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thing, but—'
    'Yes, yes, always there is something different in my eyes.'
    She threw him an annoyed glance and, draping the camera around her neck, turned and wandered off between the rows of vehicles towards the checkpoint.
    They'd left Jerusalem early the previous afternoon, driving out to Ramallah to cover a story about a Palestinian collaborator whose mutilated body had been found floating in the fountain at the centre of town, the perfect hook for a wider feature on collaborators she was doing for the Guardian. It had only taken a couple of hours to research. While they'd been there, however, there'd been another al-Mulatham suicide bombing, at a wedding in Tel Aviv, and the Israelis had closed off the entire West Bank, leaving her no choice but to bed down with an old university friend while American-built Apache AH-64 helicopter gunships hovered overhead, blowing the shit out of various Palestinian Authority buildings that were still half-ruined from the last time they'd had the shit blown out of them.
    It hadn't been a completely wasted stay. She'd picked up the antiquities plundering story, and had managed to wangle an interview with Sa'eb Marsoudi, one of the leaders of the First Intifada and a rising star of Palestinian politics. He was a charismatic man – young, passionate, handsome, with a mop of jet-black hair and a checked keffiyeh slung around his neck – and, as always, had given her some good quotes. Now, however, she was anxious to get back to Jerusalem. Chayalei David, the Warriors of David, had apparently seized a building in the Old City, which sounded like a good feature; and she was already a week overdue with an al-Ahram piece she was doing about malnutrition among Palestinian children. More than anything she just wanted to get back to her flat and take a shower – the IDF had cut the Ramallah water supply and she hadn't washed properly since the previous morning. A faintly sour smell wafted from her shirt and cords.
    She came to within twenty metres of the checkpoint and stopped. A pick-up truck piled high with watermelons was being ordered to turn round, the driver shouting and gesticulating at one of the soldiers who just stared at him through mirror shades, uninterested, occasionally mouthing the word 'Ijmia' – go back. Vehicles were queuing from the opposite direction as well, coming out of Jerusalem, although not as many as on this side. To her left, a Red Crescent ambulance sat gridlocked, its red light rotating helplessly.
    She'd been writing about scenes like this for over a decade now, publishing in both Arabic and English, writing for everything from the Guardian to al-Ahram, the Palestinian Times to the New Internationalist. After what had happened to her father it hadn't been easy establishing herself, especially in the early days after her return from England when she'd had to put up with all manner of shit. She'd worked hard to gain people's trust, however, to prove herself, to show she was a true Palestinian, and although there would always be those such as Kamel who would never be entirely convinced, the majority had, in the end, accepted her, won over by her outspokenness in the name of the Palestinian cause. 'Assadiqa' they now called her – the truth teller. The Israelis were somewhat less enthusiastic. 'Liar', 'Jew-hater', 'Terrorist' and 'Interfering Bitch' were just a few of the titles she had amassed over the years. And those were the nice ones.
    She pulled a tab of chewing gum from her pocket and popped it into her mouth, wondering if she should go forward to the checkpoint and flash her press ID, try to speed things up a bit. She'd just be wasting her time, though – press card or no press card, it didn't change the fact she was a Palestinian. She gazed at the scene a while longer, then turned away and started back the way she had come, shaking her head wearily, the ground beneath her feet trembling as a pair of Merkava tanks rumbled past on the opposite side of the