Translation: Hanna K.

I've never been afraid to go out to the CPs. I've never been afraid to walk around the most remote alleys in the most remote villages. This time I was afraid. I thought that if I were a Palestinian woman, I would have liked to kill every possible Jew. And I also thought that if they would kill me, I would deserve it.

But I also thought that it was injust that they should hear the cries of joy of the crowd at the coliseum after each goal.  After each hit on an "important personality", after each destruction of a building, after each shelling, and that they should hear the voices of people who think differently. Completely differently.

So I set out with Nomi at half past six in the morning.

The Za'tara Junction was empty. From the west there was no barrier at all, southward there was one car. There were no detainees and no queues.

But when we entered Huwwara  we understood where all the forces were.
At the entrance to Beita, near the new center (Falafel and sweets) next to the mosque, everywhere military jeeps were standing and driving around. There was also a huge and ugly military truck the likes of which I've never seen before.
Sometimes there were soldiers sitting in the vehicles, sometimes they came out and stationed themselves in the shade of the shops. We stopped next to one of the shops and asked what was going on. The people said that the soldiers were checking people in their village, detaining them for some time (they said two hours) taking ID cards and checking. We gave them a telephone number and asked them to call in case of a special event. They did not call.

Huwwara, at the new CP, the commander showed us a letter from the Brigadier who indicated where we could stand. We ignored the request not to move, and continued talking with him.
There was one detainee whose fiancée waited impatiently for his release. After one hour's detention he was released. She said that about six months ago he was detained for seventeen days, released without being given a reason (as they detained him without giving a reason), since then he is "bingo".

At the taxi station somebody came up and said he needed transporation for his two year old daughter to the Hadassa hospital. I made contact between him and Jamilla who took him into her care.

At Beit Furik the taxis enter and leave without having to ask their passengers to descend.
A wonderful sight. It seems they took the CP off only in order to  irritate the coffee vendor on the corner.

We went back to the Huwwara CP. A boy of about seven sold crembos for half a shekel. Nomi bought one crembo for three shekels. When we left the parking we offered it to a boy who stood on the side. A grown-up person who stood next to the boy shouted: we can't take anything from you. You slaughter us and we don't want anything from you. Just leave us in peace. We felt ashamed.

At Huwwara village the vegetable vendor didn't smile. When I asked he said, what is there to smile, tell me, what is there to smile. The heart is full of blood from all the slain people.

The tall building next to the vegetable shop is very much liked by the army. Each time when there is tension, or when the army imagines that there is tension, or when the army knows that it deserves such a tension, this house is the victim. Somebody told us that the soldiers who sit in the building on the upper floor throw stones on the neighboring, lower buildings. I've no idea whether this is true.

What is definitely true is that all the offices reside there, one cannot go up because it's forbidden.

There wasn't anything special in this shift, there were no queue, no detainees en masse. There was much tension, amazement, hatred and who knows who will pay the price of this hatred.