First, here are some excerpts from Hanan's last note to me, a week ago -- obviously, I have had no word from her since. Of course, there is often no electricity, no water, no cell phone service; it is winter there, but people have to leave their windows open lest they shatter if there are explosions nearby; families huddle together just to keep as warm as they can. Under such conditions, how can I expect Hanan to write? And how can I know what her silence means? Anyway, here are her last -- but I hope not her final -- words to me:

Dear friend Ken,

Thank you so much for your concern and your noble feelings, I really appreciate them. You can say that I am fine but my people are not, you can never even imagine the destruction and the horror we're living in, circumstances are the worstest, we haven't had electricity for two days, and we just got some. It's actually 4 o'clock after midnight, and it is an awful night. F-16 planes are joining our children with their dreams or what have become, nightmares. Sorry, I have no words to describe the situation here. I am not sure whether you got my story [for a book I'm writing] translated or not but believe me, it's nothing. nothing at all compared to this.

Concerning professor Haidar [another friend of mine], I haven't heard from him for days either and am concerned because he lives in the middle of Gaza city, very near to the attacks. It came to my knowledge that he had lived through a bad experience [he narrowly missed death -- I read about it later -- and there was worse to come....].

Dear Ken, again, thank you so much for your concerning feeling. There is one thing I want you to know. In case something happened and I didn't make it or haven't the chance to say so, I would like you to know that you are one of my best friends ever, and that it was a great pleasure for me to know you and to communicate with you. I've really learned a lot from you and your forgiveness personality was a source of inspiration and admiration.

Take care of yourself, dear friend, and excuse me for this long message but it might be the last,

your little friend,

Hanan

And my friend Haidar? After already having come close to death or serious injury when a police building very near his house was blown up, even worse times lay ahead for him. Here is the last I heard of him, taken from an interview conducted on December 30th by a Canadian journalist, Eva Bartlett, based in Gaza [published in The Palestinian Chronicle and reprinted here by permission]. I have had no word from or of him since.

I was lying in my bedroom when the first strike happened, around 1:30 am. You know a strike isn't just one explosion, it's a series of explosions. Boom, boom, boom, boom. The whole building shook. I woke up and went to the bathroom first, and within 30 seconds the second strike hit. F-16s were bombing the Ministry of Foreign Affairs building, about 500 meters away. I could hear glass shattering everywhere. I went back into the bedroom and saw glass everywhere, all over the bed which is right up against the window. If I had been lying there still, it would have shattered all over me, would have seriously injured me, or worse, I don't know. It was a very strong blast, and the glass must have hit the bed with great force.

I brought a mattress into the living room, which faces the sea, and lay down trying to sleep there. Moments later, I heard a huge explosion, the third strike, this time from an area closer to the sea. The front, sea-facing window exploded into the room, landing on the desk and the floor, thankfully too far from where I was lying.

I tried to call a friend who lives two buildings away from the Ministries. He's got five children, ages 5 to 15. He said they were okay, but the children were terrified, screaming.

I went into the third room, a spare bedroom, and saw that the windows were already broken. I looked through the shards of glass and saw that 4 ambulances had come, as well as 2 fire trucks. There were huge, black clouds. I was looking at the ambulances and the people below when another strike against the compound happened, the third series of explosions. Again, my building shook from the impact. I heard people screaming, there was more smoke, fire, and a terrible smell. I don't know what... the smell of death, I guess.

The radio reported that my friend, Dr. Fawaz abu Setta, whose house is just in front of the ministry compound, was buried under the rubble of his home. I was stunned, it really affected me badly. He's such a kind man, and I couldn't believe it. I called friends, I was so worried, and 15 minutes later finally learned that another friend had spoken to him: he and his wife were okay, in the basement of their house, locked in because something had fallen against the door.

The compound has 3 or 4 ministries, and each building has 8-10 floors. So I'd imagine you need 3 missiles for each building. So far there'd been 3 sets of hits against the buildings, as well as on-going strikes around Gaza City and the Strip.

I could hear some of the explosions in Gaza's neighborhood, and the radio kept reporting the latest explosions. They were everywhere: Sheik Radwan (a district of Gaza City, where my brother and his family live. I started calling him, but he didn't answer), Zaytoun (another district of Gaza), Jabaliya, Beit Hanoun...

All the time the building was shaking, like an earthquake. These were the loudest explosions I've ever heard. It was terrible, frightening, confusing. And you know, you don't know where to run, what to do. I looked outside, but it was too dark, too filled with black smoke... I don't know what kind of bombs Israel is using, something that creates fire, and very dark smoke. I could hear children screaming in my own building, screeching from fear. My landlord is in his 80s, and his wife had a stroke last year and cannot walk. They live on the 12th floor. I couldn't imagine how they were feeling then, completely helpless, the power out, no way of escaping if our building was hit, or even if it wasn't hit, but just to escape the terror.

I took my mattress and went to the corridor this time, the last place I could try. I lay down, and listened to the radio reporting the latest. And I continued to hear blasts all over.

45 minutes after the 3rd strike, they came back, to finish the job against the ministerial compound. With the 4th strike, more glass shattered, what was left of it. I rushed to the window closest to the attacks, already shattered, and again tried to see through dark smoke. But I couldn't see anything, but could hear ambulances below, more screaming.

The electricity was off, the landlines down. No phone lines, no internet, no cell phone connection. I had no way of speaking to anyone. It was very isolating, terrifying.

It seems ridiculous to go back to bed after all of this, to try to sleep. But there is really nowhere I felt safe, so I went back to the mattress in the corridor. It started raining, and I could see rain coming in the sea-view window, and my bedroom window. I got up, tried to cover things... my laptop, my stereo... I was just trying to save my things. And there was glass all over the floor, I was stepping on it.

This morning, my nieces came over, and when they saw my bedroom with the broken windows and thick shards of glass where my head and body would have been, they were horrified, started crying.

We still have glass everywhere. We tried to clean... it's everywhere. [Dr. Eid picks glass off the couch, the floor, apologizing to me -- this is the interviewer, commenting]

I heard later that they used more than 40 shells, which when you add up all the strikes is entirely possible.

After the attacks, the drones were all over, flying low, buzzing like huge mosquitoes. The sound they make, it's loud, grating, and you know it means they're considering what to do next. They were up there the rest of the night, flying circles, coming lower, going back up, the pitch of their whine rising, going away, coming back...They want to make there presence felt. They are really saying to us, 'we can do whatever we want, with impunity.'

There's only so much one can bear, you know. You can't think clearly, you know, I don't know what to do.

People are afraid they might strike the Ministry of Justice and next to it the Ministry of Education, just up the street, about 400-500 meters.

Update: 8 am, 31 December. The Council of Ministers, hosting the Prime Minister's Office, was targeted Tuesday night at around 8:50 pm, along with the Ministry of Interior in Tel al Hawa (just 500 meters from Dr. Eid's home), which was targeted for the 3rd time. Both were completely destroyed.

After that, nothing but silence -- again.*

These are just two of my friends. There are about 1.5 million Gazans, all of whom have friends and family, mostly there, some elsewhere, and they all have similar stories to tell. You can see why Gaza is so much on my mind. And there is no end in sight. At least 55 more civilians died today, and more than 600 have perished now. At least 800 children have either been killed or wounded, and of course the hospitals, completely under-supplied and understaffed for years because of the Israeli siege, can't cope. One Norwegian doctor, who has been working there now for eight days, with almost no sleep and little to eat himself, broke down in tears last night because of the children he can't help and can only see die. And then he has to tell their parents -- when they are alive to tell.

Yeah, not exactly a happy new year, but at least I'm not living in Gaza. Yet I am.

[After sending this letter off to my friend, I added a postscript.]

I've just heard from another friend of mine there who, despite the shortage of electricity and all the other hardships of life in Gaza now, somehow finds the time to send me brief personal notes of reassurance that she and her family are still all right - at least physically. But here I will quote some excerpts from a longer commentary she wrote for general distribution on New Year's Day that provides a sense of the way people can adapt to - and even laugh during - the most dreadful conditions of life and death surrounding them. My friend Safa also expresses her rage that so many people in the world continue to cling to the most distorted and demeaning stereotypes of the Palestinian people, which only adds to the emotional burden she has to carry in the midst of being surrounded by carnage on all sides and having to live with the threat that in the next moment she and her family could be obliterated in an instant. Laughter and rage by turns in the shell-shocked charnel house of Gaza.

It's interesting how, at the most terrifying and horrific of times, we still manage to make light of the events, and even enjoy a dark sense of humor that surprisingly comes out not inappropriate and even the more amusing given the constant state of tenseness and apprehension.

My 10-year-old cousin was eating a sandwich when my younger brother, 12, looked at him and, quoting a line from one of his favorite video games in his dead-on imitation of the character's voice, while being extremely amused by the fear in the younger boy's eyes, said "enjoy it, it could be your last!" I looked at him for a second and began laughing almost hysterically.

On another occasion, we looked around for my 12-year-old and 14-year-old brothers during an intense bout of air strikes and realized that they had snuck back to the living room, the room directly in front of the area being bombed, and were watching a sports channel. "But we had to see the scores," they retorted after being severely reproached. They're becoming desensitized, I thought. I went through this before while living in Ramallah in 2002. I laughed so hard, they had become totally oblivious!

I've had a lot of time to contemplate, the last few days, and looking at my siblings, I wonder how the rest of the world envisions the people who occupy the most despondent and unruly military zones in the world.

My younger brothers spend their free time out with their friends, or playing basketball and soccer at youth clubs. They are passionate about sports, play station, and music. They play the guitar and are exceptional students. My brother who's in collage is obsessed with computers and gadgets, he's an engineering student who comes up with the most ingenious projects for his classes. He listens to music and plays the guitar and prays regularly. He's an honor student who has big goals and big dreams.

So please understand why I am infuriated when I see how we are portrayed on television. Hordes of bearded, teeth-gnashing, stone- throwing blood-thirsty savages in rags and tatters. And please don't blame me for feeling utter rage against the state of Israel that has been intentionally targeting the unwary, guiltless, promising children and youth of the Gaza Strip in its vicious attacks over the past 5 days. Already, between 40 and 50 children are dead while hundreds lie in the hospitals, seriously injured or disabled for life.

The people of Gaza have been suffering for decades under systematic and tyrannical oppression by Israel, the latest of its measures has been the siege and closures imposed on the strip that have completely devastated the livelihoods of Gaza residents and caused the economy to fall into an unprecedented and crippling depression. The people of Gaza have long been denied the means that have been afforded to the residents of countries with the same, possibly less, resources. And yet the amount of resourcefulness and zeal we demonstrate is a testimony to the potential of progress and advancement that lies within us....

So while being cooped up in the house, watching local news stations when we have electricity, still in a state of disbelief, I wonder if the rest of the world would be so harsh in its judgments if they had the opportunity to understand. I wonder if people would as easily accept the unsubstantiated claims that the engineering faculty building of the Islamic university, which has been flattened during the attacks, was a workshop that produced qassams, if they had seen my brother's reaction. When he came back from a walk to the university building the next day, his face was white as a sheet and he had tears in his eyes. "It's all gone," he said, "even the project (electric car) we've been working on all semester." We'd seen pictures, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Did he seriously have any hope that the car had survived?

A few hours ago, the home of one of Hamas' senior leaders, Nizar Rayan, was struck by 4 missiles. Not only was the entire building flattened, killing all who were in it, but several other buildings surrounding it looked like they were about ready to collapse. It is said that there were over 19 deaths, most of them women and children, and scores of injuries. The entire street was littered with debris and rubble. We saw the images on TV, children being lifted from beneath the rubble, headless corpses loaded into plastic body bags, the whole works. We sent a taxi to pick up my aunt, whose home lies 100 meters away from the Rayan building, and had caved in due to the attack. She and her children arrived, shaken, but all in one piece.

Today the temporary halt of rocket fire coincided with the restoration of power to our home, at least for a few hours, at about 5pm. My brothers went to their rooms and played their videogames, I sat on the couch and read, and my sister went to take a nap. We tried to busy ourselves with regular daily activities in a situation that is anything but commonplace.

These are some letters from Gaza, written in the midst of war by those who are on the receiving end of the violence and who, because they are sealed into one of the most densely-packed regions of the world, have nowhere to flee. Inside their prison they can only wait - and hope. And we, who remain on the outside, can only do the same, hoping that our friends and their families will survive and waiting for the world to act to bring this inhuman and criminal onslaught to an end before more lives are lost and Gaza becomes one continuous heap of rubble and shattered dreams.

* I have learned just today - January 11 - from Eva Bartlett that my friend Haidar is in fact still alive.

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In the other room, you hear your husband coughing. He has been sick for weeks and lately he has been spitting up blood. He has tried to get permission to get to a hospital in Israel, but every time he has been denied permission to leave.

You go outside to see if a neighbor can give you any milk. The first thing that hits you is the stench. The garbage has not been collected for weeks, and the sewage problem, because of the recent rains, has become even worse. No wonder so many people are sick. You are living in a cesspool. And you, and everyone else, is trapped inside this prison because the borders are sealed. This has been going on now for a year and half, and there is no telling when it will be over. And with the end of the truce, such as it was, there is a renewed threat of violence from the Israelis. Even now, you see an Israeli drone overhead and know that a missile could be launched from it at any time.

This is ordinary life these days in Gaza, the thin strip of land along the southern Mediterranean coast, 25 miles long and 6 miles wide at its maximum into which about one and half million inhabitants, most of them originally refugees, are packed. Gaza has one of the highest population densities in the world, and most of its population, about 56%, is 16 or younger. Many are malnourished - some estimates put the figure as high as 75%. According to a recent study cited by the noted author, Chris Hedges, 46% of Gazan children are afflicted with acute anemia, and 30% suffer from stunted growth as a result of chronic malnutrition. About a tenth of these children have permanent brain damage. Eighty-two percent are afflicted with post-traumatic stress disorder; the great majority of them have witnessed death first-hand. Eighty percent of the population as a whole is dependent on food. Unemployment is rampant - upwards of 60%. Most Gazans subsist on less than $2 a day.

According to a recent report by Andrea Becker in an article entitled "The Slow Death of Gaza," the effects of the siege, which has been imposed on Gaza by Israel, ever since Hamas took control of this territory in June, 2007, have been devastating, and the situation is, if anything, only growing worse. Many on-the-spot observers and prominent international spokesmen have not hesitated to call Israel's actions genocidal both in intent and effect. The U.N. special rapporteur for human rights in the Occupied Territories, Richard Falk, for example, has condemned the Israeli siege of Gaza as "a crime against humanity" and "a prelude to genocide." It's easy to understand why when you read such reports as Becker's where she recounts the various forms of misery and deprivation from which Gazans suffer daily:

In practice, Israel's blockade means the denial of a broad range of items - food, industrial, educational, medical - deemed "non-essential" for a population largely unable to be self-sufficient at the end of decades of occupation. It means that industrial, cooking and diesel fuel, normally scarce, are virtually absent now. There are no queues at petrol stations; they are simply shut. The lack of fuel in turn means that sewage and treatment stations cannot function properly, resulting in decreased potable water and tens of millions of litres of untreated or partly treated sewage being dumped into the sea every day. Electricity cuts - previously around eight hours a day, now up to 16 hours a day in many areas - affect all homes and hospitals. Those lucky enough to have generators struggle to find the fuel to make them work, or spare parts to repair them when they break from overuse. Even candles are running out.

Articles such as Becker's are easily found on the Internet and even occasionally in the American press; there is no dearth of damning statistics that can be cited to illustrate the immensity of the problems Gazans face in coping with the challenges of this siege, seemingly without end. But my purpose here is not merely to provide another such recitation of numbers, percentages and other quantitative indices of this situation. Instead, I would merely like to present to you some voices from Gaza that speak directly of what their own lives are like and how they have come to feel as this siege continues.

The people whose stories I will cite are friends of mine - though I have never met them. Although I spent most of November in Palestine myself, I was never able to get into Gaza since the walls of a prison exclude visitors as well as those they incarcerate. But they have become friends of mine through correspondence, and all of them will be contributing to a book I'm writing about life under the occupation. Here, however, I will just let them speak for themselves, quoting from the letters they have sent or otherwise made available to me.

One man, a professor, in writing about the siege, sent me this summary several months ago, although conditions have not really changed significantly from the time of his letter:

Sorry to disappoint you and tell you that Israel, in fact, is still preventing us from having fuel. They only allowed the only electricity station we have here to have some industrial diesel. But that was not enough at all. I spent the whole night in total darkness.

The severe shortages in fuel have affected our teaching program. Our students and lecturers cannot attend their classes. Yesterday, I had only three students out of 80! Those who can walk long distances try their luck. But yesterday we had a heat wave and many of those who tried to walk to school had dehydration. Mind you that most of our students already suffer from malnutrition. To add insult to injury, UNRWA has halted all its activities yesterday, for the first time in 60 years. 80 per cent of Gazans depend on food handouts provided by UNRWA. So you can imagine the situation now.

Israel's continued tightened siege on the Gaza Strip has a catastrophic effect on all of us here. In addition to the chronic shortages of fuel, we also have shortages in medicine and some basic food stuffs. The situation is simply disastrous. I've just heard that patient number 138 has passed away. He is one of thousands of terminally ill patients who need urgent treatment outside Gaza, in Israeli, Jordanian, Egyptian, or even West Bank hospitals, but Israel is refusing to give them the necessary permits. Two days ago I visited Al-Shifa hospital and was told that almost all major surgical operations have been suspended due to regular power cuts and the absence of fuel to run their generator!

In addition to the dangerous shortage of electricity that threatens the lives of critically ill patients in all of Gaza's hospitals, and the chronic shortages of petrol and diesel and gas for domestic use, we are also suffering widespread shortages of bread, due to lack of electricity to run the ovens at bakeries across Gaza.

Another friend, this one a college student, who wrote me only two weeks ago, after alluding to similar conditions that were affecting her personally, summed up her feelings this way:

My dear, I don't want to break your heart with the awful news of the late Gaza, peace be upon that place of earth, I am sure you follow the news wherever available, yet media can not and will never be able to honestly describe the truth of our reality. People here have reached a point in which they feel as if they are isolated from the rest of the world (which the are). I have personally heard some saying: "This is not a life, we are dead, we have been for along time but lying to ourselves saying that we are alive, we're just some moving dead people."

Believe me, it is worse than that, but there are still many people who truly believe that the salvation is very close. I am not sure which one of them I am....

And. finally, a letter that was written a year ago showing that even then, only five months into the siege, the situation was just as grim as today and the feelings of hopelessness and abandonment fully as pronounced. As you'll see, this woman's remarks foreshadow and articulate even more powerfully the same sentiments my college student friend expressed in her recent letter.

I'm sorry for not being in touch and for not writing sooner, but words are failing me, and I cannot articulate what Gaza feels like right now. A hopeless prison with a dark gloomy cloud over it. It's been raining for three days now and its starting to get cold. Unfortunately with rainstorms come power outages, so that means there is no water or electric heaters. Gas heaters are not operational either because of the high gas price, that's when gas is even available. But also because most people are saving their gas for cooking food, rather than using it for heaters, especially with a possible invasion coming in two weeks and the possible cutoff of gas. I feel for people without access to heat. I also feel for people like my aunt whose house was demolished and is living in a half-built house with no windows that UNRWA stopped building because they ran out of cement and other building materials. It's the beginning of the winter. It's only going to get colder.

I also can't help but think of Gaza's sick and dying....in their frailty, lying there helpless...wishing...hoping... praying that by God's mercy they would be allowed a permit to leave Gaza, or by some sort of miracle someone will save them. But most are denied access.....and most die a slow agonizing death, and only then are their bodies free.

And the world reads about it, but its just another story, another one of Gaza's tragedies. But I wish the world would realize how real this is and how real these sick people are. Some of these sick patients are my uncle who has heart disease, or my little cousin with a tumor, and now unfortunately my aunt's husband who one day was walking, and the next day woke up crippled from a brain tumor. And when you see people you care about so sick and unable to leave Gaza, you first get angry for having such shitty luck, and for the injustice of the world....the type of anger that turns into fury and consumes you, until it becomes exhausting. You then resign yourself to the reality of Gaza's fate...which finally sinks in. But with that reality comes hopelessness and the crippling feeling of helplessness. And so my uncle, my cousin and my aunt's husband lie in a hospital, waiting for their permits, and none of us can do a thing other than pray or chase around people who may know someone who knows someone who can help us with a permit. But we know full well how real death is, and that most just die while waiting. And then a human rights organization issues a statement, yet again, another Palestinian dies because they were denied access to medical care. And their only crime was being born Palestinian in Gaza and falling ill. Nowhere else will you see this but in Gaza. And no place else will the world remain silent at the obscenity of Israel's inhumane acts, except in Gaza.

It's hard to not feel like we're in a large concentration camp as I see Gaza's empty streets, and the hopeless feeling in the air...and just the gloominess that has covered Gaza. I think most people feel abandoned as we are literally locked up in this small, concentrated space and we don't know what the world plans for us, or what to expect next. It's hard to imagine what being in Gaza does to someone's will until you've come here. You no longer feel alive, in fact, you're not living; you're just killing time until some sort of change happens. Sadly, Gaza has become desensitized to the rest of the world, as it feels like the international community has turned a blind eye to the reality that is Gaza, and as long as Israel is allowing some food in and hasn't completely cut off electricity or gas...and as long as we are kept alive, no one will ask about us.

But just because we are breathing, that doesn't mean we're alive.

Again, like the statistics I cited at the beginning of this article, these despairing Gazan voices could be multiplied ad infinitum, but redundancy would not strengthen my case that the people of Gaza have been suffering, and continue to suffer, grievously from this terrible siege that has been imposed on them collectively because of the actions of a few. Of this, you are probably already convinced, whatever you may think of the justifications - or lack of it - for Israel's actions.

The point is that more than a million people are experiencing a calamitous humanitarian crisis, which has been made even worse by so many American voices remaining silent in the face of this ongoing and, in the view of many, obscene strangulation of Gaza. Of course, you could say, "well, there are many people who are suffering throughout the world - look at Darfur, the Congo, Kenya, India, etc., etc." True enough, but Americans must remember this: It is our unremitting financial support of Israel, amounting to about 3 billion dollars every year,* making it the recipient of more of our foreign aid that any other country, that makes this siege possible. We are paying for all those planes and missiles, for all those bulldozers that demolish the houses of Gazans (and other Palestinians), and for the salaries for all those guards who are keeping the Gazan people locked up in their fetid open-air prison. Yes, these are your tax dollars at work. Do you really want to continue to see them spent in this way? If not, then please, as the Obama administration is about to take office, write to the incoming president, to your senators and congressmen, and even to the government officials in Israel, which is holding its own election soon, to protest as vigorously as possible against the continuation of the siege and to call for its cessation. American have a special responsibility here, and by adding our voices to those around the world who have already condemned in the strongest way the siege of Gaza, perhaps we can help to create a wave of irresistible pressure against the walls of Gaza that will finally bring them down. The people of Gaza, resilient as many of them doubtless are, are counting on us not to forget them. Listening to their voices, we must use ours not to fail them.

• Some analyses suggest that the actual amount may be closer to 5 billion dollars per annum, but whichever figure is used, the thesis is not affected.

Kenneth Ring, Ph.D., is Professor Emeritus of Psychology, University of Connecticut, and currently resides in the San Francisco Bay Area. His e-mail is: kring1935@gmail.com

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Consider the case of a twenty-four-year-old reporter named Mohammed Omer.

Some background first: For the past six years Mohammed has been covering and reporting on the situation in Gaza and has published his articles in various periodicals in Europe, for the Inter Press Service News Agency and The Washington Report on Middle East Affairs. His articles have received much recognition and several awards, including, most recently, the prestigious Martha Gellhorn Prize for Journalism, which was presented to Mohammed in a special ceremony in London in June, 2008 - about which more in a moment.

Mohammed and his family, like many Palestinians, have suffered greatly because of the circumstances under which they live in Gaza. He himself was nearly killed by a bulldozer in the course of photographing the demolition of a neighbor's house and one of his brothers did lose his life as a teenager as a result of being shot by Israel Defense Forces on his way home from school. Another brother was shot in the leg, which had to be amputated. Mohammed's father has spent eleven years in Israeli prisons where torture, as is well known, is common. And in March, 2003, Mohammed returned to his home after school to find that he had it been demolished by an Israeli bulldozer. All his family's possessions - books, photographs, all his own notebooks, everything - were obliterated, and he and his family suddenly found themselves homeless.

It is not an unusual family story for people living in Gaza; on the contrary, one hears accounts like this all the time from the lips of Palestinians.

Now fast-forward to June, 2008. Mohammed has recently received word that he is to be a co-recipient of the Martha Gellhorn Prize. For this, he must get to London, but, as you know, it is not easy for any Gazan to leave the prison that Gaza has become under the unrelenting Israeli siege. Only after strenuous diplomatic efforts over several weeks by Dutch officials and a prize-winning Australian journalist living in England was it possible for Mohammed to leave Gaza to receive his award. While in Europe, Mohammed also spoke in Sweden, the Netherlands and Greece about his work, in addition to making a very moving acceptance speech in London during the ceremonies for the Gellhorn Prize.

The return to Gaza was, however, also fraught with difficulties. According to various reports in the press, as soon as Mohammed had arrived in Amman, the Dutch diplomats who had facilitated his trip informed him that the Israelis did not want him to return. However, after further negotiations by his Dutch sponsors, Mohammed was finally allowed to enter Israel via the Allenby Bridge on the morning of June 26th.

That's when the trouble began.

According to all the accounts I have read in the press including several interviews with Mohammed himself, there he was interrogated, strip-searched and brutalized by agents of the Shin Bet for several hours. Mohammed says that his interrogators made fun of him saying, "Oh, so it's you who won the journalism award," and repeatedly asked him where he had hidden his prize money. After that, he was continually threatened at gunpoint, forced to remove all his clothes leaving him completely naked, and then beaten and kicked for more than ten minutes until he lost consciousness. He awoke to find himself being dragged around the room by his feet, his head banging on the floor, after which another Shin Bet officer pressed his boot upon Mohammed's neck while another painfully jabbed his fingers into his face. At this point, Mr. Omer says, "I thought I was dying. I remained in a state of unconsciousness for up to 90 minutes until a medical doctor who was carrying an M-16 performed an electrocardiogram on me."

This bare summary of Mohammed's ordeal hardly does more, however, than give a kind of overall impression of his treatment and the rank and wanton humiliation that was inflicted on him that seems to have been motivated only by malice. Reading Mohammed's own testimony, one can't help being reminded of the unchecked and unmonitored torture that was visited upon Iraqi prisoners at Abu Ghraib. To illustrate this, I will present some excepts from a recent interview with Mohammed conducted by Amy Goodman on her Democracy Now! Program. At this point, a Shin Bet officer named Avi has taken Mohammed into an empty room to continue his "interrogation:"

Avi took me inside a room, where he asked me--in an empty room, where he asked me, "Take off your clothes." I told him, "I'm not going to take off my clothes, because I have the Dutch embassy waiting for me outside." After some time, I had to take off my clothes. He said, "Take off your T-shirt." I take it off. I took off my jeans. I took off my shoes and my socks. And then he's coming to me--he's getting closer to me, and then he says, "Take off your underwear." I said, "I'm not going to take off my underwear. There is an embassy waiting outside for me." He said, "I know that there is an embassy waiting for you. Take off your underwear." I said, "I'm not going to take it off." Then he was putting his hand on his revolver and kept looking at me. "Mohammed, take off your underwear," he says. And then I said, "I'm not going to take it off, because this is a humiliation. You're trying to humiliate me. It's not security checking, because I went through the security system like anyone else, and you are treating me differently." And then he said, "Take it off." And then I said, "I'm not going to take it off."

So he went down to my knees, where he pulled down my underwear to make me totally naked. I looked at him, and then I told him, "OK? So what are you trying to do here?" And he said, "Go right, go left." I said, "I'm not going to move right or left. I'm totally naked." And then he started humiliating me and laughing. And I continued explaining to him, "Why do you treat me that way? I'm a human being, and I don't deserve this kind of treatment." Then he said to me, "Well, still, you have seen nothing. You will see more." He continued to interrogate me and...search me, stripping and searching me while I was totally naked. And then he told me, "Go and get your clothes on." I put my clothes on, and I went back to the hall where the travelers are coming.

There was of course "more," as Avi had threatened. Later on, after more ridicule, taunting and other forms of verbal intimidation, it starts to get physical:

I collapsed during the interrogation. I fainted and...I started vomiting everywhere. And then the soldiers, they started gathering around me. I estimate nearly one hour and a half vomiting on the ground. And one of the Shabak officers--I was unconscious for most of the time, but I can remember one of the things that they were doing to me. He was using his [fingernails] and pinching me all the way, trying to cause me pain under my eyes and under the soft part of my eye. I thought what these people are doing is basically they are trying to torture me. And one of them who was trying to do that, the same thing, pinching me using his [fingernails] under my ears, and then one other of them...put his shoes on my neck. I could feel actually the outline of his shoes on my neck, moving right and left.

I started vomiting again and again, especially after one of the soldiers had both his two fingers inside the hole between my neck and my chest. There is a little hole, and he put it all the way inside and tried to grab my bones, to grab me from my bones different times. That was the most painful thing. And then, [the] other one who was trying to put his hands on my chest and all his weight on my chest. He was--it was actually meant to break me and to break my ribs, because he put all his weight. And the man who continued...to put his feet and his shoes on my neck, that can't be first aid at all. When I told the doctors here in Gaza what happened to me, they said that can't be first aid, it can't be something like that, that's torture.

Mohammed's account of his treatment goes on, as I indicate in my summary account above, but you have read enough to get the flavor of this "interrogation." In any case, eventually Mohammed was dragged off, still only half conscious, to an ambulance and taken to a hospital in Jericho following which he was transported by Dutch diplomats to a hospital in Gaza where doctors determined that several of his ribs had been cracked. Mohammed was hospitalized for five days after his assault and is still recovering from his injuries and trauma. His voice remains weak and hoarse, and he still seems emotionally broken from the incident. As he told one interviewer, "I'm emotionally destroyed. I have nightmares. I have never experienced such humiliation. They stripped and made fun of me....If I weren't a Palestinian, if only I had a different passport, they would never have done that to me."

The latest word I have heard from those who are close to Mohammed is that he needs an operation. It is not clear exactly for what, but one of his friends has written that it is because of where they had kicked him. He said it was in a sensitive area so I am assuming it is in the groin." I think we can surmise just where Mohammed was kicked.

Of course, the Israelis deny that any unusual security procedures were involved in Mohammed's interrogation, and that "the person in question received decent treatment and no extraordinary measures were taken against him. After the body search...the person in question lost his balance and fell for some unknown reason...."

Needless to say, no one, and certainly no one who has talked with Mohammed, believes this. Such denials are standard practice and are risible on their face.

As you can imagine, there has been a widespread sense of outrage over this incident and various protests have already been lodged by friends of Mohammed and concerned journalists everywhere. Dutch MP Van Baalen has demanded an investigation and an open letter has been sent to the Israeli ambassador to the U.K., Ron Prosor, asking him to launch an investigation into the matter. Meanwhile, in America, The Washington Report for Middle East Affairs has circulated a petition on Mohammed's behalf, which has already garnered thousand of signatories demanding redress, and Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice's office has agreed to a meeting. In addition, the Consul General of the San Francisco Israeli consulate has been advised of this matter and has offered to meet about it. At the very least, if the results of these inquiries establish the veracity of Mohammed's claims, as few doubt they will, then the Israeli government should be required to issue an apology to Mohammed and to compensate him for his injuries, although of course none of that will repair his broken ribs or his damaged "groin," much less undo the trauma and humiliation that he suffered as a result of the thuggish actions that its operatives perpetrated on him.

Even though Mohammed has been deeply wounded, physically and psychologically, by the ordeal that I have described, he is determined not to allow the insults he has suffered at the hands of these Israeli agents to intimidate him or keep him from his work, no matter what the consequences. As he told Amy Goodman:

Well...they can kill me. I thought that the fact that I'm being given this international prize was going to bring me protection, but who cares? Israel doesn't care....I mean, will Israel care [about] killing a journalist? Of course not....Will they care [about killing] Mohammed Omer? Of course not.

As long as Mohammed lives, they will not succeed in killing his voice either. He will continue to speak out against injustice and to report the facts in Gaza, once he is able to work again. As it states in his Gellhorn Prize citation, "Every day, he reports from a war zone, where he is also a prisoner. His homeland, Gaza, is surrounded, starved, attacked, forgotten. He is a profoundly humane witness to one of the great injustices of our time. He is the voice of the voiceless."

Mohammed told another interviewer that he was calling on his colleagues around the world to condemn in the strongest words the "criminal and disgraceful Israeli behavior," which "only befits criminals and thugs, not states, let alone states that claim to be civilized, western and democratic."

As is well attested by human rights organizations and many witnesses, flagrant abuses like those which were inflicted upon Mohammed occur routinely to Palestinian citizens at the hands of Israeli soldiers and have been going on for many years. Most of the victims of this kind of brutality, which can only inflame hatred because of its capricious cruelty, are ordinary people who have no one to speak up for their defense, so reports of this sort of thing often leave no trace except on those who are the victims of it. But in this case, Mr. Omer is a highly respected journalist who has many friends throughout the world, and because of that, there will rightly be a "stink" made about this incident, and it will not forgotten, any more than it will by Mohammed himself.

In fact, in the last communication I have received from one of his close friends, Mohammed made it clear that he wanted his friends and allies around the world "not to give up fighting for the safe passage of Palestinians" and that his own case not be forgotten since it provides such a clear instance of what can happen to any Palestinian, especially one who has a record of speaking out against injustice, when such routine protections can no longer be counted on.

Which is why those of us who have been especially concerned with this incident want to do all we can to continue to publicize it until justice is done, both to Mohammed and to all Palestinians. In this effort, we hope you will also see fit to make your voice heard.

Kenneth Ring, Ph.D., is a professor emeritus of psychology, University of Connecticut, who currently resides in the San Francisco Bay Area. His e-mail is: Ken_Ring@Compuserve.com

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