When a temporary lifting of the curfew was announced in Jenin on the fourth day of the holy month of Ramadan, the happiest of all were the children. 

Although eager to return to school, to their daily game of chasing one another in the alleyways of the camp, the children were more ecstatic from the fact that they now could freely, and temporarily enjoy Ramadan. 

If you thought for a second that children of poor families don't know how to take advantage of the joy hidden in this holy month, you are mistaken. 

Sure, parents do all they can to ensure a somewhat exuberant Ramadan for the kids. They'd go into debt to give their children a special Ramadan. The children however, worry less about the source of the additional meat on the table, or how expensive the almost daily Kunafa desert was. But even without the additional rewards, Ramadan remains special, as long there is no curfew. 

Of course, soldiers kill Ramadan. They killed it too often, to the point that many Palestinians were coerced into seeing Ramadan as a month of worship, and nothing else. That Ramadan spirit could easily be bulldozed out of an entire camp when armored vehicles decide to do so. The joy of the holy month, similar to the joy of Christmas turns into misery when "special army units" decide to implement a "targeted killing" of a Palestinian activist. The specialty of Ramadan, its holiness and its joy was never a concern to Israel, but always a concern to us, Palestinians. 

As children, we counted the days until Ramadan's arrival. With it arrived warmth, and although it is difficult to describe, people followed a higher social code of behavior, of faith and generosity.  

And if you are wondering; yes, growing up, I did cheat on my fast in Ramadan. But that too was special; hiding behind the pile of mattresses with my favorite snack - a tomato, a cucumber and a loaf of pita bread. It was even more electrifying to cheat in a group, along with my younger siblings. It was no fun for mother though, who used to be devastated to learn that her second grade son was eating in secret. She tried to institute discipline and commitment in us, and we were merely there for the special food afterwards and the partying time at night. 

Don't wonder afar, by partying time at night, I am of course referring to the droves of little children roaming the refugee camps, villages and towns all over the Occupied Territories, holding what became a symbol of this holy month, the Ramadan Lantern. 

In most Muslim countries, and even here in the United States, the lantern is likely a beautifully designed lamp with a small light and a holder for triple A batteries. In the camp, the lantern was homemade. The dumpsters in our refugee camp offered boundless opportunities, empty cans of olive oil, beans or Hummus. It didn't matter what the empty cans carried. Once the label was removed, with a few scrubs, several holes driven into it in a special design, you'd have a "Made in Gaza" Ramadan lantern. Little the soldiers can do to ruin that for us as well. 

 In the past uprising, which lasted for approximately six years, children amended their Ramadan rituals to suit the new realities. During the curfews, after the breaking of the fast at sunset, children used to examine the roads for Israeli troops. Once it was clear, one would whistle, then everyone would whistle in chorus. Whistling in that particular context meant that the roads were safe. Children would gather outside vigilantly, as men also do to share or borrow cigarettes from each other. Children would then do what they were suppose to do in a normal Ramadan. They'd sing: "Welcome, welcome Ramadan, month of joy and generosity .." but much more discreetly, always ready to flee once the soldiers stormed the camp again. 

"But this Ramadan is different," my friend in Jenin tells me. "Unlike the first Intifada, people are beyond poor. Children go to school without school bags. They have no toys, no lanterns." 

I then shared my old idea of turning olive oil cans into lanterns. Sure, its a Gaza thing, but we are always willing to export our creative theories to the West Bank. Luckily, my friend in Jenin promised to share the genius plan with his children. You never know, it might catch on in Jenin. 

A Palestinian filmmaker whose documentary about Jenin is gaining worldwide attention recently commented that he has never seen the amount of smiles as the ones carried by the faces of the children in Jenin. "They always smiled unless they were in a funeral," he said. 

In Jenin, there are many funerals. In Rafah, Khan Yunis, Nablus too and all over Palestine, there are funerals of children, or the parents of children, enough to assassinate or implement another "targeted killing" of the spirit of Ramadan, Christmas and all other holidays combined. These funerals are of people who died at the hands of the Israeli army, who still hold no regard for special occasions. But when my friend, a photojournalist from Jerusalem walked into a West Bank town with his camera, in a town where a curfew was lifted just for a few hours, droves of children crowded him, all smiling, all with lanterns, singing for the holy month, for its "joy and generosity," demanding for their photos be taken, photos that they'll never see.

But I saw the photo, and for a moment realized the spirit that I missed for years, being far away from home, transmitted through these children, malnourished and valiant. I often wondered, if the Israeli occupation is failing to break the spirit of a child so determined to celebrate Ramadan, a month of fasting (or a month for cheating on your fast,) how can it possibly break the will of an entire nation, determined to realize freedom, at any cost?