I know that she’s dead right. I know I will come back here again, but for a while I need to be outside this siege.
At the Centre, it is a ritual to hold a tea party when a member of staff leaves. This being Gaza, there will be goodbye speeches and I will be expected to say something too. I spend the morning of the tea party fretting about what I’ll say and pestering Shadi about how to pronounce this and that in Arabic, so that I can get it just right. After a while he looks at me and shakes his grey head.
‘Habibti, why are you worrying so much? Just say the words you want to – you know we will all understand what you mean.’
That afternoon, when my colleagues have all gathered around the conference table in the upstairs library and we’ve drunk our tea and coffee and eaten slices of creamy, lurid, pink-and-yellow gateaux, the deputy director clears his throat. Everyone falls quiet as he speaks in his grave, precise English. He thanks me for my work at the Centre and makes a joke about my passion for spending as much time as possible outside the office. My colleagues’ laughter ripples across the room. When he has finished, there is a brief silence, then I clear my throat and start to speak. I forget everything I prepared in advance and just say how much I’ve enjoyed working with such great people. But my Arabic is suddenly choked because tears are streaking down my face, and when I look around, Noor and Joumana and several other colleagues are crying too. I laugh and cry at the same time, realising that it really doesn’t matter what I say right now. And suddenly I find the words to crack a few bad jokes about how the best thing that’s happened to me has been working and smoking with Shadi and everyone starts laughing as Joumana hands me tissues for my wet cheeks and neck.
‘Aye, Louisa, we will miss you!’ she says as we sit there amid the tea and coffee dregs and creamy cake crusts, laughing and crying. And I think that if Ustaz Mounir was here today, he would be just a little bit proud of me.
For fifteen months my life has been mainly confined to 25 by 6 miles, but I still haven’t seen all of Gaza, not at all. There is one more place in particular I really need to visit before I leave, to help me unravel another layer of the Gaza story. I ask Saida if she can come with me, but she’s busy at work. I also know that she’s keeping her distance because I am extracting myself from Gaza and she has to stay here. So I take a taxi alone to a place called Zuweida, in the middle area of the Strip, a few miles south of Gaza City.
I ask the driver to take the sea road, past the wide open beaches where huddles of fishermen tend to their boats and mend their nets, singing softly as they work. They sing of the sea, I drink in the sea. From the open window of the car, the salty air is warm, waves laced in foam splashing up the beach, the Mediterranean shimmering, a vast diaphanous blue. I will miss this beautiful place so much.
The driver turns left and heads inland, veering off the main road and onto a narrow lane streaked with sand. We’re in a quiet place, an area set well back from the sea, not far from Salah al-Din Road. There are just a few old white houses with flaking paint shaded by gnarled olive groves. A place you could easily miss, even if you were looking for it.
The driver pulls over in front of a white gate and I clamber out of the car. The air is quiet. I can hear birds clearly, even distinguish between their songs. Traffic is still buzzing, but the city feels far away. The white gate is latched, but opens easily, and I step through it onto a fresh green lawn. It’s perfectly mown, wrapped like felt around well-tended acacia trees, with plants and flowers perfectly spaced apart. It smells and tastes different here, the dusty salt air of Gaza softened by the moist greenery all around me. I can hear bees buzzing. It feels almost familiar: there is nothing to distinguish this from a well-tended English park garden, except for the long, straight rows of white gravestones.
In 1917 Britain had three wartime objectives relating to Palestine: to maintain its maritime supremacy; to preserve the balance of power in Europe; and to maintain security within Egypt, India and the Persian Gulf to its own advantage. The British government decided this latter objective would be best achieved by capturing Jerusalem, defeating the Ottoman forces in Mesopotamia and the Arabian peninsula and driving them out of the region, then dividing it between British-and French-administered territories. But first, the British had to conquer Gaza, an Ottoman stronghold, from where, like so many foreign belligerents before them, the Turks dominated the ancient Mediterranean coastal route from Syria to Egypt.
For the Egyptian Expeditionary Force (or EEF – though it was under British military command), the 1917 battles for Gaza were, in the words of one young British soldier, ‘a nightmare of interminable marching, thirst and tiredness’. Gaza and the surrounding area were ideal defensive territory for the Turks. The Mediterranean Sea, sandy hills, and the rise of the city surrounded by hollows of orchards with impenetrable thickets of prickly pears, were formidable natural barriers. The Ottomans had also built trenches. During the first battle for Gaza, on 26 March, the EEF suffered 4,000 casualties, compared to the Ottomans’ 2,500. A Turkish aircraft apparently dropped a message bragging: ‘You beat us at communiqués, but we beat you at Gaza!’
The second battle, three weeks later, was also a bloody disaster for the young, pale-skinned British soldiers, who were exhausted by the heat, crying out for water and fighting on sand. The Turks enjoyed the advantage of holding fertile northern Gaza, while the Allies occupied the eastern edge of the Sinai. As they advanced north towards Gaza, the EEF were also laying down railway tracks to transport military goods, and vital water supplies.
On 1 November, during the third battle for Gaza, the EEF under General Edmund Allenby pounded the Strip from air, land and sea. The Ottoman forces were finally overwhelmed and beaten into retreat. The EEF encountered scant resistance around Gaza City and when they entered, found it empty and smashed: ‘Here and there a dark face peeped stealthily from a doorway, but apart from the troops hurrying through, [Gaza] was a place of desolation.’55
Some 13,000 EEF soldiers were killed in the three battles for Gaza, most of them young men, far from the reach of their families, whose descendants cannot tend to their graves and leave flowers or sweet-smelling herbs, or even just sit here quietly in the Gaza spring sunshine. The cemetery seems completely deserted, the silence is serene.
I wander slowly up one line of graves, and down another, stooping to examine the engravings and names of a few of the men buried here:
Lieutenant S.J. Rowland, of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, died on 2 November 1917
Private H. McLean, of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers, killed on 20 April 1917, age 27
Private R. Cochrane, of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, killed on 16 July, age 19
Lance Corporal A. Love, of the Highland Light Infantry, killed on 8 August
‘A. Love’ – what a name! I stoop in front of Love’s grave, where small bright flowers are growing. What was he like, this young Scottish man? I wonder whether he had just left home, wherever his home was. I wonder too, how old he was, and whether he had ever drunk whisky, smoked a cigarette or made love before he died here in the pounding midsummer heat of Gaza. I wonder what his Christian name was and whether he really understood what he was doing here, the true scale of this war. What was it like for him, arriving here in the Middle East, the fierce Gaza sun on his pale Scottish skin, the sea breeze ruffling his hair and maybe the shadow of a moustache brushing across his upper lip? Was he excited to be on the Eastern Front, amid the dark-skinned Arabs? Did he miss a girlfriend or his mum? Maybe he was terrified and didn’t want to be here at all.
The carnage of the First World War, as Jawdat al-Khoudari pointed out to me, dwarfed all subsequent battles in Gaza’s recent history. But this cemetery doesn’t feel morbid, just a reflective space where I could happily linger all day, thinking about all kinds of beginnings and endings. I sit down on the grass; it feels soft and almost warm. In a strange way it is the perfect place to be, before I say goodbye.
After a while, I gather myself together, conscious
ly pushing my thoughts into the present as I meander back across the springy grass towards the waiting taxi. Then I notice someone – a man dressed like a gardener and carrying a hoe – walking towards me.
‘Marhaba,’ he says.
Muhammad Awaja is the keeper of this cemetery in Zuweida. He has wind-roughened skin and a sense of quiet about him, like a man who spends most of his time working outside, with his hands in the earth.
‘Would you like to drink coffee?’ he asks.
‘Yes, please.’
Muhammad leads me to one side of the cemetery and offers me a stool beneath the shade of an olive tree, one of the old kind, its broad trunk supporting a brim of branches. His small house is just nearby, nestled beside a corner of the cemetery. As we are talking his wife brings us coffee, then sits down with us too. Her name is Widad.
‘There are 734 men buried here,’ says Muhammad. ‘I know every one of them. Five hundred and ninety-three are British, many from Scotlanda. There are also Indians, Algerians, British Jews and seven Unknowns.’56
He has worked and lived here since 1983. The Commonwealth War Graves Commission pays his salary and Muhammad says that he and his family have no desire to leave. Neither do I. But the taxi driver is waiting, so when I’ve finished my coffee, I reluctantly stand to go.
‘Can you sign the visitors book?’ he asks.
I say it would be a pleasure and he goes to fetch it.
It is a large hardback book with a satisfying weight. When I open it, I see there have been just fifteen entries since November 1999, when an Israeli from Tel Aviv with an illegible name wrote in English: ‘Very nicely kept. Very impressive.’ I add my name to the meagre list, thanking Muhammad for the work he does here.
‘Why have you stayed here for so long?’ I ask.
I know the house and salary must both be incentives but even so he’s clearly devoted to this place.
Muhammad thinks about that for a long, sunny moment. Then says simply: ‘Ihtiram’. Respect.
I left Gaza at the beginning of April 2009. The Israeli immigration police officer who had told me to leave the Strip within a month was waiting for me at Erez. He detained me for hours, repeated that he would not allow me back inside Gaza, then permitted me to enter Israel just in time to catch my plane to London at Ben Gurion airport. He gave me a one-day Israeli visa, to make sure I got on the plane. But he neither frightened nor intimidated me; I had already won my own battle.
At the airport, I was thoroughly searched, as I expected to be. The officer conducting the search asked me why I had been in Gaza.
‘Weren’t you frightened of being inside that place?’ she asked.
‘Only when your military were bombing Gaza.’
‘But they want to kill us.’
‘That’s what people in Gaza say about you.’
‘We don’t want to kill them – but sometimes we have to,’ she said.
I flew to London, spent a few weeks back in Scotland and then moved to southern Spain for the summer, where I walked in the mountains, thought about Gaza a lot and began to write this book.
At the end of the summer I returned to Edinburgh, and rented a small flat beside the sea at Portobello. By this time Niveen was also living in the UK, with her daughter, and hoping her son could join them. She was happy to be in Britain, but in spite of everything, she missed Gaza. She told me the Smoothie had made it to Sweden – of course – and was doing very well for himself.
Another year passed, as it does, and then out of the blue I received a call from Shadi – to say that he had finally managed to cross into Egypt and would be spending a few weeks in Ireland as the guest of an Irish human rights group. I met up with him in a crowded downtown Dublin bar a week later. Shadi was shining. We drank a lot of beer, stood out on the street and smoked masses of cigarettes, and listened to raucous live music. By the time the bars closed, I was coming back to Gaza, this time via Egypt.
PART FIVE
Here on the slopes of hills, facing the dusk and the cannon of time
Close to the gardens of broken shadows,
We do what prisoners do,
And what the jobless do:
We cultivate hope. […]
From ‘Under Siege’ by Mahmoud Darwish
the same but now different
September 2010
The bus from Cairo to al-Arish, near the southern Gaza border, is full. Pilgrims are returning from Mecca. The man in the ticket office says that I have to take a different bus, to a city called Ismailiya – some 125 miles from my intended destination – and change there instead. At Ismailiya bus station two young students, both called Muhammad, befriend me and we share a rattling public taxi to al-Arish. The Muhammads get out first, refuse to let me pay my share and tell the taxi driver to look after me. At al-Arish bus station, it takes less than five minutes to find a taxi driver who agrees to take me to the Rafah border crossing – and completely rips me off. I don’t really care. After eighteen months away, I am almost back inside Gaza.
‘Why you going to Gaza?’ asks Amer, the taxi driver, as he takes one hand off the steering wheel to light the cigarette clamped between his dry lips. We’re bombing along the highway towards Rafah, surrounded by bleached desert. Amer has strung trinkets from his driving mirror and they swing wildly as my seat smacks the suspension.
‘I used to live in Gaza, I’m just going back to see my old friends.’
He nods but makes no comment. The fifth or sixth makeshift checkpoint looms into view. Another posse of bored Egyptian officers who want to gather round and inspect my passport. After a couple of minutes they wave us on. As Amer pulls away, the bald tires skid, immersing us in a cloud of gritty dust.
‘Is it busy at the Rafah crossing?’ I ask him.
He offers me a grin through broken, stained teeth.
‘Not really. Not like a real border – it’s … you know, half-open.’
I have no idea what to expect. But when we pull up outside the Rafah crossing, it all looks very quiet. A few Bedouin taxi drivers are loitering near the entrance, touting for trade. About a dozen people have sought the only available shade, a small tatty café with an overhanging tarp. Their bags and suitcases lie strewn around a tree stump. They must be Gazans: no one else would be here.
Amer hoicks my suitcase out of the boot and dumps it on the ground. He’s in a hurry now. I pay him, then stand for a moment next to the imprint of his taxi tyres, weary, thirsty, dazed. I arrived in Cairo at midnight last night. Now it is almost midday and the sun is pulsing dry white heat. I need water and shade. I hand my passport to an Egyptian officer at the entrance gate to the Rafah crossing, expecting to wait at least a few hours. But my name is called even before I’ve made my way to the café. The officer makes one swift phone call and waves me through into the main terminal building.
The Rafah crossing departure hall is huge and almost empty. Just a handful of people are perched on rows of nailed-down plastic seats, the kind you find in fast-food restaurants. A uniformed Egyptian behind a glass screen beckons me forward, takes my passport and politely asks me to wait. I sit down and start rolling a cigarette. The first drag makes me feel quite light-headed. As I smoke, I watch the Egyptian behind the screen frowning as he picks up passports and puts them down again until they are spread around him like spilt blue ink. Gazans walk up to the screen to speak to him. I hear them asking: Ya Allah – when will they finally be allowed to cross?
A woman plonks herself down beside me with a heavy sigh.
‘Five hours, I’ve been here,’ she says. ‘They are so rude, these Egyptians; all they say is wait, wait … and I’ve got my kids with me.’
She points at her three kids, skidding across the floor, which is strewn with sweet wrappers, empty plastic cups and mushy cigarette dog-ends.
‘Where do you live?’ I ask her.
‘The UAE. This is the first time I have visited my family in six years, you know – I just want to spend one month with them.’ She shakes her
head, heaves herself back out of the plastic chair and goes in pursuit of her kids.
After an hour, I walk up to the screen. The same man is there, still picking up passports. He looks up.
‘I am sorry – five minutes, please.’
After another hour, I go up to him again.
‘Please: another five minutes,’ he says.
In these two and half hours, a mere handful of people have been processed. Half a dozen uniformed officers have appeared behind the same screen, but have completely ignored us all. Most of the Gazans are now slumped in their seats. I’d forgotten how much of their lives is spent waiting.
Eventually, my name is called. The same officer, his frown now a crevasse between overgrown grey eyebrows, hands me my stamped passport.
‘Very sorry for delay.’
The woman with her three kids has just crossed. I follow them down a dim corridor, towards Gaza. Halfway down the corridor is another Egyptian passport control that seems to serve no purpose whatsoever. The officer flicks through my passport without looking, because he’s too busy staring at my breasts. Silently, I hold out my hand for my passport. He licks his lips.
‘You fuck,’ I hiss under my breath.
At the end of the corridor, I peer through tinted glass on my left. In a hall on the other side of the crossing, hundreds of people are surging towards a glass screen, waving their documents like a flutter of small flags. These must be Gazans who are trying to leave.
Outside the departure hall, a bus is waiting to escort us to the Gazan side of the crossing operated by Hamas. We pay to board it. As he wrestles a bulging suitcase towards the bus, an elderly Gazan tells me that he and his wife have been waiting here since dawn. They are as round-shouldered as each other.
‘We were detained at Cairo airport, herded onto a bus and driven straight down to this crossing, just like animals,’ he says. ‘Then we sit here waiting more than six hours. Do we not deserve more dignity than this, entering our own country?’
Meet Me in Gaza Page 21