A tale of two peoples. (Up front: news and opinion from independent minds).

The sky is overcast and it begins to drizzle on the hills surrounding Bethlehem as our convoy of about a hundred cars and four trucks, all loaded with food and medicine, slowly approaches and then halts at the mound blocking the entrance to the village of Beit Jalla. The people of that village have been under curfew for the last month. Now, for the first time in quite a while, the curfew has been temporarily lifted, allowing them to stock up on supplies (not that the village shops have much to offer).

We shake their hands and embrace them and then get down to work. The food in the cars is unloaded and passed over the mound to a truck waiting on the other side. Several boxes full of medicine--urgently needed in a hospital for the mentally ill--is exchanged as well. Three of the trucks continue via a nearby road (controlled by the Israeli army) to other destinations--to villages and refugee camps in the Bethlehem area whose situation is even worse than Beit Jalla's.

Meanwhile, as with similar convoys sponsored by Ta'ayush, an Arab-Jewish group that combines humanitarian aid with political action, a gathering is organized. The mayor of Belt Jalla is the first speaker, and I listen to his description of life under curfew and constant siege as I pass through the crowd. I am looking for the parents of Laith, a nine-year-old boy from the village. A few months ago, during a previous round of violence, he was smuggled out of his enclosed village by friends so that he could enjoy a picnic and a visit to a theme park in Israel. For one day, he was like any liberated child: free to run outside and play. This is how I got to know and like him; my family had joined him on his one day of freedom, and my six-year-old son Amos was one of his playmates.

Now I get to meet his parents, a charming couple. It is an emotional moment. For a brief time, we have what resembles a normal conversation among parents. They inquire about Amos, I about Laith. But Laith's childhood is by no means normal. He has been confined to his home for four weeks now, without a single breath of fresh air. Even today, his parents don't allow him out because it's too risky. They left him with his aunt and must return soon for another unknown period of house arrest. We part with the hope of meeting soon, perhaps under better circumstances. I try to imagine my son in Laith's situation and find it hard to accept. What do you tell a boy his age? How does one explain the necessity of remaining at home? What does he think when he sees soldiers roaming the village, imposing curfew, and taking away his freedom?

Speaking of the soldiers, they surround us from all sides. Yuri, one of the convoy's organizers, is now speaking and addressing the military. He tells the soldiers they are unwelcome here. He urges them to leave now and return another day as guests rather than as occupiers and colonizers. He wishes them a safe trip home. He tells them about the misery they are inflicting on the Palestinian civilians. About the hunger and poverty. About the feeling of the farmer who must helplessly watch his crops rotting, unable to tend to them. Yuri is followed by Liora, who speaks of the Palestinian women whose husbands have been detained by the army and who are now single mothers caring for their children--the true heroines and victims of this war.

The soldiers reveal no emotion as they stand around us. I don't know what they are thinking. But it is clear that they wish to be seen as part of our event. By allowing humanitarian aid to pass they hope to prove they are "the most humanitarian army in the world." One of them is even documenting the event with a video camera, presumably for public relations purposes. Just a fortnight ago the army spokesperson used footage of a similar food convoy headed for the devastated Jenin camp as evidence of the humane nature of the Israeli troops--which were meanwhile bulldozing homes on their inhabitants. What the spokesperson neglected to mention was that the army stopped the thirty-plus trucks enroute to Jenin, despite its promise to let them pass, and allowed only a trickle of supplies to get through.

With this recent bitter experience in mind we are determined not to leave Beit Jalla until we are certain that our trucks have passed all of the military checkpoints. When news arrives from the drivers that they have all reached their destination, we begin to wrap things up in Beit Jalla. We part from our hosts, who must hurry home before the curfew is reimposed, and send the long convoy of cars back to Israel. A few of us remain to wait for the returning trucks. As it turns out, our day's adventures are not quite over.

On the way back from Bethlehem the Israeli military stops one of the empty trucks. Four armored vehicles surround it, a tank points its cannon at it, and the soldiers aim guns at the driver and force him out. We call him on the mobile phone; he sounds afraid. The checkpoint soldiers who had issued the truck entry permission promise to release it but there seems to be communication problems between them and the troops in Bethlehem.

Minutes go by. It is now late afternoon and the sun is about to set. The truck hasn't yet been released, and we stand waiting, talking to the driver by phone every few minutes to keep him calm. It is cold, but as we try to warm ourselves we witness another chilling example of the occupation. A small army pickup arrives at the checkpoint with three Palestinians lying in the back. Perhaps in their fifties, their arms and legs are bound tightly and their eyes are covered. It's quite obvious that they aren't on the top of the army's most-wanted list because they are left unattended. The army base is just around the corner, but no one seems in a hurry to take them in for interrogation. They simply lie in the truck like cattle.

We approach the soldiers and ask them at least to uncover the detainees' eyes, but they refuse. An argument ensues in which the soldiers insist that their mode of action is the most humane. Nonetheless, they prohibit us from photographing the men. After some further discussion they allow us to give the men some water and cigarettes. We speak briefly with the men and learn they are from the Deheisha refugee camp. They have no idea where they are now, and I still don't know why they were arrested. But being a Palestinian man these days automatically makes you suspect, and the most trivial actions--such as simply leaving your home--turns you into a criminal.

At last our truck is allowed to pass the checkpoint and we embrace the driver. We learn that while passing through Bethlehem a large group of residents had desperately jumped on top of one truck, grabbing whatever they could. "They were not thieves," explained the driver, a Palestinian citizen of Israel. "They were simply hungry. One old lady ran after us for a kilometer just to get one pack of rice." He added, "I saw very difficult sights. It is an altogether different world there, on the other side of the army checkpoint." We exchange a few more stories, take a photo next to the empty truck, and leave for Jerusalem. As we depart the three men are still lying tied and blindfolded in the back of the military pickup.

Four cars and one truck drive quickly along the empty road. As the beautiful hills of Bethlehem are lost to dusk, we reach the last army checkpoint. The soldiers staffing it insist on stopping the Palestinians among us--after all, they are Palestinians. The soldiers confiscate their Israeli IDs for "inspection," which seems to go on forever. They tell us they have called the police to make sure the Paletinians' records are "clean." We wait together. Another hour passes, and it is dark and the wind is freezing. Finally, we decide to protest. Two of us park our cars so as to block traffic going to and from the nearby settlement, insisting that if we aren't all allowed to travel no one will. This stirs some commotion. The officer in charge arrives, IDs are returned, and we are free to go. We learn the police had approved our entry awhile ago but that the soldiers wanted to keep us waiting longer just for the fun of it.

I arrive home a bit after seven o'clock. Galila is putting our children to bed. I kiss Amos and tell him I met Laith's parents and that they say "hello." I tell him some but not all of what I experienced. I wait for him and my toddler-daughter Naomi to fall asleep. Then I pause to think.

I know I saw only the surface, had only a glimpse of what is really going on in occupied Palestine. I haven't seen the really devastating scenes of Jenin and Nablus. But what I did witness, hear, and experience--the child confined to his home for a month, the old lady running after the food truck, the men lying in the black of the army vehicle, the soldiers humiliating my Palestinian friends at the roadblock--all were quite educational. Such things helped me to understand that what Israel has been destroying in Palestine is everything except the infrastructure of terrorism. It has been destroying the agricultural, educational, medical, and transportation systems. It has been eroding goodwill and undermining whatever is left of the Palestinian desire for peace. It has been breeding hunger, poverty, humiliation, and hatred--all of which only serve to fortify the infrastructure of terrorism.

I go to sleep thinking of Amos and Laith, hoping that they can somehow grow up as friends.

Yigal Bronner, an Israeli, is a member of Ta'ayush (taayush.tripod.com) and can be reached at [e-mail].