Ahlan wa Sahlan (welcome)

It has been my dream to visit Palestine for 10 years, and finally, I am here.

Palestine doesn't have its own airport or control over its own borders because of the Israeli illegal occupation of the land so I, with a heavy heart, flew into Tel Aviv.

On the British government travel advice page, people flying into Israel are warned that their personal email and social media accounts may be accessed by Israeli authorities as a condition of entry.  Any evidence of intention to visit Palestine is mostly likely to result in hours of questioning or immediate removal - first flight home and banned from Israel.  Having a Muslim name or if you have visited other Arab countries are also likely to lead to refusal of entry.  'Security' is the reason given for such blantant racism.

So because of my birthplace, name and a little luck, I was paid little attention to and passed through immigration without problem. 

A family I met in Tunisia collected me from the airport and I spent my first days with them in their home in Ramallah.  Whilst I would like to publicly thank everyone here who has shown me great kindness, and tell their stories, at this stage I am apprehensive to do so in case of any repercussions for them by the Israeli authorities.

Ramallah is a very cosmopolitan city, with cafes, bars and restaurants and a wealth of internationals who work, volunteer or visit.  However, the apartheid wall which separates Israel from Palestine and is illegal under international law, is a cruel reminder that this is anything but a normal city for its inhabitants.

Crossing checkpoints can take hours and you never know how long Israeli soldiers will make you wait or why.  I've heard countless stories of women giving birth at checkpoints and others dying there, unable to pass even by ambulance.

Now I'm living in a refugee camp in Bethlehem supporting an artist who has a disability.  The camp has had soldiers raiding homes in the night twice since I arrived 2 days ago. This is life for Palestine's children. Yesterday we heard about an Arab bus driver who was beaten and hung by Israeli settlers, he was 32 years old and a father.  The news reported this as suicide.

Today, 4 Israelis have been killed in Jerusalem and it has been reported as 'the most deadly terror attack in 6 years.'

This year over 2000 Palestinians, including women, children and the elderly have been killed by the Israeli forces and settlers.  The violence committed against Palestinians happens every second they breathe with every house demolition, every soldier occupying heir land, every checkpoint, every blocking of food and medical supplies and every tear gas canister and bullet fired.

The prime minister Netanyahu has already promised a heavy handed response, which we know means the collective punishment of all Palestinians.

What's that on your head? Hijab Stories

Since I started wearing the hijab on the 5th March 2013, I've said the word hijab more than 1,364,229 times.  I say it more times than I say my own name, I no longer need an introduction, apparently my hijab says it all.

Recently I attended a talk about feminism and stated how frustrating it is to spend so much time talking about the way I look - when that's exactly the opposite of what I was trying to achieve.  However, I'm learning to accept that it's something different for a lot of people and I suppose curiosity and questions are better than silence and judgement.  

Looking back over these months, there have been some really funny and beautiful moments.  So, I thought I'd write them down for the people who maybe wanted to ask but didn't in fear of saying the wrong thing or the right thing in the wrong way.

My Mum pines for 'my beautiful hair'.  Ofcourse she sees it all the time but she wants other people to see it and marvel at it's glory.  'It's such a waste for it to be hidden', a waste of what exactly I'm not sure but I promise to start making a conscious effort to swish, brush and flaunt it around the house as much as possible to get proper use out of it.  Love you Mum!

On a family trip to St Andrews, whilst they all tucked into sandwiches and wraps from 'Ye Old' whatever, I needed some spice!  After living in Tunisia for a year it's hard to taste anything without chilli.  The guy in the kebab shop was chatting away and asked where I'm from, to which I replied Edinburgh.  'No, where are you really from?'  I wasn't really sure what answer he was looking for.  He then asked me where my parents and grandparents were from.  Scotland and Scotland (I have the least exciting family tree ever).  As this was the first time this happened I was genuinely confused until I realised it was my hijab that was confusing him.  Now that I'm in on the game it's quite funny watching brains tick when I say I'm from Edinburgh.

Whilst at the YES Scotland march (please vote YES) we bumped into an old family friend.  She's a lovely woman, one of the funniest and most vivacious I've ever met actually.  Once at a dinner party she announced that my sister and I were both beautiful - 'One more beautiful than the other' (her take on an old saying apparently!).  This time she warmly embraced me and shouted 'Oh wow, look at you, you're still beautiful even with that on your head!'.  My Mum and me couldn't stop laughing, we know her and her reaction was a classic.  

Since coming home I've made a wonderful new friend called Sophie (don't be jealous old friends I love you too).  Sophie and me meet for jujube tea in cafe's where the cups don't match.  We discuss politics, feminism, religion, what's on at the Filmhouse, articles we read in the Guardian and dream jobs with human rights organisations.  She's wonderful.  The first time Sophie seen me without my hijab, her reaction was 'Oh my God, is that you?  I don't know if I like it, I mean I'm not used to it!'.  She only knows me with my scarf and it's a lovely feeling.  She readily accepts me, partly because she's a shiny star and partly because she doesn't come with any preconceived ideas about 'who I am'.

Finally, the amazing little girl who sat in her buggy on my bus home from work, pointing and giggling and sincerely asking, 'what's that on your head?'.  

The ones who didn't make the cut..........

The guy who thought it would be nice to shout abuse at me in the street, threaten to hit me and rip off my scarf.  And all the people who watched and said/did nothing.  Not cool.

The guy selling roses in Rome who was so happy that I'd converted that he started shouting about how 'not all Muslims are terrorists' in a crowded place.