There would have been thousands of people today trying to make their way to the forbidden Pearl Roundabout, marking the first anniversary of the uprising. Thousands had tried, unsuccessfully, to get there the day before. They were turned by overwhelming doses of tear gas, birdshot, rubber bullets and concussion grenades.

From early morning on February 14, it was clear that the government had called out all its forces to stop any protests. It was like a state of siege. The police had set up roadblocks and checkpoints everywhere, stopping people from getting near downtown. There were spanking new, armored tanks set up at every major intersection. Police cars were rolling up and down the streets, constantly on the lookout.

In the morning, a group of human rights activists, including a few of us international observers who had managed to slip by the immigration officials to get into the country, were on our way to visit a newly released prisoner. Our vehicles were stopped just three blocks from the house where we were meeting. We were detained for a 30-minutes while our papers were checked.

Then we moved on to visit Hasan Salman, a 28-year-old, extremely gaunt man with a long beard (I was told he shaved it off that evening). Hasan had just been released after three years in prison where he was constantly tortured. He was an articulate, amazingly brave man who, while celebrating his release, was also fearful that he could be picked up again for just talking to us. He had been accused of revealing the names of hundreds of human rights violators in Bahrain. He is the Bradley Manning of Bahrain. We were deeply moved by his conviction and will post the interview soon.

In the afternoon we attempted to make our way to Pearl Roundabout. There was a huge traffic jam because the police had put up roadblocks, and so many people were trying to get downtown. Today there was no permitted march like yesterday. People were simply planning to get as close to the Roundabout as they could. On the highway leading to the center of town, the streets were reverberating with the sounds of Down, Down, Hamad, Down Down, Hamad. Hamad is the King, and it’s illegal to speak against the King, the Prime Minister or the royal family. Some of the cars were just honking their horns to the beat of Down, Down, Hamad. It was a traffic insurrection, an uprising on the highway.

The police didn’t know what to do. One young man in the lane next to us stuck his head out the roof of his car, yelling Down, down, Hamad. The police started running after his car, firing tear gas, as if he were some hardened criminal.

In the car in front of us was the amazing human rights activist/organizer Nabeel Rajab. We saw him and some of his colleague get out of their car and start walking. We were still far away from the roundabout, but we jumped out of our cars to join the group. I put on my sign saying “Observer” and grabbed my gas mask. We, the observers, were declared illegal by the government, who wanted to keep all observers and most journalists out of the country so they wouldn’t see the demonstrations.

We hadn’t walked for more than a few minutes when the police ran towards us. BOOM, BOOM. They started shooting tear gas canisters—not in the air to disperse us, but RIGHT AT US, like bullets. Most of us started running. I ran with Tighe and Billy (two of the other US observers) and others right into the highway, sprinting as fast as we could and hiding behind the cars. BOOM, BOOM. Two of the canisters feel right next to me. People in the cars, perfect strangers, starting opening their car doors and pulling all of us inside. “Get in, get in,” they shouted.

Nabeel did not run. He had stood still, in the middle of the highway, with amazing calm and dignity. His is so famous, and so feared by the regime, that the police didn’t dare shoot at him. Right there, in the middle of the highway, hundreds of people got out of their cars to take photos with him and show support. After about 15 minutes, the police grabbed Nabeel and threw him into the police car.

Surrounded by three Pakistani policemen (mercenaries, as they are called here) and one Bahraini driver, they took Nabeel to the police station. He was kept there until 1:30am, accused of being in an “unauthorized gathering” and then released on bail. They confiscated his phone and tried to take away his most powerful weapon against the regime: his twitter account. Nabeel has over 100,000 twitter followers, the highest in the country and the fourth highest in the Arab world—which is why the regime is so afraid of him. (He was just named one of the 100 most influential Arabs on twitter.) They hacked into Nabeel’s account last night, using his phone. But no worries, he is back tweeting today. Nabeel’s IT hackers, including his 14-year-old son, are smarter than the government hackers.

Our group of American observers had a rough time as well. Two of us, Flo and Kate, were arrested almost immediately. The other seven of us, finding ourselves in different cars, tried to regroup. Unfortunately, when four members of the group got back together and started walking down the street, they, too, were nabbed by the police. At first it seemed they were just going to check their documents, but after hours and hours of waiting, the government decided to deport them all.

The three of us who managed to escape then spent the evening calling the embassy, the state department, lawyers, trying to gather their belongings and getting the bags to the airport. It was all very complicated because of the fear of the government confiscating their things, especially the electronic goods, but in the end we got most of their belongings out with them.

Then we waited at Nabeel’s house, along with Nabeel’s relatives, to make sure he was okay. At 10pm, the nightly ritual protest began, with people on their rooftops shouting God is Great, God is Great. We could hear the shouts coming from all directions. One huge voice, rising up in determination. With just those three words, they were saying “We will not be silenced, we will keep fighting this regime.”

It wasn’t long, perhaps a half-hour later, when we heard other voices rising up from a nearby village and the hooking of cars to the rhythm of “Down, down Hamad”—referring to the King. To punish those who were shouting, the whole village was punished with volley after volley of tear gas that lit up the sky like fireworks. The smoke started billowing up against the black sky. We were worrying about how the villagers, especially the children, were faring, when the breeze started to blow the tear gas our way. Suffering from just a fraction of the gas that was lobbied into the village, we were coughing, spitting, eyes tearing. Poor villagers.

“The government’s actions are working against them,” one of the local people told us. “Last year most people loved the King. Now you hear everyone, even the little kids, shouting “Down, down, Hamad.”

At 3am Nabeel returned home with his wife and children who had been with him at the jail. They brought buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken for a midnight snack. “They want to intimate us,” he said, downing the chicken and rice, “but they just strengthen us and give the people no other option but to keep fighting for freedom.”

Tens of thousands of people flooded the main Budayia road. First were the men, mostly young; then came the women. They were shouting defiant chants like “We won’t obey your orders; we will break the chains.” They were calling on the prime minister to step down, shouting “Forty years is enough!”

My favorite sign was one contrasting the U.S. views toward Syria and Bahrain. On one side was Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton above gruesome, Syrian bodies, chastising Assad. On the other side was Obama and Clinton above gruesome, Bahraini bodies, remaining silent. The Bahrainis want to know why the U.S. has such double standards. Not only is the U.S. government going ahead with multimillion dollar arms sales to Bahrain, but the tear gas that was about to envelop us came from the good ‘ol USA.

About 20 minutes after the march began, the group at the front arrived at Al Qadam roundabout. They were supposed to continue straight ahead, but some decided to veer off to the right to try to reach the coveted destination: the Pearl Roundabout. For those who haven’t followed the struggle in Bahrain, the Pearl Roundabout was like Egypt’s Tahrir Square, where Bahraini protesters had camped out for about a month before they were brutally evicted by the police. In an attempt to totally squash the protests, the government had bulldozed the entire square, including the iconic monument in the middle made up of six sails projecting up to the sky and coming together to hold a giant, shining pearl.

The men, trying to protect the women from any police repression, set up a blockade to push the women onward toward the permitted march. Meanwhile, thousand of young men started sprinting towards the Pearl Roundabout. Although the protest was totally peaceful, the police (most of whom are not Bahraini and many of whom don’t even speak Arabic), responded with an overwhelming barrage of teargas, as well as birdshot and rubber bullets.

We all began choking, struggling to breathe, our eyes on fire. I had put on my gas mask, but it did nothing to stop my eyes from burning. It was so bad I had to close them and walk, stumbling along blindly. Luckily, one of our local friends, Mohammad, grabbed my hand and pulled me to the side.

A person with a carload of passengers saw us. He pulled the car off the road and the passengers jumped out to make room for me, Tighe, Mohammad and two other Americans in our group. A perfect stranger, the driver took terrific care of us and thanked us for bearing witness to their struggle.

This is something we hear repeatedly. While we feel shame about our government’s role in propping up this regime, the local people have been treating us with such kindness and generosity. I hope some day we can repay them.

Several hours later, the protests subsided. At 10pm, the locals repeated what has been become a ritual this week: they stand on their balconies and shout—at the top of their lungs and over and over again—“God is great; God is great.” The words are not only a prayer, but also a warning to the government: “We will only obey God, not you.” The echoing of the chant through village after village is chilling. In each voice you can hear pent up rage, frustration, pride, determination.

Tomorrow, millions of Americans back home will be celebrating Valentines day with flowers and chocolates, perhaps even breakfast in bed. In Bahrain thousands upon thousands of peaceful freedom fighters will celebrate by getting out into the streets, showing their devotion to the country they love so dearly that they are willing to put their lives at risk to help set it free.

In the afternoon we went out to see the boat, The Audacity of Hope. It was really thrilling. We heard about how it had been a rusty, old thing and it has been transformed into a lovely vessel fit for 50 passengers. We could see that a lot of sweat and love went into the transformation, trying to make it as comfortable as possible for us. It’s so sad to think that it might well end up in the hands of the Israelis if they intercept and confiscate it. What a shame! We took photos but are not allowed to send them out yet. We want to wait till we’re ready to sail before sending out the photos. We’re also trying to be discreet about where we’re sailing from, but I’m sure the infamous Israeli intelligence knows even before we do!

We divided up into committees for all the tasks we need on the boat. People are so great about volunteering to take on everything that needs to be done. We have a kitchen crew to prepare the meals; a medical crew that is already getting a medical profile of each passenger to try to foresee any problems; a clean up crew to keep the place tidy; a security group to make sure someone is on the lookout 24/7; a group with experience on boats to help the captain; a media crew to be a liaison with the on-shore media team; and a spiritual/cultural group that will help keep us grounded and upbeat. We already started a singing group that I am part of, and practiced songs for about an hour today. Everybody is contributing their skills, their time, their energy. It’s beautiful. A few people are even sleeping on the ship tonight to keep guard. We don’t want anyone going on board to plant weapons or mess with the engine. The Israelis are known for doing things like that, you know.

We treated ourselves to a lovely Greek dinner tonight, with lots of fresh salads and fish (octopus, squid and great little fried fish that you just pop in your mouth whole). Then back to work in the evening–conference calls with the teams back home, liaison with international committees from the other boats, and more planning, planning, planning. As we sat outside our hotel working, a stream of international folks from the other boats stopped by–Swedes, Spaniards, Canadians, Greeks. It’s amazing how many people from around the world have been working to pull this together!

It seems that due to the political crisis in Greece and how that has affected the Greek ship, we have had to change the date we set sail by a few days. But that gives us a few more days to get ready, so it’s not too bad. We’re just all so anxious to get on board and start our journey…

The only conceivable purpose for this gross violation of my bodily integrity was to humiliate and terrify me. But it had just the opposite effect. It made me more determined to speak out against abuses by the Israeli government and military.

Yet my own experience, unpleasant as it was, is nothing compared to the indignities and abuses heaped on Palestinians year after year.  Israel’s occupation of the West Bank is based not on equal rights and fair play, but on what Human Rights Watch has termed a “two-tier” legal system – in other words, apartheid, with one set of laws for Jews and a harsh, oppressive set of laws for Palestinians.

This, however, is the legal system and security state AIPAC (The American Israel Public Affairs Committee) will defend from May 22-24 at its annual conference.  And, despite this grim reality, members of Congress will converge to hail AIPAC and Israel.  The Palestinians’ lack of freedom is bound to be obscured at the AIPAC conference with its obsessive focus on security and shunting aside of anything to do with upholding fundamental Palestinian rights.

Several years ago near Der Beilut in the West Bank, I saw the Israeli police turn a water cannon on our nonviolent protest. As it happened, I recalled Birmingham, Alabama in 1963 and wondered why an ostensibly democratic society responded to peaceable assembly by trying, literally, to drown out the voice of our protest.

In Mas’ha, also in the occupied West Bank, I joined a demonstration against the wall Israel has built, usually inside the West Bank and occasionally towering to 25 feet in height. I saw a red sign warning ominously of “mortal danger” to any who dared to cross in an area where it ran as a fence. I saw Israeli soldiers aiming at unarmed Israelis, Palestinians and international protesters. I also saw blood pouring out of Gil Na’amati, a young Israeli whose first public act after completing his mandatory military service was to protest against the wall. I saw shrapnel lodged in the leg of Anne Farina, one of my traveling companions from St. Louis. And I thought of Kent State and Jackson State, where National Guardsmen opened fire in 1970 on protesters against the Vietnam War.

So as AIPAC meets and members of Congress cheer, I hold these images of Israel in my mind and fear AIPAC’s ability to move US policy in dangerous directions. AIPAC does a disservice to the Palestinians, the Israelis and the American people. It helps to keep the Middle East in a perpetual state of war and this year will be no different from last year as it keeps up a steady drumbeat calling for war against Iran.

AIPAC pretends to speak for all Jews, but it certainly does not speak for me or other members of the Jewish community in this country who are committed to equal rights for all and are aware that American interventionism is likely to bring further disaster and chaos to the Middle East.

Israel, of course, would not be able to carry out its war crimes against civilians in Lebanon and Gaza without the United States – and our $3 billion in military aid – permitting it to do so. At 86 years old, I use every ounce of my energy to educate the American public about the need to stop supporting the abuses committed by the Israeli government and military against the Palestinian people. Sometimes there are people who try to shout me down and scream that I am a self-hating Jew, but most of the time the audience is receptive to hear from someone who survived the Holocaust and now works to free the Palestinians from Israeli oppression.

The vicious discrimination brought to bear against Palestinians in the occupied territories deserves no applause this week from members of Congress attending the AIPAC conference.  Instead, they should raise basic questions with Israeli officials about decades of inferior rights endured by Palestinians both inside Israel and the occupied territories. As for me, I will be across the road at an alternative convention called Move Over AIPAC. To sign up and join me, visit www.MoveOverAIPAC.org.

Hedy Epstein is a Holocaust survivor, who writes and travels extensively to speak about social justice causes and Middle Eastern affairs.

Take action by attending Move Over AIPAC, a gathering in Washington DC from May 21-24, 2011, to expose AIPAC and build the vision for a new US foreign policy in the Middle East! More information can be found at www.MoveOverAIPAC.org.

For a people who have been sleeping for three decades, Egyptians have awoken with a jolt and are spontaneously organizing themselves in a manner that is nothing short of a miracle. The police, after teargassing, beating and shooting protesters during the first few days of protests, have now vanished from the streets. Instead, citizen committees are doing everything from controlling traffic to patrolling their neighborhoods and protecting the shops.

The main square in Cairo—Tahrir Square—is the headquarters of the revolution. Hundreds of thousands of people clogged the square today, and thousands have been camping out all week and insist they will stay until Mubarak leaves. They are young and old, mostly men but a surprising number of women and children. They are professionals and farmers, well off and poor, urban and rural, PhDs and barely literate. Some are long-time political activists who have been jailed by the regime; most have never engaged in anything political.

Army tanks line the entrance to the square, but a cordon of civilians separate the army from the protesters. Civilians also set up a 24-hour security detail to check people coming in—men frisk the men to make sure they have no weapons; women inspect the women’s belongings. The young people have organized clean-up crews, collecting garbage, sweeping, holding signs encouraging people to put their trash in the bins. A group of volunteer health workers in white coats walk around taking people’s blood pressure and checking up on their health.

All the stores around the square are closed, but no one is going hungry. Supporters are constantly bringing in food and water to share. “Please, take a roll, madam,” an elderly man urges me. “Have some candy,” says a young girl handing out sweets. “Is there anything you need? Water? Food? Drink? Just tell us,” a man insisted. People are taking care of each other as if they were one big family.

“Where do you go to the bathroom?,” I asked one of the women, as there is not one port-a-potty or bathroom in sight for this sea of people. “We go out to the street, knock on doors and ask to use the facilities. Complete strangers are opening their homes to us,” she answered.

The techies in the group hooked up a live wire from the light pole to set up a phone charging station. Others hung a big white sheet from a building overlooking the square and rigged up a projector to broadcast Al Jazeera live. The government has closed down the internet, but everywhere you look, people are photographing and videoing the street scenes from their cell phones.

Circles of people gather to recite poetry, play music or sing. Others march round and round chanting “Down with Mubarak, down with Mubarak.” They hold handmade signs with all kinds of slogans. While mostly in Arabic, some signs in English say things like “Christians and Muslims, together against Mubarak” and “USA, Stop supporting Mubarak; We don’t wanna hate the USA.”

Some people are playing chess; others are quietly reading the Koran. Young girls gather around their Kindle reading revolutionary verses. A women walks around with a picture of Che Guevara, explaining who he is to anyone who will listen. “It’s important to educate the young generation about revolutionary heroes,” she insisted.

Everywhere, people are engaged in animated political discussions about their nation’s future. Some support Nobel Peace Prize winner Mohammad El Baradei as an interim leader. Others believe he is too far removed from the people, since he has lived abroad for 30 years, and they prefer a collective, interim government to write a new constitution and hold free and fair elections. Religious men with long beards, aligned with the Muslim Brotherhood, argue that Egypt needs a Muslim government; others disagree vehemently, insisting on a secular state. The discussions are passionate, but also friendly and respectful.

Egyptians have no idea what the future will bring, but one thing is certain: they have discovered their voices. One man who is helping with security told me that a few weeks ago, when his family was watching news on TV about people taking to the streets in Tunesia, his 10-year-old son asked him if he would participate in something like that in Egypt. “I was silent,” he said, “because I didn’t know the answer.” At the first sign of protests in Cairo, however, he jumped in. Now every night he runs home to show his son photos from the day’s events. “My son is very proud of me,” the father beamed. “So you are doing this for your son and the next generation?” I asked. “Not really,” he laughed. “I am doing this for myself. For the first time in my life, I am proud to be Egyptian.”

No matter how the situation in Egypt unfolds, a new nation has been born. Ordinary people are doing extraordinary things. They have overcome their fears and regained their dignity. They are writing their own destiny.

This is what a revolution looks like.

Medea Benjamin is cofounder of CODEPINK and Global Exchange. She can be reached for interviews in Cairo at (20) 107148431.

Adm. Mike Mullen, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, was quoted in an AP report yesterday as saying,”We cannot succeed … in Afghanistan by killing Afghan civilians”. While he stays tight-lipped about the disastrous unmanned drones, he goes on to say that it will take at least 2 YEARS for the troop surge to begin working. The brief article is full of other quotes that are as equally mind-boggling, like, “We’ve got to be very, very focused on making sure that we proceed deliberately, that we know who the enemy is,” Mullen said. “The enemy uses this very effectively against us.” Make sense of that if you dare. And read Robert Dreyfuss’s article, “Obama’s Great Afghanistan Gamble” published in Mother Jones last month. The tagline is Everyone knows 17,000 more troops can’t win the war in Afghanistan. So what’s the exit strategy? Need we say more??

MADRE, an international women’s human rights organization, is doing fantastic work around highlighting the real stories of Afghan women–drawing attention to the fact that US airstrikes that kill civilians further endanger Afghan women and their families! Check their most post here and read up on courageous Afghan women standing up for their rights today!