Meet Me in Gaza (19 page)

‘What else is there here, apart from the moment?’ I reply without even thinking.

We look each other in the eyes. And both shrug.

As Wafa’ sips her latte, I look around the busy café and muse on the fact that it wouldn’t be out of place in central London. When I shift my gaze down onto the busy street just below us, two horse-drawn carriages, one with flashing fairy lights draped across the carriage hood, are parked at the opposite side of the street, waiting for passengers. I smile down at them. Gaza is filled with such surprises.

The waiter comes over with our lattes and glasses of water. He is a small man called Ali, with a big, beaming smile. When he is gone, I look around again, unwrap a new pack of cigarettes and pass one over to Wafa’.

‘It’s OK,
habibti
,’ I say. ‘No one is watching.’

As the
tahdiya
continues, the initial uneasy calm morphs into a sense of stasis. Israel allows more goods to enter Gaza (no mineral water though, even at this humid height of summer). But the volume of people crossing through Erez has barely increased. The Rafah crossing to Egypt is apparently ‘open’ for three days a week, but few people actually manage to leave Gaza; the Egyptians manning the crossing have a reputation for demanding bribes and taking their instructions from Israel.

I’ve lost count of how many Gazans have told me that all they want in this world is two weeks outside the Strip; then they can cope with another stretch inside this interminable siege. Their dreams of having their own sovereign state have faded, just as Gaza has faded from the news. During one of our lessons,
Ustaz
Mounir tells me he is totally fed up and is against the
tahdiya.

‘At least we used to resist the Israeli occupation!’ he says with angry passion. ‘But now what do we have? Nothing. Nothing has changed, life in Gaza has just stopped.’

And much of the time that is exactly how it feels.

Bar the resident aid workers, and the occasional visiting journalist, there are not many foreigners around either. But now there are rumours circling about a flotilla of international activists who are apparently about to brave the Mediterranean and sail from Cyprus to Gaza – just like the ancient Philistines – in order to break the siege.

On my way home from work one afternoon, I stop to buy fruit. The weather is hot and so humid that dust and salt stick to my wet skin. While I’m in the store my
jawaal
rings. As I struggle to locate it inside my handbag, the bulging bag splits and the fruits tumble out around my feet.

‘Where are you?’ Shadi hollers down the phone, as pomegranates, bananas and mangoes hit the floor and roll around me. ‘Did you come to the port?’

‘What’s going on?’

I can hardly catch a word he is saying; it sounds as though he’s in the middle of a riot.

‘Quick – come to the port! The Free Gaza boats have arrived!’

I scoop the loose fruits up from the floor, tell Muhammad the grocer I’ll be back later and hurry for the port, which is just five minutes away, down a sloping street. Crowds are surging towards the narrow port gates as cheers rise up the street. It’s a thirty-two-hour sail from Cyprus to Gaza. The boats that have just reached the port are the first international vessels to dock here in more than forty years.

I reach the port and start wading through the crowd towards the waterfront. People beam at me, grasping my right hand as I push past. ‘
Ahlan wa sahlan fi Gaza
!’ Welcome to Gaza!, they call, as others applaud – and
shabab
elbow their pals and point me out. They must think I’m just off the boat. An elderly, wrinkled man blocks my way. ‘
Mabrouk
! Congratulations! All Gaza welcomes you! How long will you stay here with us?’

His family turn towards me with such eager faces, I’m tempted to pretend to be with the siege-breakers; but I play it straight and confess I have actually been living in Gaza for nine months.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t even know who the people on the boats are,’ I tell the elderly man. ‘I just came down to welcome them, like you.’

‘Oh.’ His loose face droops, his family turn away. He stands aside to let me pass.

I press on towards the waterfront. Pushing and shoving to the front of the crowd, I snatch a glimpse of two white vessels crowded with passengers and draped in international flags, just as a contingent of Hamas police start to bear down on us with batons and rifles. Their faces clenched, the police swing the batons, cock their rifles and bay at the crowd to back off. One of them eyeballs me and sneers.

The crowd parts like the Red Sea, the foreign passengers disembark from the vessels and begin to walk between us, towards a waiting line of empty minibuses. The foreigners are draped in Palestinian flags, and grinning like people in love. We cheer and pat their shoulders as they give the Victory salute. The exchange of sheer mass joy suddenly makes me want to cry. There is so little collective joy here. I try to count how many foreigners there are and lose track. But one or two of them stand out: an old gentleman with thick white hair and the raw complexion of a sailor; a serene young woman with a pale face; and a swarthy young man with a strut of a walk, and a pipe sticking out of the corner of his mouth. He’s Italian, no doubt about it. His name – though I don’t know it yet – is Vittorio Arrigoni. The foreigners clamber into the minibuses, pressing their faces against the windows and chanting, ‘Palestine will be free from the river to the sea – Long Live Palestine!’ The air is electric.

I wade back out of the port to call Shadi, and meet up with him at the al-Deira Hotel, just up the street from the port. He is ecstatic.

‘Six thousand, six hundred and sixty-six welcomes to the Free Gaza movement!’
⁴⁰

The foreigners – it turns out there are forty-six of them in total – all arrive at the al-Deira later, to stay at the hotel. And from that moment onwards, Shadi can be found among them: networking, fixing, advising, introducing them to local community activists they want to meet, almost desperate to immerse himself with them. Shadi struggles more than most Gazans I know with being locked inside the Strip. He is defiantly, manically cheerful; but occasionally forgets to apply his public smile and then I see a different, and quite broken, thin grey face of a man. He has not been outside the Strip for two years now, which isn’t very long by Gazan standards. But sometimes I fear Shadi’s imprisonment will extinguish the light still guttering inside him.

A week or so later, one of the Free Gaza activists, an American called Debby, asks if I want to join them on a Day of Solidarity, accompanying local Gaza City fishermen out to sea.

Fish is a traditional Gazan staple – grilled or barbecued, spicy and fresh. In 1993, as part of the Oslo Accords, the Palestinian Authority and Israel agreed that Gaza fishermen could cast their nets 20 nautical miles (37.04 kilometres) out to sea.
⁴¹
But the Israeli navy have imposed increasing restrictions on the fishermen, claiming they are a security threat and that some are involved in illegal smuggling, including arms. The fishermen say they just want to work, but are now restricted to 6 nautical miles. Israeli naval officers, they say, still shoot at them inside this limit, deliberately damaging their vessels and forcing them back towards the shore. The shallow coastal waters have been totally overfished, supplies have dwindled and prices have shot up. These days fish is a luxury item.

Debby tells me the fishermen hope that, if foreigners accompany them out at sea, their vessels are less likely to be attacked. I have wanted to go fishing for months, but never quite had the nerve to ask a local crew to take me with them, especially as women are traditionally banned from boats as they are thought to bring bad luck. When I tell my colleagues that I’m going fishing, one of the lawyers takes me aside.

‘You are fucking crazy,’ he says. ‘You have no idea how dangerous it is out there; the Israelis will just shoot you.’

I meet the activists at the port at dawn. The early sunlight is soft, and the air damp and salt-tinged. The port is already bustling, fishermen giving their nets a final once-over and loading gear onto their boats. I spot Debby standing by the boats. She waves me over.

‘Hey! We’re just sorting out who’s going out on which boat – you wanna come in a boat with me?’

Debby has the short grey hair and round, wire-rimmed spectacles of an archetypal middle-aged activist. She sailed here with her twin sister, Dorothy. They are not quite identical, but both look slightly undernourished and nervy, like a pair of ageing sparrows. Debby leads me to one of the larger boats in the port, we hop aboard and one of the men on deck downs his tools and comes over. Though young, in his early thirties at most, his shoulders are stooped, giving him a slightly cowed expression, and his dry face has deep frown lines gouged between dark brows. His name is Suboh and he is the captain of the boat. He welcomes us aboard and we meet his crew: four men, and one young boy with a tangle of hair the colour of carrots. They make room for us to sit out on deck as we wait to cast off with the other fishing boats going on this collective voyage. Sunlight spangles the calm sea.

The activists’ audacity in sailing to Gaza seems to have bolstered me too. This morning I feel stronger, braver. I’m not frightened of setting off to sea at all, just excited about the adventure.

‘Isn’t it beautiful, this morning?’ I say to Debby, who is busy writing in a notepad.

‘It’s a good morning for a solidarity action,’ she replies, head bent over her notes.

Our boat shudders and starts chugging towards the harbour gateway to the sea. We are in a fleet of about a dozen boats, two activists on board each boat. We wave to each other, cheering in the sunshine. Within minutes Gaza begins to recede into a low skyline of crooked white buildings and palm trees lining the seafront. Along the road that stretches along the entire length of Gaza’s coast, pale nets are staked out like windbreaks, to snare the small sea birds that are a local summer delicacy.

We sail south-west. Two hours later my
jawaal
beeps with a text: ‘Welcome to Egypt.’ We are not in Egyptian territorial waters, but outside the Gaza telephone network range. Captain Suboh calls over from the wheel, saying we are now almost 6 nautical miles out to sea.

‘We cannot go out any further,’ he says, though we’ve already dropped anchor once, but caught little. The fishing fleet has dispersed into clusters of three or four vessels that move together, but with plenty of space in between for the nets. The fishermen use two-way radios to communicate with each other, and can also change frequency, to listen in on the Israeli navy – and to make contact with them as well. The other fishing boats in our cluster are slightly further out than us, right at 6 miles. But one rebel Gazan vessel has just struck out beyond the limit, towards the richer, deeper fishing waters, to harvest shoals of fresh sardines.

‘
Yehud
.’ One of our crew gestures ahead.
Yehud
are Jews. An Israeli gunboat is speeding towards the rebel fishing vessel. We can hear the Israeli tannoy blasting orders at the vessel to turn back. Debby and I stand side by side. As the Israeli gunboat circles the Gazan vessel, Suboh hands me a pair of binoculars. I focus on the scene ahead and take a sharp breath as the Israeli navy begin to water-cannon the fishing vessel. I can see the arc of water pounding into it. I pass the binoculars to Debby.

‘Oh my God,’ she says, ‘they are violating human rights.’

‘They use dirty water to hit us,’ says one of our crewmen. ‘It ruins the fish. Until you have seen it for yourself, you cannot believe the situation we are facing.’

He sits down heavily and lights a cigarette. His name is Abu Mahmoud; he’s been a fisherman for more than twenty years. His skin is wind-scoured, his eyes are the colour of the sea.

The two-way radio crackles and we hear the captain of the boat that is being water-cannoned shouting that he’s going to retreat before his vessel capsizes. Then another voice takes over the radio, roaring at the Israelis in thick-accented English to stop abusing the fishermen and stop breaking international humanitarian law.

‘That’s Vittorio,’ says Debby.

‘The Italian who arrived with you?’

‘You’ve met him?’

‘Briefly. Is he staying in Gaza for a while?’

‘We all are,’ she says. ‘How can we leave now, after what we’ve seen?’

I watch her as she sits down and writes more notes. She’s earnest all right, and it’s easy to mock the activists’ pious, ideological altruism – but I have seen delegation after official delegation of the Great-and-the-Good traipse through the doors of the Centre while nothing has changed for ordinary Gazans. This lot at least walk the line.

‘Suboh,’ I call over to our captain, ‘how often do the Israelis attack the fishing boats?’

‘Every day,’ he says. He’s at the wheel, chain-smoking, his face warped with anxiety.

He looks towards the Gazan fishing vessel now in retreat.

‘My family has always fished,’ he calls back to me. ‘This boat belongs to my father, but now he is too old to work, so he gave it to me. What else can I do? I have three small boys and there are no other jobs for men like us.’