When two Israeli soldiers stood at the ruins of what was once called the Presidential Compound in Ramallah, and as they raised the flag of the "victor", they hardly knew that the flag of Palestine was also raised.

No, the flag of Palestine is not blue and white with the "Star of David." It is still that beautiful four-colored symbol of a nation's honorable struggle.

The issue however, dates much earlier than the siege and destruction of Al-Mukata, or President Yasser Arafat's headquarters. It goes back as early as I remember, to when I was a student in the first grade.

"Freshmen" in my elementary school, "The Nusseirat Refugee Camp Elementary School for Boys" had to learn the craft of being a student. One of the early things I learned is how to draw a flag.

A Palestinian flag is one of the easiest to draw, as long as you have the needed colors- Green, White, Red and Black. But the challenge of a first grader was much more than simply keeping one's hand focused not to mix the colors or to remember which color goes where. It was the fact that many elementary school comrades were "caught" with their crayon-drawn flag on a piece of paper on their way back to school, or during frequent Israeli army raids on Palestinian schools.

One cannot claim that the Israeli army was ambiguous about the consequences of carrying a flag, or anything that held these four colors in a way that resembled a flag: High school students were beaten, fined and detained, middle and elementary school students were beaten, dragged to Israeli military camps, (across the street from our school) and only released once their families paid a heavy fine.

Despite the clarity of the unspoken laws, we did it any way. I was never caught with my flag. Others were, leaving behind stories of courage to be told and poor parents going to debt to pay the fine.

The Palestinian flag always managed to stir strong emotions in me and in my peers. It was not the quality of the presentation of the flag that contributed to the storm of tears, but the courage of lifting it and the cruelty it provoked, as Israeli soldiers always went out of their way to bring it down.

My family still lives in the same old house, right beside the graveyard in Nusseirat. Across from our house stands a water tank, constructed by the United Nations many years ago, and a very tall ladder that leads to the top of the tank.

Some courageous souls used to come at night and plant a flag on the top of the water tank, many feet high in the air. The mission was suicidal, not just because climbing a rusty, unstable ladder on a pitch black nights could be deadly, but because some youth were shot on that ladder trying to reach the top.

Children and young men throwing rocks always had their own flag, and maintained to keep up even in the toughest of "clashes" with the Israeli army. The flag holder is someone who would never let go of that precious piece of fabric, and would hand it to another if he was wounded.

Among my peers, the official narration of the symbolism behind the colors of the flag went something like this: "Green is for the land of Palestine, White for the peace in which we lived before we were made refugees, Red is for our blood spilled trying to liberate our land, and Black is for our life under occupation."

But somehow the poetic perception I held of the flag eroded, after the signing of the Oslo Accords in 1993. Many of the rights for which we fought, for which we dared to climb high towers, were still missing.

The flag was stripped of its identity. Nothing was left but four pale colors, fading. It was only then that the Israeli army allowed us to raise our flag, to print it in any form or shape we wished, to display it on our cars or homes, to hold it, to wear it, to dance with it. 

But I never did. Because it was not the colors that we adored, it was what the colors stood for, and Oslo had erased it all.

Late last April, I was denied entry into my homeland by the Israeli army, which had taken complete control over the West Bank border with Jordan. I was broken, distressed, with my pain growing deeper not knowing whether I would ever be allowed entry to Palestine.

As I waited for the beat up Jordanian bus to take me back to the Jordanian side of the border, I spotted the remains of a Palestinian flag that once wavered on this building. It was torn to pieces, yet somehow remained attached to the pole. In its place, an Israel flag, brand new, and very large, wavered.  The remains of the Palestinian flag however would once in awhile try to break loose and wave in the breeze of Jericho, to be soon suppressed by the other, that despite its advantages, looked alien.

I left the border that day with the memory of a child, of millions of children who were denied the right to carry their own flag, without being shot, detained or beaten. But for some strange reason, the feelings I once held toward my flag were slowly restored, and the colors came back to life.

As I watched television a few days ago, thousands of miles away from my homeland, I watched Israeli forces attacking the Presidential headquarters in Ramallah, declaring victory by raising the flag of Israel where the flag of Palestine once wavered.

Instead of feeling anger, my heart swelled with pride. I rushed to my office closet, checked every box and opened every drawer until I located a carefully folded flag. I took it out, and pinned it to my wall. Despite the wrinkles, it was breathtaking.

My three-year-old daughter, Zarefah, stormed the office, as she always does.

- Daddy what's this?

- It's the flag of Palestine.

- Wow daddy, its so beautiful. Can I draw it daddy?

It was only then that I realized that the flag of Palestine was more than a flag. It was destiny.