Meet Me in Gaza (12 page)

By early afternoon we are all loitering around reception, most of us smoking. I’d presumed my colleagues would all be used to these attacks, battle-hardened and emotionally numb by now. But it’s quite the opposite. The atmosphere is tense and sad and very quiet. Only Shadi breaks rank, mocking the Apache helicopters that swarmed around the city last night.

‘That was nothing,
habibti
!’ He waggles his cigarette at me. ‘You wait till they bring out the F-16s! When we hear them whistling above us, then by sudden we are in six thousand, six hundred and sixty-six tons of
BIG
trouble!’ Everyone within earshot laughs, including me.

The office doesn’t close early. We leave at the normal time. As we are getting our jackets on, ready to leave, Joumana says to me, ‘If you want to buy anything for the weekend, go now,
habibti.
The shops will close soon. They always close early at times like this.’

I thank her and say that I hope she has a good weekend though I feel slightly ridiculous saying so. My colleagues keep repeating these mantras to each other: Take care; Enjoy your weekend; See you on Sunday;
Salam
; Life goes on …

Shadi offers me a lift home in his ‘best-in-the-West’ car, but I tell him I prefer to walk. I need to buy some things on the way home because I am supposed to be having friends over for a small
hafla
tonight.

I’m having a
hafla
at my apartment this evening because I have to leave Gaza in a few days, to make a visa run. I will cross back into Israel, then leave Israel for Egypt and then re-enter Israel a couple of weeks later, hopefully with a brand-new, three-month Israeli tourist visa, which is issued at the border. I will need a new entry permit for Gaza, which is also issued by Israel. The Israeli authorities may refuse to issue me with a new tourist visa, a new entry permit or both … in which case I am screwed because I don’t have a permit to work in Gaza either. I would love a work permit, but there’s absolutely no point in applying for one because permits for foreigners to work in Gaza are issued by the Israeli Social Affairs Ministry, and I work for a Gazan human rights organisation which monitors Israeli abuses in Gaza, so the Israelis will not issue me a permit. In light of all this uncertainty, I’ve decided to throw this
hafla
to say a temporary goodbye to my friends. My landlord, Abu Ali, has agreed (which is kind of him, as Hamas are not mad keen on parties). In spite of the situation, Shadi insists we should go ahead tonight.

‘We can dance and enjoy ourselves, and that is better than sitting at home listening to reports about how many Gazans the Israelis are killing tonight,’ he says as we leave the Centre. ‘I will collect Saida from her home and we will come to you about seven o’clock. I will bring the salads.’

I don’t think he realises how heavy his smile is.

On the way home I can hear reverberations of bombs in the distance, yet the streets look and feel quiet. Some shops are already closing, battening down the hatches for the weekend ahead. But the Metro Supermarket is open. Inside, a small crowd of men are gathered around a television, shaking their heads. I stand behind them and look at the screen. Footage of local ambulance crews dragging blood-spattered people – I can’t tell if they are women or men – onto stretchers, while other people flee inside buildings, clutching small children howling in their arms. The TV report says that the Israeli military has killed fifty-two Gazans in the last twenty-four hours. This doesn’t feel real. But it looks bloody real. As the ambulance speeds off, sirens screaming, the US State Department has ‘encouraged’ Israel to exercise caution to avoid loss of innocent life in Gaza.

I leave the Metro Supermarket with coffee, eggs, bread, cheese and longlife milk, walk to my apartment and start preparing for the
hafla
. By early evening, the bombing has intensified. The louder explosions make me flinch and I’m relieved when Shadi arrives with Saida. They have known each other for years. Shadi is wearing a blue paisley shirt and a determined grin. Saida is wearing a red
hijab
, a long-sleeved, red-and-white shirt, black trousers and heels; she looks extremely elegant and very tense. When I hug her, she feels rigid.

‘
Habibti
, I cannot stay late tonight,’ she says. ‘My parents will worry too much because of the situation, especially my father.’

‘I’m just so glad you’ve come,’ I tell her. I know that she’s here for my sake this evening; Saida doesn’t go to mixed parties, never drinks alcohol and would no doubt rather be at home right now. Maybe having a
hafla
tonight was a really dumb idea. But it’s too late to change my mind now.

I have also invited some work colleagues and
Ustaz
Mounir. Just as he promised, Mounir arrives early, before the dancing and drinking start. He doesn’t stay long. After a quick cup of tea, he stands up to go. ‘
Yallah,
I am sorry, Louisa, but I have to be with my family. I am worried about them. I fear tonight is going to be very bad.’ He offers me his hand. ‘Come back to Gaza soon – we have more conversations to finish!’ Mounir has never called me a friend, but I feel a great affection for him by now.

‘Yes,
Ustaz
– we’ve lots more to argue about!’ I say as he takes his leave. We look each other in the eyes and both smile at my parting shot.

Other guests start arriving. Niveen comes with the Smoothie, who greets me with a lingering kiss on the cheek. Muhammad the driver knocks on the door, then Mahmoud from Jabalya arrives with a couple of friends, and by this time Shadi has turned up the music because bombs are now exploding every few minutes. I start pouring drinks. Some of my friends don’t drink alcohol, and those that do cannot often get their hands on it. I’ve long finished the booze I first brought with me, but have acquired a precious little stash from a few foreign friends and acquaintances who come in and out of Gaza for work. A few days ago one of them had a meeting with Tariq and dropped a bottle of vodka off with him. But now Tariq calls to say he can’t make it tonight.

‘
Habibti
, I’m so sorry, but you know I live next to Jabalya – and it’s crazy here right now! There are all sorts of rockets going off and the Israelis are bombing us. No one is on the streets. I’m too frightened to leave the house.’ As he speaks, I can hear explosions rocking down the line. ‘When I told my mother about the party, she started screaming it was too dangerous to go outside,’ he says, ‘but I’ve got the vodka!’

I start laughing because I couldn’t care less about the vodka right now.

‘Stay at home. I don’t want you getting killed on the way to my party!’ I shout so he can really hear me. ‘What would happen to the vodka then?’

Tariq jokes that even the belligerent local stray dogs have gone into hiding.

‘I’ll call you tomorrow and we will have coffee at the al-Deira Hotel,’ he says. The tone of his voice has just changed; now he’s using the same tone that Saida used on the phone the other night, the tone that deliberately masks fear and says this will all be over soon.

‘OK.’ I try to sound casual down the phone too. ‘But take care – and drink the vodka!’

Half a dozen other friends call to say they won’t be coming because of the bombing. But the majority do turn up, including some of my colleagues, one of whom arrives with a freshly home-baked apple cake that she thrusts into my hands. Within ten minutes she apologises, but says she has to go. There’s a cab waiting outside and she needs to get back to her three young kids and see if they are managing to sleep though these blasts. Saida puts her arm on my shoulder.

‘
Habibti
, I have to go too – my parents are very worried.’

She takes her coat and leaves with my colleague. I wave them goodbye and go back into my lounge, where a small crowd is dancing to raucous Arabic music. There are a few foreigners among them, including Dora, a middle-aged French woman with untidy hennaed red hair whom no one seems to know much about … except that she has been roaming the streets of Gaza for some eight years, saying her book (which she carries round in a plastic bag) is almost, but never quite, finished.

‘I really ’ate ze French,’ Dora tells me, in her great smoke-crackled growl. ‘’Iz my country, and still I really ’ate them. I love ze Gaza people.’

We smoke, drain the whisky and wine bottles, change the music, strut to the music. Tonight we’re loud and defiant, full of passion and purpose and our joy reclaims the night. Niveen is holding court in the kitchen, pouring her great dirty laugh over several attentive men. Shadi is mincing on the dance floor. Mahmoud, who brought his beloved water-pipe with him, is smoking next to the balcony door. I feel a hand stroke my shoulder, then a body leans in close, lips brushing my neck.

‘We should have a private
hafla
one night,
habibti
,’ he croons. ‘Just the two of us.’

‘Let’s see,’ I murmur tipsily, as the Smoothie runs his fingers through my hair.

By three o’clock in the morning the bottles are dry, we’re still a bit drunk, finally tired out, and the explosions have gone quiet. Everyone who left said what a great night it was for a
hafla
. A little later the Smoothie leaves too, home to his family. Just Niveen, Shadi and I remain.

Niveen is slumped in a chair, cigarette in one hand and a late-night cup of coffee in the other. She’s staying with me tonight. Shadi, who is something of a chronic insomniac, stays for a final coffee and a cigarette too. As we linger in the smoky living room, a long, loud whistle screeches through the air. Niveen sits bolt upright. Shadi’s face contorts and for the first time I see the stamp of fear in him.

‘F-16 planes,’ he says. ‘I hope they are not going to use those on us again.’

Before Operation Winter Heat, there was Operation Autumn Clouds: that was in November 2006 and also concentrated in northern Gaza, where the Israeli military killed fifty-three Gazans – including eighteen members of one extended family, the al-Athamnas – in less than a week. Five months earlier, in June 2006, Israel had launched Operation Summer Rains, a four-month military assault across Gaza, which Israeli spokesmen said was being carried out in order to stop rockets being fired into southern Israel and to secure the release of Gilad Shalit. Three hundred and ninety-four Gazans were killed by the Israeli military during the operation, and 1,000 more injured.

But these Israeli military operations have never stopped Gazan fighters launching rockets and mortars from open fields and wasteland towards Israeli cities in the southern Negev.

When Shadi has finally left and Niveen is tucked up in my guest room, I lie in my bed as F-16s stream overhead, that now-familiar knot in my guts clenched like a small fist. I am half-drunk, dreading the hours until dawn. Eventually I sleep.

The next morning, Niveen and I drink coffee, clear up the
hafla
debris and eat the remains of the apple cake for breakfast. The sky seems quiet.

‘I don’t want to go home yet,’ she says, popping her daily blood pressure tablet out of its foil. ‘
Yallah.
Let’s go and walk on the beach while it is still quiet.’

Just before we go, I call Tariq to see if he’s OK.

‘
Marhaba
.’ His voice is sleepy down the phone.

‘Are you all right after last night?’

‘
Habibti
, we’re all fine.’ The bravado is back in his voice now. ‘It was frightening for a while – but we have had much worse in Gaza! Listen, this is just Tom and Jerry compared to what they are
really
capable of!’

Outside the streets are very quiet and we suddenly remember it’s Friday morning, when observant Muslims go to their local mosques to pray. After our night of revelry, everything outside looks very bright. Niveen and I take a slow stroll towards the beach. Hardly anybody is on the streets. When we clamber down from the road onto the sand, we both immediately pull off our shoes. The tide is out, the sand warm and dry. I have walked along this beach many times by now, savouring the salty fresh air and wide open space, because everywhere else inside Gaza always feels so crowded. This particular stretch of beach is the haunt of local men, wanderers and dreamers – and a few clusters of fishermen are usually nestled in the sand, mending their nets, singing softly as they work. We see them now and wave a greeting. They give brief nods in response and go on working. We walk, lulled into silence by the roll and sparkle of the waves, the sun on our faces. I can hear
zananas
circling above now, and what sounds like helicopters throbbing in the distance. But this is a tranquil space – a capsule separated from the fear and bloodshed just a couple of miles away.

Niveen walks on ahead of me, planting a trail of wet footprints at the water’s edge. I’ve never seen another woman walking along the beach alone here. After a while she turns around, waves to me and shouts, ‘
Habibti
– I feel free!’

By now it is early afternoon; people will be coming home from the mosque, families will be starting to make lunch, married couples and rebels will be making love, children will be crying and playing, fighting and making friends. As these damned drones and helicopters infest the sky, life does go on.

A loud noise behind me. I flinch and reel round, more jittery than I realised. Four camels are swaying along the beach just behind me, each ridden by a man in shades with a black-and-white keffiyeh scarf wrapped round his head like a loose turban.
²⁹
They look young and free, and incredibly sexy.

‘Where are you from?’ they want to know.

‘Scotland,’ I say. One nods, the others shrug their shoulders as the camels snort and threaten to spit.

‘Why you came to Gaza?’ the one who nodded asks me. ‘It is dangerous here, you know. They are bombing up there’ – he indicates northwards.

‘But it’s quiet here,’ I say. ‘Where have you come from?’

‘From Rafah, in the south. We are riding towards Jabalya – there is nowhere else to go. We will go as far north as we can, and then we will ride back home.
Salam
!’