A Month by the Sea

by Dervla Murphy

  The three officials returned together: Ali and his assistants, none uniformed. Ali was small, slight, thirty-ish, with a short beard, heavy brows, thin lips, a narrow face, hard eyes – a man who might not find ‘honour killing’ too difficult. Without greeting me he added my passport to a pile, then took another pile for the consideration of some more important official in a sprawling building overlooking no man’s land. One of his mates barked at me, gesturing eloquently – ‘Off the step!’ I compromised, moving down and to one side while clinging to a window bar. Having handed over my passport, I was reluctant to lose sight of those in charge. Now I was being severely heat-punished; it was near noon in mid-summer at sea level and only the café offered shade.

  One man was always on the move, taking papers and passports to and from that distant office. Meanwhile the Gate was being repeatedly opened for departing vehicles, usually Mecca-bound coaches towing enormous UN-blue trailers piled high. Another man made many phone calls, sometimes speaking simultaneously to his mobile and the landline. In between, he filled in countless forms, using a dainty, tiny Arabic script that ill-matched his hairy thick-fingered hands. Only Ali – I noticed later – made entries in a stout leather-bound ledger, perhaps a Mandate left-over.

  I was obsessionally watching the time. When Ali returned after 18 minutes I begged him to attend next to my passport. He spoke no English but Dalia had despatched her son, Tarek, to interpret. Ali scrutinised my document closely, scowling while turning the pages as though they were smeared with shit – which to him they were, showing all those Ben-Gurion entry stamps. When challenged, I pointed out that one can’t study the Palestinians’ problems without entering Israel. Peevishly he demanded, ‘Why interested in Palestinians?’ I told him, but afterwards Tarek and I agreed that the idea of ‘writing a book’ was not within his grasp.

  Returning my passport, Ali stated flatly that I could not leave on 2 July. Because of those Israeli stamps I must go back to Gaza City and get a special permit for Tuesday 5 July. At first I didn’t take this seriously, merely felt exasperated by his stupidity. I emphasised that two weeks previously a Department of Foreign Affairs VIP (named) had personally registered me for this 2 July crossing. ‘But where is your registration document?’ demanded Ali. ‘This you must have, talk about registration is not enough!’

  Mr S— had assured me that I needed no written permit once registered on his computer. Feeling presciently uneasy about this, I had twice repeated my request for ‘a piece of paper’ – only to be told, ‘There’s no need to make a problem, you’re in the computer.’ Slightly irritably I’d replied, ‘I’m not making a problem, I’m trying to avoid one’ – and now I was trapped by officials who did not yet live in cyberspace.

  I then played my trump – Mr S—’s card, giving his office and personal mobile numbers. My instruction was to ring him should a problem arise – the problem he had guaranteed I wouldn’t have … ‘Ring Mr S—!’ I said. ‘He’ll confirm that he registered my 2 July crossing. You can talk to him personally, then you can listen to me talking to him.’ Not all trumps are winning cards. As Ali rejected this suggestion, Tarek and I could see how much he was enjoying having the bit between his teeth.

  It was now 12.25. I asked Tarek to look for the Haj guide, who should be able to get an apologetic message to Abdallah; but he had gone off duty and not yet been replaced. Then I remembered how easily Deeb, working out of Foreign Affairs, had got through to Cairo. Within moments Tarek got through to Deeb who tried hard, but unsuccessfully, to contact Abdallah. Back at the café, Dalia said soothingly, ‘Don’t worry about him, we’re in the Middle East, he’s used to waiting!’ On such occasions my punctuality gene can cause needless tension.

  All the Zeidans now rallied around. On cell phone lines most Palestinians are baffled by my Irish brogue so Mr Zeidan called Mr S—, who was immediately available, to everyone’s surprise. The message for Dervla was, ‘Give me five minutes, then go back to the office.’ I took the ‘five minutes’ to be hyperbolic – a face-saving device of sorts – and for half an hour tried to relax. In similar situations elsewhere, a bribe-hunt might be assumed. Not here, I was warned – not in Hamas territory. Certainly at Gate 2, in Egypt, and perhaps in PA-run Ramallah – but never under that little green Hamas flag.

  We scoffed at the nonsense of Arab countries rejecting Israeli-stamped passports, another example of State hypocrisy since so few Arab governments have ever genuinely tried to help Palestinians. Their cause is used only as a stick to beat Israel when that suits a particular government during a particular crisis.

  The Zeidans had reason to hope their time was nigh so we sat close to the Office and swapped Rafah Gate tear-jerkers. At Anwar’s house I had met a man in a despairing rage. His brother was to visit Cairo briefly toward the end of June, coming from Australia. He couldn’t enter Gaza because of the permit time-lag. These brothers hadn’t met for seven years but on 10 June Anwar’s friend was told he couldn’t leave the Strip before 12 August.

  With clear-cut ten-year-old logic Fairuz wondered why not employ more officials at both sides of the border? Her brother voiced a majority opinion: the US was leaning on Egypt to keep pressure on the Gazans even while taking credit for opening the Gate. But who, really, was mostly to blame? I couldn’t have a view on this, being ignorant of Gazan domestic politics and how things were being reshaped (or not?) in the new Egypt. Yet I was very aware by then of the huge significance of Rafah in all the games being played by everyone.

  Suddenly shouts of ‘Zeidan! Zeidan!’ came from different directions and four adolescent porters converged on my friends as they scrambled hither and thither gathering items of luggage. As one side of the Gate slid back they shouted over their shoulders, ‘Good luck!’ I rejoiced for them while mourning the loss of my interpreter.

  Rumour had it that 503 travellers were on the Egyptians’ 2 July list. Perhaps a number with some arcane Pharaonic significance, an al-Azhar (Gaza) professor facetiously suggested. Seeing me bereft of the Zeidans, he had approached to offer tea and sympathy – and practical support, when it was time to confront Ali again. The crowd around the Office had shrunk but my new friend Walid seemed to find its noisiness and latent aggression rather dismaying. It seemed he didn’t often leave his ivory tower.

  I forced my way onto the step, passing two old women in tears; one had been verbally abused by Ali’s thickset mate who thrust her rejected documents at her so roughly she almost fell backwards. When I replaced her at the window Ali enjoyed telling me that Mr S—’s intervention had failed. But now there was a different story; I must return to Gaza City because the Egyptians had cancelled all non-pilgrim 2 July crossings. Walid translated, ‘Last Thursday we had a closure and all that list must cross today. Only that list. No one else.’

  As my passport was returned, panic loomed. A postponed crossing would involve considerable financial loss. The faithful Abdallah must somehow be paid later on. My Cairo–London flight was booked for Monday 4 July and would be forfeited. On Tuesday 5 July I had a three-hour appointment with an expensive London dentist who imposes a hefty penalty if not given two working days’ notice before a broken appointment – and my mobile couldn’t reach London and anyway it was Saturday … I didn’t burden Walid with these sordid details but he recognised my near-panic and advised, ‘Ring your Mr S— again. If he contacts the Egyptians, you might get an exception order.’ I handed Walid my phone but by then Mr S—’s was switched off and the Department had closed.

  Back at the café, I admitted defeat and was about to leave when a spotty youth came hurrying from the Office and said, ‘Sit down, please! Sit down and wait!’ When Walid questioned him he merely repeated in Arabic, ‘Sit down.’ Walid himself, having been thwarted by the Thursday closure, would probably get through before Gate 2 closed at 6.00 pm. He then explained why, in his estimation, Mr S … being out of reach didn’t really matter. It seems my trump card was a dud, and could even be counterproductive. Gate 1’s International sufferers
might be victims of Department of Transport versus Department of Foreign Affairs faction fighting. Gate 1’s staff were Department of Transport employees, described by Walid as a disheartening example of Hamas’ stupid, uneducated, fanatical element, the sort of people who shouldn’t be given control of a wheelbarrow never mind a hypersensitive international border – a crossing which affects so many Gazans’ welfare on so many levels: emotional, medical, educational, economic. Those two departments employed different sorts of people – or so Walid alleged – and as the cake was being cut Transport perceived Foreign Affairs seizing an unfair share. And of course there were clan issues, into which Walid preferred not to go.

  As we spoke the Gate slid open to release another Mecca-bound coach. That was the twelfth since my arrival and each carried 54 pilgrims to be processed individually by the Egyptians. Only three Internationals were listed for 2 July so it seemed perverse – in fact downright malicious – to compel us to wait all day though we had arrived before most of the pilgrims. I asked myself, ‘Do certain anti-Western officials enjoy punishing us for our past collective crimes? Is it our turn to be dominated, discriminated against, humiliated if possible?’ That would be unfair yet understandable. And in everyday life, away from Gaza’s place of torment, most Palestinians and Egyptians do treat one courteously and kindly.

  At 1.40 pm Walid was called and a few minutes later the other Internationals appeared – striking figures in Gaza, so tall and fair. Gunnar and Jan were from Sweden and the former, having spent 23 years in the OPT, spoke fluent Arabic. He wasn’t even slightly surprised by what I now thought of as a crisis. Together we advanced on the Office where Gunnar stood at the window, flanked by Jan and myself, and made a long speech while presenting our passports to Ali. My spirits rose; by some means I couldn’t divine, these Swedes were exercising a benign influence. For a silent moment Ali stared at Gunnar, his thin lips compressed, his jaw rigid with animosity. Then he picked up our passports and took them into no man’s land. When I quietly clapped my hands Gunnar cautioned, ‘Don’t be too joyful, we still have a long way to go!’

  For the next 25 minutes we stood close to the step, in the full glare of the sun, watching Ali’s mates being nasty to a succession of distressed Gazans.

  Then Ali returned our passports and freed us. I felt quite weak with relief as the Gate slid open, just for us, and we hurried towards the minivan link to the EUBAM buildings where a new set of procedures awaited us – this time computerised.

  A dozen or so other non-Palestinians (Egyptian and Emirate citizens) were waiting amidst many rows of orange metal chairs facing six computer booths manned by three PA officials. These were polite and smartly uniformed but not at ease with our passports. As they stood arguing about them, passing them from hand to hand, Gunnar recalled being present in November 2005 when Israel formally handed over Rafah crossing to the PA, to be run in harness with Egypt and EUBAM monitors. The PA were allowed to admit only registered Gazans – no other Palestinians, no foreigners. Then in June 2007 Israel ordered total closure.

  A tingle of alarm ran through me when the uniformed men returned our passports unprocessed. Looking apologetic, they explained: a new message had come from Gate 2 – only pilgrims could cross that afternoon, all others must return to Gaza City and register for an alternative date. Now near-panic threatened the Swedes, they who had seemed so in control at Gate 1. Gunnar pleaded with the most-braided official: he and Jan were booked to fly from Cairo at noon on the morrow. All three officials expressed sympathy and looked genuinely concerned but had no pull with their counterparts at Gate 2. Jan then rang the Swedes’ liaison officer in Gaza City and sought for pressure to be put on the Egyptians by the PA interim administration in Ramallah. I said nothing; I’m good at playing the role of insignificant female.

  We moved to the air-conditioned ‘Waiting Lounge’, a very long, bright room smelling strongly of EU taxpayers’ money with facilities for praying and purdah, soft golden-brown armchairs and sofas, glass and wrought-iron coffee tables, several TV sets and walls hung with anaemic watercolours of European beauty spots and (decorous) Picasso prints. The contrast between this space and Gate 1’s ‘café’ had a disturbing political symbolism.

  And there sat Walid, also stymied. He looked aggrieved rather than angry and remarked, when I joined him, that our uniformed friends represented the internationally recognised though unelected Palestinian government. Therefore they were natural enemies of the Gate 1 contingent, adding another faction fight to the Rafah equation. In mid-sentence he broke off with a startled exclamation. ‘It’s you!’ – he pointed to the nearest TV set, showing a publicity video for Freedom Flotilla II. In Dublin, on the eve of my departure for Gaza, I had joined the MV Saoirse activists for the making of this video and now I was exhorting viewers to ‘Stay human! Stay human!’ – Vik’s trademark phrase, adopted by the Flotilla as its slogan. I detest TV and in my already hyper-stressed state this was too much: a feeling of total unreality overcame me momentarily. But I had to adjust to stardom: that video was replayed every ten minutes during the next hour.

  When the liaison officer reported that Ramallah couldn’t help I suggested ringing our ambassadors in Cairo but on a Saturday afternoon neither was within reach. Later I discovered that they are friends who may have been sharing a weekend outing as we stood biting our nails at the Gate.

  We were looking at one another – who would first admit defeat and summon a taxi? – when hope was rekindled. A notably tall and handsome young PA official, in civvies, had been contacted by Ramallah and might be able to get an Egyptian ‘exception order’ as we were only three Internationals.

  The next half-hour was the worst. I paced the room, thinking of the emergency emails I’d have to try to send from Gaza City – if the electricity allowed computers to function. And how to pay Abdallah? Someone could take a verbal message but wouldn’t it be daft to give dollar notes to a total stranger? By then the sheer insanity of the day’s events had switched off my optimism.

  Walid halted my pacing with the good news. Somehow he knew, before our saviour returned, that the exception order had been granted – of course only for Internationals. This made the Swedes and me feel bad but Walid reminded us, ‘Gazans don’t expect life to be easy. We’ll all sleep on these sofas and tomorrow go on waiting.’

  As the exception order was handed to the passport officers we chorused our thanks in our best Arabic – though come to think of it, this was scarcely an occasion for gratitude. We should have been dealt with at 8.30 before the pilgrim flow began. Or was Hamas to blame for not letting us through? Impossible to know and anyway it didn’t matter now …

  My passport was first to be stamped and I rushed to the exit; it was 4.20 and Abdallah had been waiting for more than five hours. Outside the door three policemen stopped me – I must return to the Waiting Lounge and ‘Sit down please’. Angrily I protested that I had been sitting in that lounge for more than two hours and at Rafah for six and a half hours and my passport had been through two procedures and now I wanted to get into Egypt fast! I was misbehaving – shouting in English at men who understood hardly a word of the language and were not personally to blame for anything, apart from their own aggressive attitudes. Then two of them made to grab my bags and that cowed me into returning – to find myself being upbraided for trying to evade a departure tax of which I knew nothing. In my rush I hadn’t seen a small notice beside a closed kiosk – ‘Exit Tax: 60 NIS’. Gunnar and Jan beckoned me: we had to wait for the kiosk to open. And then we had to wait for the minivan that would take us to Travel House, the Egyptian processing plant.

  ‘Sit down, please!’ Gunnar teased me, patting the metal chair beside his. I didn’t see the joke; my sense of humour was in abeyance. ‘Let’s walk,’ I suggested. ‘It’s a five-minute drive away and none of us has much luggage.’ Gunnar shook his head. ‘Walking is very forbidden – sit down please and wait!’

  Ten minutes later the tax-kiosk clerk came dawdling along, chat
ting to a friend. Our 60 NIS earned a glossy receipt for US$15, paid to the Ministry of Finance, Palestinian National Authority. The opening of the Rafah Gate could not be allowed to benefit a ‘terrorist’ organisation.

  We returned to our seats, having been assured the minibus was ‘on its way’, and I wondered what my companions made of all these convolutions. It would have been tactless to ask; INGO workers have to be circumspect in conversation with writers. Then, telepathically, Jan commented that at present chaos was inevitable. Rafah had opened on 28 May, soon after Egypt’s announcement that it would open – which gave no one enough time to get their act together.

  For admission to Egypt, Gazans had to be PA-vetted; but they couldn’t get past Gate 1 to the PA checkpoint without registering their exit date on a Hamas list back in Gaza City. We noted a sad irony in two of the statements made by Egypt’s Foreign Minister, Nabil Elarby. He had given his own spin to Rafah’s reopening – ‘to end the Palestinian division and achieve national reconciliation’. But he also explained – ‘rules in effect before the closure shall be reinstated’. Those two statements couldn’t jell. Egypt was still deciding how many might cross each day and the nightmare hours (or days) people spent at Gate 1 were a result of a Hamas muscle-flexing exercise. Their supporters undoubtedly got preference on the ‘exit date’ register and because they controlled this they were, in effect, empowered to imprison Palestinians on the Strip. Yet no marks had been made on our passports by the ‘Ali’s Office’ faction who were physically able to block individuals’ movements. Moreover, though they could prevent people from crossing, their allowing someone through was no guarantee that the PA would do likewise. Or that Egypt would admit them: every day scores were being ‘returned’ from Travel House.

  By now Walid and his fellow-rejects had settled down in the Waiting Lounge and we were on our own in the computer hall. Eventually even Gunnar reckoned it was time to stop adapting to the Middle East. He went exploring, in search of our vehicle – only to find that it had been and gone, its driver having failed to find us in the lounge. A uniformed PA man led him back to us and said, ‘Sit down please and wait. Soon the car will come again.’