On arrival I'm set up in the veranda, which is cherished office real estate. Especially in winter. Pamper the newbie, I guess.

Back in the days the Bisan headquarters sits in Balu'a, a low-lying suburb of Ramallah of previously marshes, aquatic birds and, in summer, the occasional goat. Today offices spring up, both government and private. There's a pharmaceutical factory, and of course Plaza Mall, an air-conditioned, i.e. refrigerated, glass expanse that houses a Benetton boutique, a toy store, coffee shops, and the regal Bravo Supermarket. Descendants of that occasional goat still graze among the towering developments. I often toddle down there to chillax whenever, especially in summer, the veranda proves less cherished real estate and more NASA experiment to colonize Venus.  

The IDF admits to using "agents provocateurs" at the weekly anti-wall demonstrations in Bil'in. "But they only start throwing rocks after the regular demonstrators do so." Which begs the question; what's the point of using infiltrators then? Once more, logic is that most scarce of commodities, snuffed out in the fog of tugging.
 
Then again, what's the point of a lot of things? We so often fold into our designated ruts, each to his role, unthinkingly. Ever thus at Bil'in. Left-wing, self-hating Israelis and internationals fold arms with the downtrodden, the people whose land is nibbled at, cement-trucked, ground into facts. To each his task. The army's welcoming committee, on the Palestinian side of what's supposed to be a separation fence, cross-armed, wide-legged megaphones along the script; "This is a closed military zone. Leave now or face the consequences."