Anabta, Ar-Ras Sunday, 23.07.06 PM Observers: Alix W., Susan L., (reporting)Guest: Ziporah B. Summary Life goes on in the Occupied Territories. And on. And on. And the settlers are sitting pretty, prettier than ever. 17:30 — at the junction of Routes 60 and 57, a blue police jeep has stopped a small truck which was struggling to exit from the tortuous dirt path across the fields and failed. AnabtaRiddle: why is Anabta more and like Beit Iba these days? Answer: there’s as much dust as at Beit Iba, and not because of any quarries but because the army, in its infinite wisdom, has widened the bucolic valley, filled in the dangerous ditch on the west side of the road, and created a “roadway” which, euphemistically, is supposed to give enough room for two semi-trailers to pass. Instead, a mass of dust has been created, and other than a huge truck, the uneven dirt, dust rocks and stones are used by a four wheeled vehicle at their peril. Otherwise, little change at this checkpoint from the past. The four soldiers, helmetless, are easygoing, offer us water, and although they indicate that there’s a hot alert for vehicles coming out of Tulkarm, there is little traffic, never more than five vehicles, few people. In the other direction, buses, taxis and people pass without more than a glance. Only Palestinian-Israeli, yellow license plated vehicles are checked, some, without proving next of kin, or whatever, are made to turn around. No Sunday visit today. 18:00 Ar-RasIn the hot, silvery covered landscape, the soldiers seem cheerful, greet each Palestinian cordially. Everything is relaxed. A group of waiting Palestinian workers is called over by the soldier checking IDs which are returned, and they make their way down the hill to wherever they’re headed. From the Tulkarm direction five vehicles, the same number of from the other, southern direction. Pedestrians struggle through the dusty, stony surface from one taxi behind one set of concrete cubes to the other side, where other concrete cubes and other taxis await them. In the hamlet of Jubara, a group of women, glittering headscarves and stiletto heels make their way gingerly down an alley way, and as we wave and call out to them with a question, “wedding?” they answer, smilingly with a cheerful ululation. Life goes on in the Occupied Territories. And on. And on.__._,_.___