has vanished, when she is invited to visit Qud's school and speak to classes about her life in France, she shrugs 'kay'.

Children here are up at dawn to dress for school. The birdsong so lacking during the scorching sunlight hours is more than made up for by the vibratto of the dawn chorus. Prior to 1948 Jenin was the 'garden of Palestine' abundant with fields of vegetables, herbs and fruit trees. Even today despite decades of poverty, the soil refuses to be silent pushing her green threads between rocks, stone walls and in the ankle grinding granite that counts for pavements in this part of the world.

Al Ryiad is a progressive private school in the Al jaberiat suburb of the city. I swear that I have never been anywhere to noisy in my life. The decibel level at morning break when Alexandra and I arrive along with Qud's mother makes Alex momentarily clingy. Then ther eis a scream and a bundle of plaits come hurtling towards us - Quds.

'What eez your name?'

'Where do you come from?'

'How old are you?'

There are 350 pupils at the school and langugage is a priority. Qud's and Alex jabber all day in the secret language of little girls, but it is now clear that Qud's actually understands a good percentage of what Alex is saying.

The head mistress Saheer Khalil, is a smart lady, with a temper (I can tell, I am proved right). She is like most people here a heavy smoker, which is lucky as I've forgotten mine. We puff away over photo albums of the cloak wearing grads of last year

'These children all went on to university' she says between puffs,

'In Egypt, Ramallah, Jordan...'

The school is three storeys high, with a cement playground on three sides. The outside walls are covered in murals; the kindergarten with an attempted Sylvester the Cat, the larger children rushing around before painted mountainscapes.

Crisps, fizzy drinks, chocolate bars from the school shop, keep the noise level at airport landing strip level as we head towards the classes where Alex will give a short presentation on life in France. The schools two female English teachers are excited at the unexpectec cultural exchange and class plans are dropped.

'My name is Alex and I am going to tell you about my life in France.' Whispers Alex. She is standing before a class of children her own age staring at her with the curious blankness all students wear after school yard fun and fizzy drinks. However the by now nerve jangling volume still coming from the halls makes her have to begin again. And again. Dear thing, she struggles on not really getting beyond her name and age before the head English teacher, a cheeky woman with a spakling grin and beige hijab shouts above the din 'ask her her name, what is she doing now? Writ-ing her name, yes, writ-ting.'

The next class is better for Alex who this time gets to 'My family and the animals who live near us...'before I am forced to interrupt her.

'My father had a motrobike accident because he was drunk and he was out with the rugby guys and...'

'Alex' I yell

'What is dr-u-nke?' Asks the teacher bemused.

'Never mind, nothing' I say not really wanting to explain alcohol excess in the West.

I needn't really worry or have been so sensitive, this isn't Gaza. In fact the differences are so pronounced between life in the Jenin and say Khan Younis, I feel tearful at times. In one classroom the children are curious to hear from a foreigner who has spent time in that strange place so physically near, so culturally removed from them.

I feel an odd anger welling up in me. Why don't they know what it's like, why don't they call people there and ask them? Do their families care about the people in Gaza really or are they a racially inferior class of Palestinian even to those in Jenin? I fear they are. Of course it's the occupations fault, the Israel's pride that the West Bank and Gaza are now utterly separate entities. No one who lives here has been there and almost certainly never will. Their permits after negotiation may get them to other parts of the middle East but never to Rafah.

' Jenin is Hollywood compared to Gaza' I say wanting and receiving shocked looked off the assembled fourteen year olds. This region of road blocks and refugees can make you irrational if you let it.

'And Jenin Camp is a PA-LACE compared to Gaza.'

The main theme, and one that the teachers are clearly keen to keep alive in their pupils is; Jerusalem. Teachers ask if I have been there, for me to describe it to the pupils, is it beautiful, what are the roads like, did I go to the mosque (where they cannot?) Across the West Bank, no further into the refugee camps of Jordan, Syria and Lebanon, 'Quds' is a burning sore that cannot heal. This Holiest of Holies, this city of history, pride and light, must be visited seen again before death.

Of this trip so far, I have cried just once. At Mount Nebo in Jordan, at dusk. Standing on the site where Moses is supposed to have looked over the Holy Land and said 'this is it chaps, but we can't go there (yet)', the whole sprawling, story lay beneath us. To the left the Red Sea, shimmering, looking depleted from its banks after along summer. The green and sandstone hills of painters, poets and religious clerics, a signpost for visitors with arrows bearing the legends "Hebron, Nablus, Bethlehem and..Jerusalem. I was utterly overwhelmed, crumpled by it's hilly closeness. By the temptation to just vault the barrier and walk to Jerusalem myself. Our guide a 48 refugee whose mother and family were driven from Jerusalem was with me. He sighed.

'Does your mother ever come here and look for al Quds' I asked.

'Every week for fifty years' he said shaking his head.

'Every week....'

Alex, took up the theme, really she is quite something for an eight year old.

Hands clenching slightly, she spoke loudly for the first time

'On our television news and in our newspapers you are shown as bad people, as violent..' their are gasps, some nervous laughter.

Cheeky teacher says

'And are we Alex, are you afraid in Jenin, are we horrible people?'

'NO' she shouts back looking upset at the very idea

'You're nice, I like you'

'And are you afraid in Jenin?'

'NO! I am happy in Jenin the people are kind.'

This after all is the message they want, children, teachers, janitors, shop keepers. They have information from the outside world, TV's are on night and day, dawn till dusk. But an abused nation suffering collective emotional hurt, they are compelled to ask visitors over and over again 'do you think we are bad, nasty, wrong, violent?' 'Are we scary, strange, deserving of this...?'

Gaza is on my mind as we drive away in the taxi.