I knew Arafat had finally (officially at least) died when the 1st mosque call of Thursday morning didn't end. As usual it began around 4am but on Thursday it continued until 12 noon. Partly in denial and partial in early morning confusion I dragged myself out of bed as usual and began walking down to the main street. I passed Ream – my land lady. Ream didn’t offer her usual recognition. Her black figure walked passed quickly; she was in a hurry to mourn. The streets looked strange. They were filled only with an unusual atmosphere. The shop doors were all shut and firmly locked, hiding the usual colour and vibrancy of Beit Sahour, while turning the beautiful stone walls of the old city into a metal corridor...
-Extract of a diary from Bex Tyrer from Oxford, writing from Beit Sahour, Palestine)

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