To be an American in Gaza is to be surrounded by questions. Why do you want to go there? Why did you come here? What's this I'm eating? Why are we being bombed? Are those really F-16s and Apache helicopters up there? Why can't Israelis come into Gaza? And, where is Gaza, anyway?

To answer the last question first, Gaza lies at the eastern end of the Mediterranean Sea, bounded on the south by Egypt, on the east and north by Israel. Therein lies the problem. The word "Gaza" is from an old word meaning "crossroads", or "intersection." Living in Gaza is like living in the middle of the intersection of Cooper Point Road and Black Lake Boulevard. Someone is always racing through. Most feel they own the road. From the Egyptians to the Turks to the British, Gaza's fate has always been in someone else's hands. Now, it's the Israelis, and--by default--the Americans.

The answer to the first and second questions is simple: to visit my friends, to do some research, and to contribute in any way that I can to the activities of the Gaza Community Mental Health Programme. I've been consulting with them since 1991, shortly after it was formed. Over the years, we've been through two Intefadas, one hope for peace, and a thousand broken promises.

The short answer to the fifth question is "yes." The fourth and sixth questions are the subject of endless discussions around mealtimes, which happen to revolve around the third question. To answer the easiest question first, it's an exotic array of spices brought from Saudi Arabia to Dr. El Sarraj (my host, friend, and colleague) by his sister. We dip bread into olive oil and then into the spices. Like Gaza, the combination is complex, intense, and compellingly flavorful.

So, why are F16s and Apache helicopters bombing us? Thanks to a cell phone and time difference between here and Washington, DC, I can ask my elected representatives. When I call them and tell them I'm an American being bombed in Gaza, I'm thanked for my comment. "No," I say, to a chorus of loud booms in the background. "I'm under fire." "I'm sorry, but the senator (congressman) is not available now," comes the reply. "Well, call me back!" I yell into the cell phone. I leave my number. No one calls back.

"How can this be?" wonder the Palestinians aloud. "Don't you elect these people?" "At the moment," I reply, "That's a matter of some debate."

And so it goes. We used to share these discussions with Israelis who, like us, believe that dialogue between opposing sides is an essential step toward peace. Those days seem to be over. Apparently, the war against terrorism is now confined to the battlefield, where one side is wrong and the other is right. But for this American in Gaza, that raises a whole new round of questions.