"I'm so tired... so tired," C. looks at me across her dining room table.



"We try everything. We talk to people. We talk to groups. We go to meetings. We go out and strike. We write letters, wear orange t-shirts, knock on doors, speak to the media, plead with Knesset members. Our daughters worked through the night sewing orange hats and now they are on a three-day walk to Jerusalem. Yet nothing seems to stop the prime minister. It's as if a wall has come down in front of him and he can neither see nor hear our pain. We must be expelled! Why? It's good for the country?



"Our lives are on hold. We can't plan for next year. Where do I send my child to school? What job will I have? Where will my husband work? We'll have no home. Our married children and grandchildren live nearby. Will they be able to come with us? How do I say goodbye to my neighbors? I've lived with them for twenty-five years."



At that moment, we hear an explosion close to her house. We tense up. No sound of damage. The rocket must have fallen in an open space. We exhale. We hadn't realized we had been holding our breath.



C's son runs to her. "He's still traumatized by this morning's rocket attack near his school," she says. "My daughter was hurt in a mortar attack. Yesterday, she went to the Knesset to speak with Rabbi Melchior of Labor."



"Why?" I ask.



"Oh, don't you know? He's heading a legal committee. They're writing a law that will let soldiers beat us. They need to make it legal. Imagine, it will be legal to break our hands and legs. What's happened to our country? Where is my beautiful country? Why has it turned against me and my family? We grew up with the songs and the history and love of the land. We take our children on trips. Our kids don't go to Thailand to find their roots. They find them here, walking through the wadis, climbing the hills, planting another tree.



"Look at my home. How we struggled to build it.... We lived in a tiny pre-fab on the sand dunes when we came here; then we built this house. Years of struggle and love. My husband was in the army. My son-in-law is in the army. My son was just drafted. His wife lives nearby with our two granddaughters. I must call her. Mortars often fall near their house. But she's strong....



"Can I make you a cup of coffee?



"A few weeks ago we spoke to a group of teenagers from leftist kibbutzim. We talked about the purpose of Gush Katif. They came to visit us near the Knesset where we were striking. They said they were with us. Then, their leader gave a statement to the newspapers that he would use these same teenagers to evict us if the army couldn't do it.



"Our kids are not violent. One of the Gush kids was interviewed on television during the peaceful three-day march. Instead of showing pictures of the march, they showed the violence when soldiers tried to evict teenagers from the Yitzhar outpost. Funny thing is, you only saw soldiers beating and pushing the kids. And the boy said, 'I'm talking to you about our march. Why are you showing pictures of violence?' I was so proud of the boy and so upset by what the media tried to show."



The family sits around the large kitchen table eating supper. I tell C. to go and eat. But she, a woman of enduring strength, needs to talk.



The meal is over. Her daughter goes to the piano to practice her pieces, music of Israel. We hum quietly as she plays those familiar songs that pierce our soul.



C. smiles. "It's a bad day" she says, "but they won't break me."