Christmas

My friend Zeiad’s daughter coughed the night through. Her tiny, three-year-old body writhed with each bellow until giving way to vomit again and again. Even now, she tries in vain to sniff back her running nose, and we see our breath as we sit together in a cold room. Her father leaves today for Tel Aviv, where he will seek to work in construction for the next twenty-eight days. When his permission expires, he will return to the camp and attempt to renew his permit in order to stay another month in Israel.
He leaves behind a refugee camp bound by tense desperation and six children. It is his only option, one he would never have taken during the first years of the Intifada. But the situation has deteriorated dramatically, and his fortune to be able to acquire a permit to enter Israel is rare. It is an opportunity he cannot afford to pass.
As for me, I head today to Bil’in where I hope to find the international activists, who like my friend, have left this city I love. Basing our operations here seems unrealistic at this time. Even the NGO’s and Not-for-Profit organizations have suffered the impacts of the embargo, and I feel that we will be more successful in our efforts elsewhere.
From Askar Refugee Camp, Nablus, West Bank