West Bank Journal: Last Update -- The Israeli Activist Festival

| April 2004 Issue

I'm home again, back to my comfortable bed, my burgeoning garden, my friends and family. In fact, I've been back for a week, but various other commitments have kept me from writing. More than that; I find myself having a very hard time putting these words down on the page. I am almost too heartsick to write.

Writing, for me, is what I do in the worst moments of my life. When I've really, really badly screwed up, or when I've been trapped in some situation of utter helplessness, caught in the Indymedia Center in Genoa watching in anguish as stretchers are being carried out from the building across the street, when I'm asking myself, "Oh Goddess, what can I do? What can I do?" the answer is always, "I could write something." Writing is my way of screaming -- better than beating on pillows as my therapist used to advise me to do. It makes me feel better, and there's always the hope that what I write might do some small good.

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