Three months after the conflict began, a traveler enters Gaza to witness the contrast between a hodgepodge of makeshift shelters and the “I Heart Gaza” tourist photo spots. This story was written by a student on our Craft of Travel Writing Certification course.
“Welcome to Gaza!”
The greeting from an exuberant, well-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and thick, tanned skin was not the welcoming committee I was expecting. After a delayed departure from Cairo, crossing the heavily restricted Sinai Peninsula before being dropped off on the Egyptian side, navigating through the final border hurdles, all that was needed now was Mohammed, the driver, to finish the final leg and have us in Khan Younis before sundown. Inshallah.
Before leaving for the Middle East, I put on a guise of bravery for friends, family, and deep down, I think, for myself. I had been to conflict zones before, but this felt different, and my fear was more palpable. Mohammed’s welcome, however, was like a nice cup of chamomile tea, and my nerves were starting to dissipate.
Knowing there was time pressure due to a sunset deadline, I started to climb into the van.
“Wait!”
The key security instruction came instantly to mind: listen to the driver’s directions at all times.
Before an apology could be uttered, Mohammed continued, “You need to take a photo. Best spot in Gaza to take photo.” He proudly gestured to the kitschy “I Heart [City]” signs that adorn every cruise port and tourist hotspot. It seemed wrong to be taking these photos in a war zone, but Mohammed’s pride won out and I snapped a few. I drew the line at posing in front of the sign.
It was much more peaceful than I was expecting; however, that changed after leaving the tightly controlled border area.
Entering the Rafah area caused me to inhale sharply, inadvertently holding my breath until dizziness set in. It’s almost as though my eyes were so busy trying to take everything in that I forgot how to breathe.
At the time, the conflict was three months old, but the destruction was unsettling. Plumes of smoke could be seen on the horizon and, directly in front of us, a giant pile of concrete and twisted metal sat surrounded by the remains of a cinder-block fence with a carport–a reminder of what was once a home.
The drive to the guesthouse should ideally take 10 to 15 minutes; however, as crowds streamed from the northern area down to the Rafah area in the south, the drive would be prolonged. Mohammed explained that our path today would be along the beach road as much as possible. Running the length of the Gaza Strip, the beach road was largely viewed as the safest passageway for north to south movements.
“Thirty families live in that building,” Mohammed continued, pointing to a two-story beige building that had that distinctive office-building appearance that comes with mirrored windows. “I was married there many years ago.”
A large “Wedding Hall” sign remained on the building, almost defiantly signaling that it would one day return to its original purpose.
The van ambled by a few children bouncing on a trampoline, clearly relocated from its original home to the side of a road. Up and down, up and down, oblivious to the atrocities around them, at least for a few minutes. If the windows of the van had been open, there is no doubt that peals of their laughter would have been the accompanying soundtrack. Ironically, there was a dove–a bird typically associated with peace–graffitied on the wall behind the bouncing boys.
As the van progressed closer to the sea, the increasing population density created an atmosphere of claustrophobia, even inside the confines of the vehicle. It was like being in a crowded elevator; no one is actually touching you, just as in an empty elevator, but you can feel them around you.
Shelters were becoming more prevalent and more creative. People would stake donated tents, often recycled from a previous conflict, right into the sidewalk. Blue tarps were stretched between any two upright surfaces. The walls of these makeshift tents were composed of plastic sheeting, blankets, or rugs. We approached a mosque with a brilliant blue dome, or qubba, reflecting beautifully in the sun, serving as a signal to people to come and be safe. Judging by the amount of laundry drying on the fence and in the ironwork around the windows, many had taken up the offer.
A fire caught my eye and I turned to see a shelter, one side open to the street, with a small campfire inside. There appeared to be about six people huddled near the fire, hands extended close to the flames–the universal sign of attempting to warm oneself. One little boy at the end was just staring out, looking despondent. He inadvertently caught my gaze and immediately broke out in a huge grin and a big wave. The corners of my eyes prickled with tears as I waved back. I swallowed back the tears and reinstalled my tough facade.
“Now the road will be busy,” Mohammed declared. The final turn onto the road resulted in the doubling of two things: people and wind speed.
The Mediterranean Sea stretched off to the left. I am not sure if a single body of water has ever provided such a contrast of pleasure and pain. Today, in the far distance, the ghostly outlines of military vessels sat on the horizon, shadows so faint you second-guessed if they were really there. Closer to shore, the winds were whipping the caps off the waves, dousing anyone close enough to the water with a salty shower. The beach itself was virtually empty; while perhaps a popular sunbathing spot in the warmer months, in January, it appeared downright hostile.
On the right were the first glimpses of the larger internally displaced person camps that had been making the news headlines back home. More recycled and makeshift tents were crowded next to hastily constructed tin shacks in what had become a new neighborhood overnight. One man was shoveling sand onto the base of his tent in an attempt to get the improvised walls to behave in these winter winds. He stopped for a minute just to stare–perhaps frustrated at the effort, or perhaps just remembering what life was like a few months ago. Despite the shoddy construction and abhorrent overcrowding, there appeared to be an organization to the chaos, with pathways between dwellings and a haphazard fence to define the area.
Mohammed’s earlier prediction about the road being busy was a bit of an undersell. On account of the recent conflict, hundreds of thousands of people were fleeing and heading south. Many of these had already fled at least once; this new displacement would likely not be their last. The traffic headed north was minimal; however, southbound was gridlock.
Every single vehicle that passed was absolutely bursting with at least a dozen people sitting on top of each other. Any section of the car that was not holding a person was holding a possession–including the roof, where the only limitation to packing seemed to be creativity. Mattresses, chairs, blankets–all types of worldly possessions and treasures squeezed in for the ride. Joining the caravan of vehicles were donkey carts. Their horsepower coming in another form, they were expected to perform and haul carts with more than a dozen people and everything but the kitchen sink.
A woman drove by, all smiles, in a car that looked like it was something out of the Flintstones. The car was smashed; most doors were completely missing and at least one quarter panel was gone. Any remaining window was spiderwebbed to the point where it could no longer function as a window. The “car” was just as stuffed as all the others. However, it was the shit-eating grin on the woman’s face, reminiscent of Thelma’s final journey with Louise, that seemed so perfectly both right and wrong for the situation.
A few more donkey carts passed, this time brimming with branches. Mohammed explained, “It’s what is left of the trees in the Middle Area. They are bringing them here to sell for firewood.”
“But this is mostly a desert; there can’t be many trees. Won’t they run out soon?”, my curiosity genuine.
“Yes.” he curtly replied, he didn’t seem to want to expand.
Progress was slow; every new sandy block bestowed new, startling miseries. A child sitting next to an improvised table was selling what were obviously her used shoes. An older man, just sitting in a wheelchair while traffic came dangerously close–it wasn’t clear if he could move his chair or even see. A child shepherd trailed behind a flock of sheep, no doubt having nowhere to truly herd them given the absence of vegetation. These were sad sights that both baffled and outraged a casual observer.
“They are hitting Deir al Balah right now. It’s 20 km from here. Don’t worry”, Mohammed mentioned, no doubt after he noticed the apprehensive glances upward at the sound of an aircraft, or the way I flinched at the loud boom of a bomb. When your whole world is 41 km long, I guess 20 km is pretty far away. Back home, it was just my morning commute.
But toughness is a mindset, so accepting his reassurance, I changed the subject and inquired about the van, which had been emitting a high-pitched whine for a while.
“The van?!” The low-bellied laugh out of Mohammed was a welcome, if confusing, surprise. “My dear, that noise is not the van. That is surveillance drones. You will never not hear that noise when you are in Gaza.”
“Even at night?”
“It’s worse at night,” he cautioned.
I glanced around to look for the drones. But the only things I could see were kites. Kites!
“Mohammed, are those… kites? Who is flying them?” Immediately, I tried to conjure how a kite could be repurposed into something nefarious.
“Kids love kites; the winds are perfect.” He looked out the window and I could see that flying kites had a deeper meaning to him.
“Where are they getting kites in a war zone?” It was perplexing, since food was so scarce.
“They make them from, you know, the garbage.”
That did it. The tough facade was gone. Tears streamed down my face as another bomb went off in the distance, the smoke creating an appalling backdrop for the kids with kites. Mohammed simply handed over a tissue. Not his first drive.
“It’ll get better. Or at least less shocking.”
It did, and it didn’t.
