nothing changes, nothing stays the same.

“Everything seems to have changed but everything stays the same.”

This seems to be a general feeling here in Nablus and the West Bank in general. Its true that many things have changed since I first came here two summers ago. The main military check point which links Jerusalem to the West Bank now freely lets the traffic in.  The day's of taxi-ing to the border, crossing the security border by foot and a then a getting a taxi to Rummallah seem to be over. The 4 hour journey it once was has become the 20 minute one it should be. The Huwara checkpoint which used to strangle Nablus has also become inactive and the scale of development from houses to cinema's is also noticable. There seems to be a peace before the storm. Because as apparent as these changes are, the grip Israel has upon this land and its people is undeniable. Yes, the traffic can flow freely in via Jerusalem, but it certainly can't flow freely out. The  military checkpoints all over the Palestinian territories which are now idle, are still manned with the same fresh faced Israeli Soldiers who have for so many years robbed Palestinians of there dignity and basic human rights. The freedom to travel in the West Bank is at the beck and call of just one radio signal from IDF headquarters. Its just a matter of time. For every house and cinema complex built, there is one demolished somewhere else to ensure the controversial Israeli Settlement programme hits its target for this millenium.


Nablus is an intriguing place with much character. The boys don there Real Madrid and Liverpool shirts and seem to know more about English Football than I do. This morning I had a conversation with a young chap of about 17. In his broken English he asked me, as every Palestinian man does . . 

“Football . .  You like ? .” 

No hesitation  . . 'Of course'.

“ Who ? ”

I normally say Manchester United, Chelsea, or Arsenal when abroad. Its degrading to all fans when the answer is followed up by   . .  “Who's that . . . .  you like Chelsea ?” I decided though, there's no shame in being a Leeds fan. “Well, . . . .  Leeds United”  I said. He looked at me for a while before patting my back and congratulating me on my recent promotion from Division One to the Coco – Cola championship. Football is described by many as the only thing to do for many Palestinian men and boys. Myself and two other volunteers joined an 8 aside tournament last night a short drive away from the apartment blocks. There were supposed to be three teams and 30 lads there but 10 regulars where missing with news one of the regulars had been arrested by Fatah forces for being affiliated to Hamas. We played anyway, the young the old and the ugly united by our boyhood dreams to score that one goal which wins the glory.  The standard was competitive and reminiscent of my dads old 5 aside team at college grove in Wakefield. Grown men bickering, diving, cheating and goal hanging. It was a truly amusing and great night. That until I decided to go in net due to fear of me collapsing from exhaustion and dehydration. Needless to say with in seconds there was a break down the right ring , my nemesis steamed closer and closer. Understanding the skill involved . . . in kicking a ball as hard as physically possible, I prepared my self for two outcomes. The shame of letting a white haired 50 year old score against me or even worse a direct hit. (Plastic coated balls sting the legs) I covered the near post and hoped for best. Suffice to say I saved the ball but before realising I had, there was a cry around the pitch from both the players and spectators of Ooooh followed by that noise which rattles from you mouth up your nose when your trying not to laugh. The ball bounced once on the line, my legs trembled and I dropped onto my knees. I took a direct hit from less than three metres. The ball hit me with such velocity it ripped my shorts. The laughs and hollers from those watching on the balconies of the flats overlooking the small brightly lit up pitch echoed around. I wanted to cry.Between the sarcastic comments of 'you want rub it better ?!!' , the laughs and the giggles, every single one of the Palestinians playing came over to me, they ushered me to a bench suspending my legs in the air shouting 'no move . . no move. . .  breath . breath '. I had never met these men before, and judging by the arrest rates of the Fatah forces, I may never again.



Hiding the Pain



Evening seems to be the best time in Nablus. The Project Hope building has a balcony over looking the valley. The sun set combined with the lights and breeze is epic and it was definatly the most fitting place to have the first guitar lesson this evening.  Two keen local boys of around 16,myself and an extremely talented Australian guitarist, Aaron, who is also volunteering here as an English teacher, all sat around finger picking scales and chords. The boys repeatedly ask if we know that Celine Dion songs, or maybe that 'titanic song or  'Enrique Anglais  'heroe' . We flatly deny. Metallica riffs are taught instead.

The view from Project Hope