Twenty-Four Hours in Gaza: First Impressions
4 Feb 2001
Abu
Mustafa is an eloquent and convivial Gazan, shy in self-promotion yet forward in
his honesty, which ostensibly emanates from a spring deep inside his middle-aged
body. Speaking in English, a
conversation with him is labored and requires that one not just glance and nod
but instead study him as one studies a long-lost diary of a distant relative;
reading every line, every curve, every gesture as significant.
When he gets going in Arabic he is liable to quickly proceed beyond the
realm of my understanding, then pause for a sign of comprehension and backtrack
a few sentences in English. He is a
father of five - a boy and four girls all between the age of five and twelve -
and husband to Hekmat Sarraj, herself more accomplished in English.
With no formal education beyond secondary school in a UNRWA institution,
Abu Mustafa, whose given name is Hashem, spent the fourteen years prior to the
first Intifada working various jobs in Israel, where his attentive ears lent him
fluency in Hebrew and competence in French, Spanish, and Yugoslavian (from
working with foreign organizations). He
currently works as a customs agent in Rafah, the Gaza Strip's Egyptian border,
and as he rolls the second of his hand-rolled cigarettes with Syrian tobacco he
dazzles us with an anecdote of the time he caught hashish smugglers entering
Gaza with contraband hidden in unbaked loaves of bread.
My
friend Mar and I stayed at the home of Abu Mustafa for our single night in Gaza
city. Of all the places to travel
on a whim, Gaza does not rank high. Less
than two days prior, a Belgian friend of mine, with diplomatic credentials, told
me he had two extra seats in his tiny Fiat for a trip to the Strip, and I
couldn't pass up the opportunity. We
headed out Friday morning from Ramallah and arrived at the Erez crossing, north
of the Strip, shortly before noon. Security
was surprisingly relaxed, as Erez has seen little violence from the
four-month-old Intifada. From the
Palestinian side of the checkpoint, we drove into Gaza city.
On our right, at first, was Jabaliya refugee camp, reminiscent of 1945
Berlin with its haphazardly constructed concrete buildings and glassless
windows, and home to over 100,000 thousand Palestinian refugees from the 1948
war. On our left was, well, Israel
- the Strip is only 14 kilometers wide at this point.
Past the camp we entered into Gaza city, and our friend dropped us by the
beach with a friendly aur revoir and see you tomorrow at Erez.
Standing
now in Rimal, the classy rebuilt area of Gaza city, we navigated our way to the
home of Hashem and Hekmat on Shuhada
(Martyr) Street. With a knock on a
gray metal door we were greeted by Hekmat and her son Mustafa, absolutely
stunned to see a pair of young travelers looking for a room at this time of
year. They haven't had any guests
since June. Not exactly Lonely
Planet material, their home has two extra rooms with a total of three beds, and
they usually take in Arab travelers who hear about them by word of mouth.
"How
did you hear about this place?" asked Hekmat, keeping one keen eye on us
and the other on her playing girls. She
explained the rarity of travelers of our genre showing up at the house.
I showed her my copy of the travel guide Palestine
with Jerusalem by Henry Stedman, where on page 76 it describes in boldface
what a great deal it is to stay with a Gazan family at Beit
Hashem Sarraj (house of Hashem Sarraj) for only 60 shekels ($15) per night.
She gently took the book from me and read the passage about the clean
rooms and the warm hospitality, and although she's never heard of Henry Stedman
she exclaimed to our relieved faces, "It's like we're famous.
I must show Hashem. Where
did you get this book?" Suffice
it to say, I promised to bring them a copy of the book on my next trip.
After
we set up in our room, Mar and I descended upon the streets of Gaza, eager to
let first impressions etch permanent images into our memories.
Friday, Islam's holy day, means almost every shop is closed and groups of
kids, young men, and families walk the streets and even picnic in one of Gaza's
several green parks. Other groups gather around a pot of tea and a backgammon
board, while still more kick around soccer balls or practice their graffiti
skills. This was nothing like
walking around Ramallah. Here we
were the only foreigners in sight and we met the suspicious glares of passers-by
with smiles and marahaba's (hello), at
which point most eyes lit up like Christmas trees and returned the greeting -
often with invitations for tea and conversations.
Including lunch at an inexpensive restaurant, this describes the five
hours of walking we did in Gaza, across the width of the town from sea to Salah
A-Deen street and back in a large rectangular route. Off of these main roads the concrete turns into sand through
the neighborhood streets knifing between shadowy apartment buildings colored
with the blues, reds, and greens of drying laundry.
The popular mode of transportation of people and products in Gaza, while
not outnumbering taxis, is the donkey cart - a flatboard construction complete
with rubber tires and in some instances a license plate!
Near the main vegetable market is Napoleon's fortress (where Bonaparte
spent the winter of 1799) and the Grand Mosque of Gaza.
Back next to the sea is the compound of Yasser Arafat (the green and
white helicopter in the front yard confirmed the President was at home).
Mar got into some trouble when he tried to photograph a group of
soldiers, and he was subsequently relieved of his film!
We spent the sunset on the beach watching fishermen toss their lines into
the crashing waves and the violent riptides.
Back
at Beit Hashem we sat with the family for hours drinking tea and smoking the
Narghila pipe (water pipe) while conversing with Abu Mustafa about Gazan
history, the Intifada, Ariel Sharon, Arabic poetry, idiosyncrasies of languages,
and whatever else came to mind. The
two oldest children stood in the kitchen making homemade playdoh out of old
flour, water, and dye while the three youngest sat at the table doing Arabic
homework on instruction from their mother. Upon my participation, I learned that my level of written
Arabic is somewhere between Lolo'a (age 5) and Lubna (age 8).
After a comfortable eight hours of sleep, Mar and I made an early
departure, after the fifteen minute Arab pleasantries of good-bye, onto the
streets of Gaza en route to Erez. As
foreigners we crossed unmolested back into Israel after the Palestinian guards
posed for pictures and poked good-natured fun at our dangling kefiyahs.