Into November.

A week’s gone by in Nablus already, and I think I’m finding my feet. The classes are haphazard: they’re often cancelled, and the students’ English is never as good as they say, but at least they’re grateful you’re there. It seems Project HOPE has a good name in this city. In 2006, when the Israeli army invaded Nablus, Project HOPE was the only international NGO to stay here. There were two kidnappings, but that was the peak of the second intifada when the situation was very volatile, and both ended well. Now, the city is peaceful and friendly; the local volunteers are eager to help and to learn English from the internationals, and the internationals need their help to be guided around the winding paths of the Old City and the refugee camps.

Before I arrived here, I was very unsure of what I would find; before leaving the UK, the occupied Palestinian territories of the West Bank and Gaza were just newspaper articles and pictures on Al Jazeera. Already though, the city of Nablus is beginning to feel like a home. There may be demolished buildings, dozens of pictures of martyrs on street walls, and more flags than you’d see at a Tea Party rally, but there are few soldiers in the centre (those there are work for the Palestinian Authority) and whilst you remain within the city the checkpoints and other provocative signs of occupation feel far away – perhaps not far away, but much less threatening.

And that, maybe, is what leads to the conflicting feelings of freedom and suffocation here. Whilst (at the moment) there are few troubles, every aspect of life is affected by the occupation. Although electricity flows right now, people are aware that at any time, and for whatever reason, it can be cut. Large aquifers which supplied water to Palestinian land were annexed by Israel when they built the security wall and, now, whilst all their water still flows into the West Bank, 80% of it is diverted to the illegal settlements: on one side of the wall farmers make a good living growing oranges in the Middle Eastern heat, yet Palestinian farmers are forced to rely on growing olives as they are able to withstand the long periods of drought. Palestinians have no hope of entering Israel, and no hope of leaving Palestine unless they can procure a Jordanian passport. When the checkpoints were closed, if you said you were from Nablus or Jenin – two of the sites of the greatest resistance during the second intifada – you would almost always be denied passage.

But life goes on, and people do what they can. The resilience here is spectacular. I have always been a fan of political discussions, but here they rarely end in shouting or disagreement or anger but, worse, they end with an awful hopelessness, as one becomes more and more aware of the entrenched and unmovable position of both sides. The extreme minority on each side of the divide will never be quiet, and will never give up an inch of the land they believe is theirs. The peaceful majority – and I believe it is a majority, on both sides – will struggle to get their voices heard over the lunatic fringe. The Palestinians, though, are not so bleak: they tend to remain positive amidst all the trials. I don’t know if they believe that peace will come, but they must remain hopeful. No one should be forced to live in the way they are in Balata or Askar (or any other of the 62 year old refugee camps) and the equal dignity of all human beings – codified in the UN Declarations of Human Rights, and ignored by Israel – should not be taken away for mere political gain.

I have some classes to prepare now, and on Thursday I’ll be starting to give guitar lessons in Balata. Life just goes on.