The Joy That Passes Through Barriers

Author: Rawan Al-Husseini

What I will recount is not extraordinary in the face of what every Palestinian experiences daily and everywhere, nor can it be measured by it. But it reminds us that a living conscience does not wait for danger to reach its doorstep. On the evening of Saturday, July 18, 2026, we left in our finest attire. We were not going to a place that bore any significance of war or politics. We were heading to the wedding of a dear friend, a joy he had long awaited, and our presence was for us a part of honoring this moment. In Palestine, even reaching joy is not a simple matter. On the way to the city of Tayibe, we were stopped at a military checkpoint for about forty-five minutes. No explanation, no indication of when the waiting would end, and no reason given. Just cars lined up, and faces silently looking at their watches while life was delayed on the other side of the barrier. We arrived late. But one hour amidst the music and laughter was enough to make us forget everything. We forgot the checkpoint, the delay on the road, and the heaviness of reality. For a short moment, life seemed normal. We danced, laughed, and shared our friend's happiness, as if we, too, deserved to live a normal day. But the journey home was not a path to home. On the way back, we encountered a group of settlers, most of whom were not older than eighteen. The best description for them would be "highway robbers" with strange and suspicious appearances that left you breathless upon seeing them; all kinds of frightening endings and scenarios invaded your imagination, starting with not being able to return and embrace your children. They were stopping cars, attacking those inside, attempting to rob their phones and assault them. The car in front of us, with our friends in it, became their target, and then the assault reached us. In just a few minutes, the return trip changed from a wedding celebration to a fight for survival. We survived by the grace of God. But we returned carrying a feeling that doesn't easily fade; that joy here is not allowed to complete, and that the way to a happy occasion can turn, at any moment, into a path that threatens your life. Many think that those living in Ramallah live far from these details, and perhaps we sometimes convince ourselves of that as well. But this feeling is incredibly fragile. It is enough to move from one city to another to realize that distance in Palestine is not measured in kilometers, but by the amount of the unknown and fear waiting for you. And the harsher than fear itself is that your reaction has become part of another fear. You know that trying to defend yourself could turn the whole scene upside down, changing you from a victim to a suspect, and you must calculate how to survive, and how not to be condemned, even in the moment of your assault. On the next day, Sunday, July 19, 2026, we tried to start anew. We went with our children to watch the World Cup final. Thousands, even millions of people around the world were living the same moment; a match, laughter, cheering, and a few hours in which people forgot the heavy news of the world. And before the final whistle, the sound of ambulances came to end the match; the news arrived. Two young men were martyred in the village of Deir Jarir after an assault by settlers. The screens went off. No one cared about the match result anymore. Everyone left silently, as two families at that very moment began bidding farewell to their sons. Only then did I realize that what we had lived through the past two days was not a coincidence. It was not a story of a checkpoint, nor a story of an assault, nor a story of martyrdom. It is the same story, repeated in different forms. It is the life we Palestinians live; we constantly try to hold on to what keeps us alive: a wedding, a match, a trip, a family gathering, a fleeting laugh, or a photo we take to hold onto a beautiful memory. But the occupation intrudes upon these small details, not to disrupt just one day, but to reshape the meaning of life itself. It does not only steal the land, but it also threatens your existence, confines your freedom and mobility, steals any meaning related to the feeling of safety, and makes fear a part of planning for any journey, with the unknown being a constant companion on the road. Perhaps this is why our lives seem so surreal. What we live is not war in the sense understood by the world; a war that starts and then ends. The war here is not an event but a state within which life is lived. We build our lives each morning, while one question accompanies us: which part of it will still be standing by evening? And yet, we will continue to go to weddings, sit with our children to watch matches, and plan for our coming days. Hope remains our only companion, to be free because we deserve it. Not because we do not know the size of the fear, but because holding on to life in a place that tries every day to take it away from you is not a luxury. It is the only way left for us to survive and affirm that we are still here. And we will remain.