MEET ME IN GAZA
Uncommon Stories of Life inside the Strip
Louisa B. Waugh
Praise for Meet Me in Gaza
‘This book penetrates the surface, the dismal images that we have become all too familiar with from news coverage of the Strip, to reveal the more human face of the place, that few have been able to experience let alone describe. Unlike any other book about Gaza, this will please, educate and inspire. It is vividly written and is infused with a love of life that the author has exhibited in all her previous writing.’
Raja Shehadeh, author of Palestinian Walks: Notes on A Vanishing Landscape
‘Not many of us would have the courage to lay ourselves on the line and go and live in the Gaza strip. Louisa Waugh shows her extraordinary credentials for this courageous undertaking: a deep wellspring of human warmth, a tenacious ability to find the tiny spark of joy in the most dismal surroundings, an incontrovertible honesty, and then the eloquence to tell us the story and make us understand. She treads a steady line of reason through all the absurdities and horrors she encounters, and comes up with a tender portrait of beleaguered humanity.’
Chris Stewart, author of Driving over Lemons: An Optimist in Andalucia
‘Powerful and deeply heartfelt, Louisa Waugh has succeeded in showing us the true face of Gaza. We encounter Palestinians in their living rooms, at work, in cafés, and at parties and weddings … I urge everyone to read this.’
Izzeldin Abuelaish, author of I Shall Not Hate: A Gaza Doctor’s Journey on the Road to Peace and Human Dignity
Contents
Glossary
Introduction
PART ONE
Hammam al-Samara
the hafla
moles in damp tunnels
sun and moon letters
even the foreigners are escaping!
Gaza from the air
coffee and cigarettes
zift
scents of history
great night for a party!
Tom and Jerry
PART TWO
the milking station
why no one visits the Swailams
Catherine and the Tulip
rocket talk
shortly before six in the morning
PART THREE
pleasure at the weekend
of all the ports
sea creatures
Ramadan for Christians
Operation Smile and Hope
bedouin
bell jar
PART FOUR
the fridge
Bruno does tension zones
How-How
Muhammad and all the things he might have done
the mathaf
imagining A. Love
PART FIVE
the same but now different
the cage
Abu Nidal goes first class to Cairo
chance of rain: zero per cent
the Wadi of Pleasure
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Notes
Glossary
abid [sing. abd] – slaves
Ahlan wa sahlan! – Welcome!
ashira – extended Bedouin family or clan
baba ghanoush – smoked aubergines mashed with onions, tomatoes, garlic and tahini
beit shar – traditional Bedouin tent made of black wool
dabke – traditional folk dance, popular throughout the Middle East
dunam – a dunam is equal to about 900 square metres
Eid Mubarak! – Happy Eid!
fawdah – chaos
fil-fil – chilli paste in oil
fitnah – temptation, chaos, trial
habibti – my dear (f)
hafla – party
hammam – steam bath
haram – from the Arabic word for sanctuary, means something forbidden, but Arabs use it very casually, to express shame or pity
hijab – Islamic headscarf
Iftar – the breakfast meal eaten after sunset during Ramadan
Intifada – Palestinian uprising against the Israeli occupation
Inshallah – God willing
jawaal – mobile phone
jilbab – floor-length women’s coat
kabsah – rice inlaid with fried almonds, onions, sultanas and herbs, and served with seasoned fried meat
Khalas! – Enough!
laziza – sweet, tasty, delicious (f)
mabrouk – congratulations
maftoul – couscous infused with herbs, olive oil, lemon and chillies
al-mahlab – ‘the milking station’
mahshi – aubergines stuffed with rice, meat and vegetables
malfouf – steamed cabbage leaves stuffed with rice and meat
marhaba – hello
mata’m – restaurant
mathaf – museum
muhajaba – Muslim woman who covers her head and most of her body
munaqaba – Muslim woman who wears the veil
muqawamah – local armed Hamas fighters
Nakba – lit. ‘Catastrophe’ (used by Palestinians to refer to the loss of their land and the establishment of the state of Israel in 1948)
narghile/shisha – traditional Middle-Eastern water pipe
niqab – face veil worn by some Muslim women
sahlab – hot creamy drink made from dried wild orchid tubers, honey, cinnamon and nuts
salam – peace
shabab – youths
shahid – martyr (used for Palestinians killed in acts of resistance against the Israeli military occupation)
shukran – thank you
sijin – prison
souq – market
sumac – crimson spice powder
Taba’n! – Absolutely! (in the sense of ‘Yes, of course’)
taboun – traditional clay oven
tahdiya – ‘period of calm’
taqiyah – traditional white lace cap worn by Muslims
Ummi – my mother
ustaz – teacher
Yallah! – Let’s go! Come on! (depending on context)
Yehud [sing. Yehudi] – Jews (often used by Palestinians to mean ‘Israelis’)
za’atar – blend of crushed thyme, oregano and marjoram
zanana – lit. mosquito; also used for an Israeli drone
zebiba – callus on the forehead that some Muslims have from prostrating themselves to pray
zift – lit. black tarmac; also used for something that is really bad
‘Habibti [my dear], this place Gaza is like an ancient
rock star. He has all these scars from his many battles:
his friends are bad, his enemies worse – he’s always in
trouble … But the stories he can tell!’
Anonymous
Human beings travelling far and wide
have turned into the very monsters
they chased off the map
Judith Schalansky, novelist and cartographer
Introduction
The beach is quiet. Most of the tables and chairs have been packed away, the umbrellas folded. The carousel has just been turned off. The humid heatwave of summer has cooled a bit and now the air’s soft and warm, tinged with salt. I pass a posse of kids shrieking with joy as they splash about in the shallows. A few young men stand waist-high in the waves, their shirts stripped off and wet skin slick, bathing their horses in the healing salt water. One of them catches my eye and winks. When I wink back, he raises his face to the sky and roars with laughter.
I am weary as an insomniac, but still need to walk. I’ve been in northern Gaza all day, interviewing parents. Some wept while telling us about their kids; others just stared blankly at the walls and spoke in dull monologues as if they were
trapped in fog. After a day like this, the beach is my sanctuary. I don’t have to talk or listen to anyone here, just to the waves. I stoop and unbuckle my sandals, looping my fingers through the straps so I can carry them in one hand, then straighten up, exhaling slowly. It feels so different standing on the beach in bare feet, the soft grit squeezing between my toes. Small pleasures matter.
There are no clouds, just clear sky and a blue sparkling tide. I can see a couple of small boats bouncing through the waves. Most fishing boats here are small; the local fishermen only scrape a living from the sea, but can’t imagine doing anything else. If you stroll quietly around the old port, sometimes you hear them before you see them, singing softly as they squat on the quayside stitching their nets. Gazans are salty people – and not only the fishermen.
I wander away from the city, heading south, the roll of the waves lulling me into a pleasant haze. I pass a young couple strolling close together. His open-necked white shirt looks comfortably loose and though she’s completely swathed in black, including a black face veil, she’s walking barefoot like me – and they’re holding hands. Quite daring that, for a munaqaba, or veiled woman. She and I both look back slyly and I can just see her brown eyes smiling. Up ahead a family perch on plastic chairs round an empty café table and a few solitary men are loitering, as usual. One stands erect as a statue, staring out at sea. Another, with a thick beard and legs like a spider, is cushioned in the sand, so lost in his thoughts or dreams he doesn’t even notice me walk past.
I have no watch and my mobile phone is switched off, so I guess the time by the sun. When it is poised, molten, just above the horizon, that’s my cue to start heading home. Just about to turn around, I notice two men right ahead of me, wading out of the sea. The younger one is lean and athletic-looking, his shorts plastered to his skin. The older guy has a full grey beard and he’s wearing a black-and-white striped costume that stretches from his broad shoulders almost to his knees, like a Victorian bather. I realise that I’m staring at them, so I turn on my heel and start walking away. But they’re laughing so playfully I can’t help myself, and glance back over my shoulder – just in time to see the older bearded guy leap up into the air, arc into a graceful backward somersault and land perfectly light and steady on his feet.
His younger friend cheers out loud, then casually flips forward, somersaulting onto the wet sea edge light as a cat. I stand rapt, my mouth open like a fish. The older guy wades back into the water, carefully rinses his hands and pauses, gazing into the sunset flames. His friend takes off, jogging loose-limbed along the shoreline. I take off too and grin all the way home. Another small pleasure.
Back in the summer of 2007 I left my home in Scotland to work for a local non-governmental organisation (NGO) in Ramallah, on the Palestinian West Bank. Local Palestinians sometimes joked that they were living under two occupations – one by Israel, the other by international aid organisations. I could see their point. From north to south, the entire West Bank was besieged by Israeli checkpoints … and expat human rights defenders, aid workers and journalists. Between us we documented everything that moved. When Hamas launched its bloody takeover of Gaza in mid-June that year, I watched it bug-eyed on TV. Four months later, in October, I was offered a job in Gaza City as a writer-cum-editor at a local human rights centre. I was ambivalent about staying on in Ramallah and excited but jittery at the prospect of moving to Gaza. So I decided to go as soon as possible, before I lost my nerve.
Gaza is a strip of the East Mediterranean coastline. Measuring approximately 25 miles by 6, the entire Strip is slightly longer than the Isle of Wight, though only half as wide, and home to approximately 1.7 million people. I wanted to see inside its tatty streets for myself, especially now that Hamas was settling down to rule its new roost. But first I had to secure an entry permit from the Israeli military, who control all traffic, human and otherwise, entering and leaving the Strip. They don’t make it easy. After waiting more than six weeks and being screened by Shin Bet, the Israel security agency, I finally got my permit in mid-December of 2007. I drove down to the Erez border crossing that straddles southern Israel and northern Gaza and walked into the Strip.
My motives for coming to Gaza were simple: I wanted to see and experience it for myself, from the inside. The big political picture is infamous, but it wasn’t (and still isn’t) politicians or militants who interested me. I wanted to meet ordinary people living between the shadows of Israel and Hamas and listen to their stories of street life. I wanted to know, for instance, if Gazans ever have fun. What’s the food like? Is the Strip beautiful? And do TV reports actually reflect ordinary life inside ‘the world’s largest open-air prison’?
I spent far longer in Gaza than I expected to because I enjoyed living there much more than I thought possible. Beneath the myths that have stoked this long, slow burn of a conflict, Gaza City is also one of the oldest continually inhabited cities on earth; an ancient citadel soaked in stories. While learning street Arabic and making friends, I also found myself literally stumbling over local histories – of pilgrims, pagans, madmen, sailors, purveyors of lingerie and Bedouin – that still resonate across the Strip. And I learned that water – both salty and sweet – has flowed through Gaza’s torrid history, shaping the land, its peoples and now its very survival. This book is based on the time I spent in Gaza from the tail-end of 2007 until the autumn of 2010. But more than anything, it’s the story of Gaza herself; a place we have all heard of, but one that most people will never see for themselves. This sun-drenched Mediterranean coastal strip is wracked with violence, grief and political self-destruction. But it is awash with extraordinary stories and histories, salty jokes … and the odd acrobat.
PART ONE
these days you don’t kid yourself
in these dodgy alleys
where a house stood one time
domestic like a crock on a shelf
for with neither dusk nor dawnscrake
the night’s twice as dark –
its double darkness
is up to no good
Walid Khazendar, Gaza poet
Hammam al-Samara
December 2007
When I first walk into the Gaza Strip, a man called Hani picks me up at the Palestinian side of the Erez border crossing and drives me to Gaza City. Hani is the accountant at the local human rights centre where I am starting work tomorrow. He looks young and cheerful, and very well fed. Gaza, on the other hand, looks grubby and battered, full of rubble and bullet-smacked buildings, and scraggy donkeys dragging carts along broken streets. Just like I expected. There are green Hamas flags flapping on every corner, women in hijabs, or headscarves, and ankle-length black coats, men with thick dark beards, billboards of martyrs and overflowing bins. It’s like I’ve been sucked inside a BBC news report on Gaza and in a bizarre way it feels almost familiar, because I have seen these images so often on TV.
The first surprise is my apartment, or rather the location. Hani turns left into a side street. Suddenly the buildings are not raw, grey, concrete tenements, but pristine white mansions with turrets and balconies, surrounded by wrought-iron gates. Bougainvillea is spilling over the walls like splashed paint and the palm trees have feathery fronds.
‘Wow!’ I say. ‘This is … different.’
Hani has just lit another cigarette. ‘You are very lucky to be living here,’ he says, smoke pouring from his nose and mouth.
‘What’s this area called?’
‘This is al-Rimal and it is just five minutes from the sea.’
He helps me drag my suitcase and bags up four flights of stairs to my new apartment. It’s huge and comfy-looking, with a balcony on either side – and best of all, a red light bulb in the spacious master bedroom. When Hani stops panting we go back downstairs and he takes me to a supermarket called Metro at the top of the street so I can buy some supplies. Most of the goods on sale are in packets, the majority from Israel. I buy coffee, longlife milk, pasta and, at Hani’s suggestion, bot
tled water. Then we drive back to my apartment.
‘We will see you at the Centre in the morning,’ he says, escorting me to the gate. ‘Put this number in your phone. They are called Lebanon Taxis. Call them when you are ready tomorrow; it is probably better not to walk alone, just to be on the safe side. Oh, and don’t drink the tap water. Buy bottles at the supermarket.’
‘OK,’ I say, and he leaves.
The first evening in my new apartment, there’s a long power cut. I sit shivering in cold candlelight, decide I’d better get used to it and go to bed early under all the blankets I can find in the wardrobe. When I wake up, there’s still no electricity. I boil water for coffee on my gas stove, have a brief wash in cold water and call a Lebanon Taxi in my stilted Arabic. When the driver pulls up at the human rights centre a few minutes later, the Mediterranean Sea is glittering at the bottom of the street. I clamber out of the taxi, then hesitate at the front door, suddenly shy as a kid at the gates of her new school. But I can’t just loiter out here, so I climb the stairs, push the front door open and am immediately greeted by a young woman with loose, shoulder-length black hair.
‘Welcome to Gaza!’ She holds out her hands to clasp mine. ‘You are Louisa?’
Her name is Joumana and she is the Centre secretary. She shows me round with gliding efficiency, introducing me to dozens of people in various offices, as though she’s done this many times before. After saying marhaba (hello) to dozens of people, we end up at my new office, at the front of the building, just next door to Joumana’s.
‘You will start work tomorrow,’ she says, ‘take your time today.’ She checks I have the number for Lebanon Taxis, repeats what Hani said about not walking the streets alone and goes back to her desk.
Unsure of what to do now, I start checking my emails. As I’m typing messages home, a man sticks his head round the door. He has messy grey hair, big grey eyes set in a thin grey face and a wide crooked smile. ‘I was out when you arrived,’ he says, offering me a cigarette. His name is Shadi and he invites me to join him for coffee this evening at a hotel called the al-Deira. I have nowhere to be tonight, and appreciate the gesture, so we agree to meet up. After work, I take a taxi back to my apartment. Now there is electricity, so I cook myself a late lunch and have a snooze on the couch before I go to meet Shadi.
Meet Me in Gaza Page 1
