A week in the Middle East: Day Six

The bomber's brother is young, handsome, and intense. Between questions about his brother's attack on the city of Kfar Saba in March, he takes time to joke around with Samir and the minders who have tagged along with us from the governor's office. He talks about how his brother was always a devoted Muslim, and how he had joined Hamas with a clear conscience.

Any regrets about his brother's death?

Only that more Israelis weren't killed. More Arabic, more chatting, more laughter.

The bomber's brother serves us some fruit juice.

By the time we are done with the interview and back on the street, I am ready to leave Qalqilya.

On the trip to Qalqilya, we stuck to the Israeli side of the green line that separates the Israelis from the Palestinians, crossing over just before we entered the town. But on the way back, Samir has the driver bring us through the heart of the West Bank. On the Palestinian side.

It's an interesting trip. It's easy to look at a map and think: "Ah. I understand. Israel is for Israelis and Israeli Arabs. The West Bank and Gaza Strip are for Palestinians."

But the facts on the ground make that less true.

Israeli settlers are often called "facts on the ground" because their long-term presence on a patch of soil gives Israel's government a negotiating chit and, some would argue, a more valid claim to a piece of previously Palestinian-controlled land. And driving back to Jerusalem through the West Bank, it's easy to see facts on the ground almost everywhere I look.

Settlements sprawl across hills. They crown the tops of ridges, one even boasting a waterslide painted in the gaudy shades of red, blue and yellow. They flank older Palestinian towns, uniform blocs of neat, modern, suburban comfort facing off against the ragged boxes and semi-occasional Alice-in-Wonderland mansions that dominate the Palestinian areas.

Roads seem to be the key, however. Roads to Palestinian sections are sometimes blocked by giant piles of rock and gravel - Samir says these are dumped by Israeli troops. Palestinians need permits to travel, and in times of crisis these can be easily choked off to shorter and shorter time periods, or restricted entirely.

On these roads, the IDF (Israeli Defense Forces) has staked out its turf. On one stretch, a black sign sporting a white eagle symbolizes the authority of a particular Israeli unit. On another, a white snake serves a similar purpose. Colorful real estate signs, written in Hebrew, flank the road. An expropriated Arab house, now crowned by a tall antenna and sporting a giant menorah, serves as a de facto military outpost.

I've read and edited a number of stories about the constricted roads, and the galaxy of Israeli settlements that is expanding across the West Bank. But seeing the words brought to life, in bricks and mortar, is a powerful experience.

And then, before I realize what's happening, we're crossing back into Jerusalem. Our Palestinian driver uses his fluent Russian to talk to the Israeli guard, who is thrilled to hear his native tongue again. We're through. We're back to Israel.

As evening falls, I am truly exhausted, and behind deadline on my online diary. I therefore blow everything off and help an old friend, the AFP's Jean-Marc Mojon, move into a new apartment. The new place is a crazy sort of space that looks one-of-a-kind - niches and strangely curved white ceilings make it feel like a cross between a Bedouin tent and a cave. It's going to look great fully decorated.

We haul his stuff over in a an armored Land Rover with plate glass windows, a loaner from his office. The windshield and sides of the monstrous beast have "TV" printed on them with masking tape; "TV" is the local shorthand for "I'm a journalist of some sort, so please don't shoot at me."

After about an hour of heavy lifting, we stop by a cafe and catch up. It's been a great night in Jerusalem.

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