My taxidriver says it is better to stay under curfew than to circle around like ants in a closed bottle. Bethlehem is not anymore the place people used to love. Read more about Letter from Bethlehem 

Perhaps “crocodile” is not the right word to describe the big machine which roams our streets, as I did in my previous letter. It looks, and sounds, more like a dragon. Read more about Letter from Bethlehem 

I lazily stroll with Jara along the university street. On the other side are people who exchange smiles and whispers. There are no cars at all, calm reigns, birds are whistling. Read more about Letter from Bethlehem 

The Bethlehemites once again try to catch up with daily life. People shake hands with acquaintances whom they under different circumstances would barely greet. Read more about Letter from Bethlehem 

Since a week the recurrent hope that the siege of the Church of Nativity and the curfew would be lifted, is dashed each time, but on Friday a real end comes to the almost six-week long affair. Read more about Letter from Bethlehem 

Jara and I play in the neighbour’s garden under the pleasant Mediterranean sun. ‘Do you have everything?’ she asks the neighbour. It is one of those routine questions which people now ask each other and which she has picked up as a normal way of showing concern. Read more about Letter from Bethlehem 

Over three weeks of curfew makes life somehow timeless. The muezzin and church bells are silent, except for the ‘opening hours’ when we are allowed to leave home. Read more about Letter from Bethlehem (April 15-22, 2002) 

The main event in the small world in which we live is the announcement of the temporary lifting of the curfew. On Friday afternoon Mary makes a list of things to buy and we divide the work since we can go out only a few hours and neighbours may pass by for a visit. Read more about 'As though we are slowly dying' 

It is inevitable that children want to go out after being closed up in the house for a whole week, especially with the beautiful spring weather. The birds whistle their inviting songs. Some gardens are explored, hesitatingly. My four year old daughter, Jara, has made contact with the neighbours’ children and wants to play with them. Read more about An unusual siren 

Friday morning, I go out to sniff the air in the garden. Suddenly a group of Israeli soldiers appear and ask whether I am from the University. “No, I am from Holland,” I say illogically, thinking that the word “Holland” helps to keep them out of the house, our main worry. Read more about 'How to find a way of talking to Israelis after all that has happened?'