"Why did I do this to myself? Why? What am I doing here?" is what I asked myself at 5 a.m. in a pitch black bathroom, on my hand and knees with my head under ice cold trickles of water.

That same question came to me yesterday as well, as we took a bumpy bus ride to the middle of nowhere, Umm Sihun, my new home, and we went about two days without food and we have yet to see water that is drinkable for us Americans.

While many Christians on Easter worshipped the Prince of Peace, over on the other side of the world on the same day, American Vice President Cheney, Israeli Prime Minister Ehmud Olmert, and Palestinain President, Mahmoud Abbas, met together to consult on creating potential peace in the Middle East. Since the Annapolis Conference last November, terror has wreaked havoc, there have been shootings in West Jerusalem, the West Bank is in chaos, rockets have been fired in southern Israel, -- and it seems conditions have only been worse and worse since President Bush vowed to generate peace in this area.

The humble sign for the Garden Tomb is barely visible in comparison to the ostentatious advertisements encompassing it, but meekly, with warmth, it invites those to enter its sacred gates. As our worn-out leather sandals passed the threshold of the gate, instantly there was a sense of peace that swept our cares away.

Before I knew it, I found myself sitting in a creative writing class at Vaca Pena Middle School, winning poetry awards and attending honor nights sponsored by The Reporter. With encouraging remarks, I nurtured my interest in the power of writing.

"I'm not sure if you guys are aware of this or not, but today is a very imporant day for Israel & Palestine. Today is the day that Israeli, Palestinian authorities, and President Bush are meeting in Annapolis to discuss peace compromises and hopefully come to an agreement, and maybe a conclusion on a plan for peace. But I've been thinking recently, are border lines and territories the real solution? Will peace finally prevail this way?"

Brother Draper, my Old Testament professor, reads to us on the bus as we drive from Jerusalem to Nazareth. As the sunlight filters in through the streaky bus windows, we further read about Nephi's dream of the Virgin Mary and the son of God's life. It was the perfect scripture as we entered the same hills that Christ ran on when he was a little one.

"But... it's not like I hate Huckabee, I just agree and support Romney's policies," he quickly clears up. "Romney is obviously the most qualified --- just look at how he turned around Massachuttes economically without raising taxes or increasing debt. He has my vote."

Draper isn't alone in his eagerness about the primaries here at Brigham Young University. In fact, the students here at BYU are quite well aware of the debates, and politically active despite the media's claims that college students aren't involved as they should be.

The chilled breeze soothingly carries wisps of my blonde hair to the wind that is speckled with the vibrant oranges and browns that are drifting down upon me and the 11 others plodding down the street. Jerusalem's light is fading as the sun sinks below the horizon, casting shadows on the faces that I have grown to love. Yet in the twilight, I hear the giggles and excitement the closer our footsteps take us to the synagogue down the street.

Shabbat is nigh, and six Mormon BYU students, and five Orthodox Jewish girls are ready to welcome it in together.

Crumpled into the palm of my enclosed fist, a wrinkled paper is firmly grasped as I draw near to the Kotel -- The Western Wall. Reverently taking steps forward, I gaze up at the taupe limestone's chiseled edges, which allow hyssop to drape sections of the wall.

Eyes diverted by the ancient holy site before me, I do not notice the Orthodox Jewish Women striding backward toward me as they keep their focus on the wall as they depart. With a gentle brush as they pass, my small paper escapes my hand, landing on a woman's shoes. "I'm sorry," I said in Hebrew, the one in a grey skirt and shawl mumbles as she stoops down to pick it up. After she presses it into my open palm with a smile, she continues to walk backward, uttering out prayers, her dark eyes never losing sight on the wall.

As the sunrise seeps through my windows, I flutter my eyes open to realize over and over again that this is my reality, not just a gorgeous dream. I am actually living on the Mount of Olives, and literally took the road to Jericho to journey here; the same sights that have been enchanting my dreams since I was young.

One by one students, raised their hands, attempting to provide the correct response. Dozing in and out, the usual, mundane answers since the beginning of the semester streamed through my ears.

But then there it was.

Shaking, a small hand, barely seen above the thousands of students, arose. When Dr. Holland called upon this individual, who's face was painted in terror, the voice quivered and was hardly audible, yet it screamed throughout the entire auditorium, piercing everyone's heart.

We stood to recognize the presence of a dear, elderly man, who had made his way onto the stage with his little cane. With a twinkle in his eye, and warm smile upon his face, he stood before the crowd of 21,200 with 12 other men following.

The crowd instantaneously burst into songs of praises singing, "We Thank Thee, O, God for a Prophet." There, the prophet of the Lord, President Gordon B. Hinckley, stood before us with the 12 Apostles.

"They don't understand, Court. They don't understand..." she mumbles in between gasps of air. "People take this country for granted... if only they knew what life was like where I came from. If only they knew. If only they could listen," her thick Arabic accent, manages to voice amid the sobs.

Lama, my Palestinian classmate and now dear friend, unravels her grave story about her life, allowing me to get a small glimpse of the heartache that has been intruding her entire existence.

The wait for Char seems unbearable for the two antsy girls inside, and we begin to grow tired of watching the feet stomp by our apartment's window into the complex. So Steph, being the devious Prairie Dog that she is, dared me for a Quarter (they called me "Courter" back in the day for this very reason) to open the window and ask the next guy for his number.

Sitting in front of a computer screen in the basement, punching out these weekly blogs, a crumpled piece of binder paper cames darting from across the table. I leapt a little out of my seat as I was immersed in the quietness of the library. By the time I gazed up, I saw Fernando (the pre-med Guatemalan guy I met the week previously who had written me French poetry) smiling down on me before he turned to walk out the door.