Around us, a cacophony of sound – the wails of sirens blended with chants, shouts and revving engines.
Ramallah is never a quiet city but today, here in its heart, it was frenetic.
Ahead of us, three coaches edged their way through the crowds, accompanied by motorbikes and Palestinian police officers, pushing people out of the way.
And on board, peeking out of the windows, dozens of people about to walk into freedom.
As they left the coaches, the air was punched and cheers rang out.
Each of these men – they were all men – had been convicted by an Israeli court of serious offences, including attempted murder and terrorism.
And yet here they were, leaving the coaches, soaking up the acclaim of the West Bank’s largest city.
Their freedom is one of the prices Israel is paying to reclaim its hostages.
As the coaches came past, we met Safia, who was waiting for her son Ismail to arrive.
He had been convicted of attempted murder; in the eyes of Israelis, her son was a dangerous criminal but to those who had gathered to welcome these men, they were political prisoners, finally released.
Safia, a frail, short woman, dropped to her knees to pray as the coach rolled past, thanking God for her son’s return.
The prisoners’ journey had started on the other side of Ramallah when their coaches were ushered away from an Israeli prison as part of a convoy of military vehicles.
We, along with other journalists and a group of curious locals, had been watching the prison from a nearby ridge when we saw a convoy forming.
That time, there were no coaches, but some of the vehicles came up to the ridge to force us to move.
We moved to another location and saw tear gas being used at the end of the street.
And then, far earlier than predicted, we saw the coaches being driven along the street and away from the prison.
More tear gas was fired.
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It took more than an hour for the coaches to reach the middle of Ramallah, for the men inside to be freed.
They emerged wearing grey tracksuits supplied by the Israeli prison service.
Many seemed exhausted and haggard after long years in prison.
Ahmad Musa, who had served nearly half of a 27-year sentence for attempted murder, rolled up his leg to show me where he had been shackled.
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He claimed he’d been beaten regularly in prison “out of sight of the cameras” and that the beatings had continued until almost the hour he left.
“Prisoners in Israeli prisons are dealing with the worst conditions,” he said.
“My message to all Palestinian people, wherever they are, including in Gaza, West Bank and abroad, is that you have mastered the art of creating joy, despite the hardship and genocide.”
There are many in Israel who find this joy hard to stomach, and who are furious that men convicted of involvement in murder are now free to walk the streets of the West Bank.
But that is the price Israel has agreed to pay to get back its hostages.
Equally, there is no shortage of human rights organisations who believe that Israel has repeatedly handed out lengthy sentences on the basis of evidence that is slender and unreliable; that some of these prisoners shouldn’t have been behind bars in the first place.
As ever in this region, it is desperately difficult to find a happy medium.
And so the celebrations continue in Ramallah, while the debates rumble on elsewhere.
Over the road, Mohammad Daraghmeh is watching with a smile.
A mechanical engineer from Jenin, he tells me that the release of the prisoners represents “the sweet smell of freedom”.
“Are they heroes to you?” I ask, and he smiles and shrugs as if this is a ridiculous question.
“Oh yes, they are. But they are more than just heroes – they have given us hope. It is a victory over Israel.”
It is, he says, a good day. A great day. But what comes next, I wonder, for him?
A pause.
“The future of the West Bank is a good question,” says Muhammad. “I think the future is going to be more sadness for us because of the Israeli occupation.”
“Are you scared?” I ask.
“Yes, of course,” comes the reply.
“Of course.”
