With the collapse of the peace process, atrocity and violence have dominated the news in Palestine. Concentrating on the bullets and stones of the front line, few journalists have visited Palestine to witness the more prosaic offspring of war - hunger, poverty, disease and injury. Though bound to the maelstrom of Middle Eastern politics, ordinary Palestinians are struggling not for their homeland, but to keep their families alive.

This year's coincidence of Christmas and Hanukkah with Eid - the end of Ramadhan - serves as a reminder of the ancient connections between the three 'peoples of the book'. But the celebrations are segregated by a few yards of bulldozed earth, concrete blocks and electrified fences.

It was towards the end of Ramadhan, during the fiercest fighting, that I visited Palestine to document the plight of ordinary people caught in this fifty-year war. Sharing Iftari (breaking of the daily fast) with different people, I found a community at the limits of its endurance.

Such is the distrust and enmity between Israel and Palestinians, that merely checking in to my flight in Heathrow involved a 2-hour security ordeal. These historical neighbours who share the same deity have drifted so far apart that even the names of their faith have become synonymous with terrorism, extremism and death.

On arrival in Israel, I took a taxi to the border with Palestine - a long electrified fence that separates Arab from Jew. Forbidden from crossing, my taxi returned to Jerusalem leaving me to walk the two hundred meters toward the sandbagged Israeli border guards. After another lengthy passport check, I exposed my back to a separate set of guns as I walked toward Palestine. I was in.

In the dubious safety of another taxi, we sped towards Gaza City - the driver juggling three mobiles and a speeding lump of Mercedes down the suddenly disintegrating roads. Constant updates are required to establish which crossings are open, which roads blocked, and how the political situation is developing. News is life - for the wrong turn, at the wrong time provides sudden death. Fact, not drama.

Gaza City could have been any Middle-Eastern city - smart beachside hotels, restaurants, clubs and shops - except that they were all boarded up or empty. Instead it was full of hurrying shadows, furtive dogs, litter, mud and rain.

Across the Arab world, Ramadhan is usually a time of joy and celebration, yet at sundown not one street in Gaza was thronged with happy, well-fed souls. Death tolls and mounting food shortages preclude celebration. Hopes of peace have been dashed, leaving that long fast for rights and homeland to continue without respite.

Islamic Relief works on the ground in Palestine, providing assistance in an environment of overcrowding, destruction and fear. In the Shifa hospital in Gaza, IR has supplied ambulances, beds and other essential equipment. There I saw children with head-wounds, crippled limbs and amputations - a dreadful legacy of war. Working with these brave kids, Islamic Relief has established programmes to care for their long-term development.

Together with Islamic Relief I visited Palestinian shanty homes, saw the open sewers and breeze-block alleys. Many camps are so close to the front lines that to kick a football, roll a marble or to chase a puppy, places a child in the firing line. This is no remote battlefield; it is a sandbagged entrenchment - an open killing zone next to shops, schools and homes.

In the Gaza Strip town of Khan Yunis, I photographed IR staff distributing Ramadhan food parcels. With 60% of Palestinians unemployed and the majority of the employed working in Israel, the frequent border closures have taxed people's ability to survive. The threat of starvation is as real as in any African country.

"Every day we need food,' said Isa Muhammad Abu Hada, one of the beneficiaries of Islamic Relief's food packets. 'And when we don't have it, all that remains is patience. Is it too much to ask for a country, a job and food…?

Khadija Ameen, a community worker from Gaza, dwelt on patience too - seeing the present Intifada as the culmination of 50 years of desperate hope and weary patience. 'Look!' she said, pointing at a mother hoisting a food parcel onto her head, 'A week's worth of food brings a smile… while we still smile, peace will find a way.'

Speeding down a crowded motorway to Jerusalem, I shared a welcome, if unnerving, Ramadhan break-fast with the taxi driver. Between multiple cell-phone calls and flying Hummous, we balanced food on our knees and talked.

As men of different countries and faiths, our conversation held nothing that would offend Jew, Arab, or Christian. Indeed, it was a true world conversation - as most conversations are - just the usual human obsessions that encapsulate a billion people's hopes and fears; home and hearth, kids, country and faith.

Like Ireland, people say that the Israel-Palestinian conflict will never end. Insh'allah (God willing) with a final breath of patience and hope, the two nations will come to break this 50 year fast together, finally sharing their lives, land and hopes. No hope is forlorn.