Every now and again you get to see a piece of theater that leaves you stirred in a way you can't quite figure out. The performance is ok; the script all right; the staging just fine. But the result is more than ok or all right or just fine: instead, you feel as though someone's just punched you in the gut or slapped you on the head and said, "And just what is your contribution, mate?"

Such an experience was My Name Is Rachel Corrie, currently in its last few weeks at the Minetta Playhouse on Minetta lane just off Sixth Avenue in the West Village in Manhattan. The play is about the 23-year-old student who was bulldozed to death while protecting the houses of Palestinian civilians in March 2003.

The play comes via London, and it took its sweet time to get to New York. The reasons are the usual: fear, inability to talk rationally about the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, an unwillingness to hold states accountable for the actions of their citizens, and a tendency to conflate the actions of that state or statal organization with anti-Semitism or anti-Muslim sentiment.

My Name is Rachel Corrie is the story of a passionate, articulate, naive, and still-growing young activist. The entire script is based on her diaries and emails she sent home. The kick of the play comes from what she says and the fact that she was alive, put herself in the way of danger, and gave the last full measure of devotion. Whether she was right or not to do what she did is up to you to determine. But the play deserves to be seen, and by you.