The scent of jasmine fills the September air. Fruits are ripening on the trees--figs, pomegranates, almonds, apples, pears, and olives--grow on rock ledges in the deep valley behind the six-story apartment building. This is home for university associated folks, and I have been housed here for all three of my 2-month visits. Since I left 2 ½ years ago because of COVID, much has changed, and much is the same.

The tough pandemic years are marked by the loss of family and friends. One colleague told me that the death of his 45 year-old brother left him sad and unable to pick up his camera, a hobby he loves. New worry lines are carved in foreheads and a few more gray hairs are evident or concealed under hijabs from watching loved ones struggle to live during hospitalizations, or long hours working in the outpatient clinics, or scraping to make ends meet. The children have grown taller and plan their futures, the high school seniors studying for the exam that determines their futures, the Tawjihi. Babes are now walking and talking making their parents chuckle.

On the steep cliffs of the valley new cement block buildings, covered with the local white stone, now rise 6 to 8 stories high, built in the 2 ½ years I was gone. On clear mornings or evenings, I can still see the city-scape of Netanya, a populous resort city of 200,000 on the Mediterranean coast in Israel. Google maps tell me I am less than one hour away, 50 km or 30 miles. However, Palestinians needs a permit from Israel to go to the beach, and permissions are still rarely granted.

Although water rights continue to be a charged issue that will only grow worse with climate change, a spring flows from a pipe in a 6 by 6-foot cement block in the valley, a 15-minute walk from my apartment. When I hike down there, watching my footing among the loose rocks and scree, a local is sometimes collecting water in large plastic containers. He or she has driven the dusty gravel roads that bisect the valley. In the cool of the early morning, birds flutter in the bushes and trees. I use the Merlin App to identify the Eurasian species: sunbird, Eurasian jay, red-backed shrike. I’ve seen foxes, tan colored with large bushy tails, and marmots or hydrax who perch on rocks and monitor the surroundings. The air is soft and dry, no humidity. One colleague who lived in Britain for many years calls this “Holy Land” air. The valley feels like another world, an oasis on the edge of the busy city of Nablus. Once again, my walks in the valley give me much joy and grounding. I hope the encroaching buildings will not destroy this precious green space.

Much is the same. Family medicine at the University struggles to secure more time and fewer patients in the government clinics for the graduated family medicine physicians so they can supervise the 3rd and 4th year residents in their primary care clinics. Nearly impossible to do with 150 patients per doctor a day.

But times are harder. Gas is more expensive. Food is pricier. Locals went without pay during the pandemic as stores closed, work stopped, workers were not allowed to work in Israel, taxis had fewer passengers. And nothing has been resolved related to the Occupation. “Security can change on a dime.” I was told during my security brief.

And it did on my 4th day. The center city shut down while local groups protested the Palestinian Authority security force’s arrest of a militant leader. Tires burned singing palm trees, black smoke billowed from the center. Windows were smashed; street lamps pulled down. The university immediately switched to virtual teaching, a silver-lining from COVID, learning tried to continue. But when the grade and high school cancelled classes the women faculty needed to stay home with their kids helping them  with virtual learning. So my efforts to plan upcoming workshops were on hold.

The streets around the university were quiet. People stayed home. Yet in my neighborhood, 2 ½ miles from the center, children rode their bikes and played in the empty street like all was normal. A gaggle of girls painted their skate board bright colors. And the Adan, the call to prayer, continued 5 times a day. I am listening it to it now as a write this. It was a calming force, echoing from across the valley near me as the clashes raged in the city center and military planes flew over at night. Fear, worry, what if, uncertainty. . .

And then like the flip of a switch life was back to normal. The destruction was cleaned up. My workshop was back on and our planning continued. Quite honestly it felt a little crazy, a spinning top suddenly stopped.  “Welcome to Palestine,” several locals told me.

And thus, I feel privileged to be here, to better understand the realities of lives so poorly covered in the US news. A Fulbright colleague born in Jaffa before 1948 brought her teenage granddaughter here for a week in August before her work and teaching began. Her grandchild wanted to understand where Nana was from. I asked my colleague for one of your granddaughter’s impressions: “The people are happy here. They enjoy life. They celebrate family. They have fun. They laugh.” I see that, too. On one of my walks in the valley a family was picnicking in the olive grove. A 28-year-old celebrated her birthday with a trip to Ramallah (the big city in Palestine) with her friends.

In closing, as the earth rotates to the period of shorter light in the northern hemisphere and we struggle with our own personal, professional, and political problems in our privileged world, may you find space to celebrate your own joys and gifts.