Translated by Daphna Levit

It is very difficult to write when you know that the readers of these lines could be family members who have lost their dearest. Their pain echoes in my ears.

But it is also difficult to remain silent. I have no intention of writing of my feelings as a resident of the city, neither as an Arab nor as a Jew. I assume that the newspapers will have their fill of "authorized" commentators on Arab affairs, on co-existence (which never was) of "deep shocks", hatred, conciliation (especially merchants), and, of course, on security.

I want to tell the story of Ashraf. These are not words of praise or blame. This is a monologue of predetermined death. These are cold facts, statistics for the future or, as Ashraf called it, "A Chronicle of Empty Graves".

Ashraf was born in 1979 – into the jaws of the Occupation. He wanted to be an actor. We met in 1988 at the Jenin refugee camp where I performed, together with Arna Mer, for the sake of "The Children of the Stones".

Ashraf also wanted to write a play. An intelligent child, uninhibited by oppression, who loved to dream. In the mornings he would throw stones at the soldiers and at nights memorize texts of a play we put on stage at the camp. He was only nine then.

His brother was imprisoned in an Israeli prison for his part in that Intifadah. His mother offered the roof of her house to serve as our rehearsal space. His father hated the border checkpoints. His little sister always sat in a corner, frightened and strange, staring at us.

Ashraf was arrested and beaten by the border police. For a long time after his release he proudly carried his wounded hand. His father was fired from his place of work. His Jewish employer could not stand his absences. Ashraf went out to look for a job to support his family. Rehearsals went on without him. His friends said that they saw him pass by in the night, sparing with words and always in a hurry.

We met again in 1992 – when he was only thirteen. His speech was fluent and captivating. Ashraf wants to be a "Shahid". His friends mocked him. His parents treated this as youthful frivolity. But he held his ground. His little sister, who had stopped speaking ever since soldiers burst into their house and took her brother, would hold on to his pants so as to keep him near. Her love for him was proof of the justice of his path and strengthened his spirit. Ashraf want to avenge the vengeance for all. The fervor of his words and his secretive actions entertained those around him.

The Intifadah was at its peak. And then it happened. His brother was convicted in military court and sentenced to eight years in prison. Their house was blown up by the military and totally demolished. Ashraf cried. Television cameras of foreign broadcasters documented his tears. "I would rather die standing than live on my knees" he would say. This was a bad omen.

Ashraf did not die. The Oslo agreements were a reason for a party to which everyone was invited. He was dressed like a bridegroom. A local hero. A winner. His family moved to live with his uncle. Jenin the city and the adjacent refugee camp were included in Area A. Ashraf went to look for work.

I met him during one of my visits to the Jenin market. This time he was dressed in the uniform of a policeman and strutted like a peacock. I did not conceal my disappointment and reminded him that "power corrupts", as the clich י tells us.

In a telephone conversation several months later he told me that he had left the police force and that, in fact, nothing had changed and he had no intention of participating in the "conspiracy", as he now called the Oslo agreements.

"We have become subcontractors of Israel" he said. "They expropriated land from my grandfather to expand the settlement above Jenin… and as Palestinian police we are supposed to guard the settlers against harm"…. "there is a border barrier every meter"…. "I work in Area C, secretly move through Area B and sleep in Area A… like a cow who goes back to her enclosure after pasture." "Double occupation" – he hurled these words at his father who had, in the meantime, found work in the local market.

The tension in the territories rose. Eight years of "Oslo". Eight years of direct and indirect occupation. The territories are divided into cantons. The barrier checkpoints increase and the humiliation continues. The number of settlers multiplies. Lands are expropriated. Bypass roads disfigure the West Bank, chopping up its width and length. "They are working us over" – yelled Ashraf into the telephone. I invited him to visit me in Haifa. He never came. Sharon went up to the "Temple Mount". A closure was imposed on the territories. Ashraf went underground.

I traveled to Jenin at the peak of the "El Akza" Intifadah. The roads around the city were dug up to prevent the passage of cars. The military did nothing to protect the sewage system or the electricity. The camp was in total darkness. I managed to sneak in with the help of a friend from a nearby village. Ashraf's mother opened the door for me and, as usual, invited me in quickly. I was afraid. The atmosphere was harsh. Paralyzing. The mother counted the wounded and the arrested, they did not speak of the dead. "Ashraf is gone" she said… "he went to fight" – she was tough and did not disclose any worry or protest. In previous visits I would be at their house as at mine – not hesitant with my words. This time it was different. My hosts, who sensed my embarrassment, did not spare me from their anger and rage at the occupation, as if I were its representative. They are humiliated, hungry, cold and dark. I offered my help but it was peremptorily rejected. We separated.

Ashraf exploded himself in the South of the country. His body was never brought to burial.

His words; "It is better to die standing than to live on one's knees" still reverberate inside me.