ABSTRACT
Wednesday morning I received the news I have been dreading: “Four people were shot in Deir Ballut.” Four people shot anywhere is a tragedy, but I have a special affection for Deir Ballut village and the people in it. My colleague and I rushed to the village, my heart pounding the whole way, wondering which of my dear friends I might never see again. Two friends directed us to the village land, where the shootings had occurred. One of my friends could hardly hold back her tears. We were stopped halfway there by a familiar sight: the soldiers had declared the area a “closed military zone” and nobody was allowed any further, except of course the Wall workers and bulldozers which continued their destruction in the background. A group of women sat crying at the soldiers’ knees. One grabbed me and told me that her brother had been shot in the gut. She begged me to do something, to tell the world. I was paralyzed, not knowing how I could ease her pain.
