So I was describing the four days I spent in Amman to Allison, and telling her that the experience of being dragged out of my Tel Aviv bubble had fired me up politically. I'm gonna work for change, I said. Enough of this hedonism and passivity. "Oh no!" answered Allison in mock horror, "Does this mean you're going to lose your sense of humour?"

Good lord, I hope not.

Today one of the Palestinian women I met in Amman, a young TV journalist who works out of Ramallah for an international news agency, called me at home. We spent more than two hours talking, even though we both kept claiming that we're not really into long phone conversations. Our conversation ranged over everything from family and boyfriends to work and travel, and we finally managed to get past the wall of politics and historical narrative that had been such a burden during the long group workshops in Amman. I felt incredibly pleased, because I really believe that the only way to resolve conflict is by transcending politics and building human connections at the grassroots level.

Once, someone told me - facetiously, I hope - that he couldn't hate me (I'd said something to annoy him) because I'm Jewish and he loves the Jewish people. To which I responded, don't love me because I'm Jewish; love me because I'm Lisa.

In Amman, I kept hoping that we would all see each other as individuals rather than as Israelis and Palestinians, but that didn't really happen. Many of us did develop strong feelings for each other, the result of intense conversations that went on at meals and in the hotel lobby, often until very late at night; but even though we parted with hugs, kisses, and promises to stay in touch and work together to report the truth - instead of the twisted nonsense that is 90 percent of the reporting coming out of this region - I didn't feel that we really succeeded in getting past the bullshit.

On the first day, for example, one Palestinian cameraman introduced himself as a refugee from a village near Haifa (he was born well after 1948) whose grandfather still possessed the key to the house he'd been forced to abandon. I rolled my eyes impatiently and muttered to an Israeli friend sitting next to me, "Maybe I should tell him that the house isn't there anymore. What do you think?"

That same cameraman - let's call him Abed - continued on his theme for the next couple of days until I couldn't stand to listen anymore. When one of the Israeli discussion leaders asked why the Israeli participants were being so passive, I leaned forward and, looking directly at Abed, said, "Since the first day, I've felt overwhelmed by a tsunami wave of rage from the Palestinian side. I didn't know how to respond to that rage, because it made me feel resentful. I thought it was understood that none of us would be here if we didn't think that the situation sucks for both sides of this conflict, and that we were here as professional journalists to find ways to work together in order to report more honestly and effectively, to learn about each other and move forward. But instead we seem to be stuck in the past."

Abed, whom I'd pegged as a boor and a big mouth, listened intently as my little speech was translated into Arabic (we spoke Hebrew and Arabic, with translation every few sentences). He blushed, covered his face with his hands, and then he apologized. I'm not angry at you, he said. I'm angry in general - angry at the situation. But I really appreciate you as a person.

On another occasion, a Palestinian journalist whom I'll call Youssef, a lovely man whom I came to respect immensely, gave me a great lesson in reporting. We discovered that we'd both been present at a demonstration last summer at the wall that has been built in Abu Dis. Mahatma Gandhi's grandson was there to speak about non-violent resistance, but the crowd didn't really seem that seduced by his philosophy.

There were the usual local roughnecks - guys with slicked back hair who had packs of cigarettes rolled up in their T-shirt sleeves - shouting slogans in Arabic; there was a smartly uniformed Palestinian boy scouts' marching band; there were groups of traditionally dressed middle-aged women holding framed photographs of "martyrs" close to their chest; and there was the usual assortment of Israeli leftists and International Solidarity Movement activists. It was hot, there was no shade, the speeches were boring, and anyways I hate crowds. After Gandhi's grandson spoke, Abu Alaa (Ahmed Qurei, the speaker of the Palestinian parliament) got up and launched into a long speech in Arabic. I gathered from the crowd's reaction that the speech - which I didn't understand, of course - was less than inspirational. Suddenly a few young men scaled the wall, which was behind the speakers' stage, stood on top of it and gave the "V" sign. The crowd woke up and began to whistle and clap, and all the photographers aimed their lenses just above Abu Alaa's head.

Qurei, of course, thought that the crowd was responding to his speech. His eyebrows rose in shocked pleasure, and I thought that was the angle for my story - that the crowds were bored by the politicians' speeches, but enthusiastic about populist (and pointless) gestures.

Youssef listened intently to my story, which I told while we were sitting outside near the swimming pool, and said, "No, Lisa, you missed the real story. The real story is that those guys who climbed on the wall started to throw stones. Don't you see? They'd come to an event that was supposed to be about non-violence, but they threw stones."