Letters from Palestine (38 page)

Water has been flooding our backyard for
days. The city public works department is unable to fix the problem
because there are no construction materials to replace the damaged
utilities. Heavy machinery does not have fuel to operate. We cannot
open any windows, and we are breathing toxic waste for days until
sunny days come around to dry out everything. Streets are covered
with mud, pebbles, and sharp stones that are hazardous. The city
departments are unable to fix any problems because they simply do
not have any resources.

Finally, there are numerous problems that
face our impoverished war-torn and isolated society, especially our
damaged and disabled infrastructures. I did not mention the
numerous shortages in food, goods and services, cash, and other
basic needs because I wanted to point out the health issues, which
I am most familiar with as a medical professional. There is a need
for urgent help from the international community. Former United
States president, Jimmy Carter, described the siege that Gaza is
enduring as a “crime against human rights.”

Can you imagine living like this?

U.N. Medical Officer

8 November 2008

_PHOTO

Yassmin Moor is a Palestinian-American
refugee born in Rafah, Gaza, whose grandparents were exiled in 1948
from Palestine. In 2006, Yassmin cofounded Save Gaza, following the
killing by an Israeli sniper of her cousin as he stood in front of
his house in Rafah, in order to raise awareness about the economic
sanctions in Gaza, particularly the humanitarian situation that
Palestinians face. In the summer of 2007, Yassmin moved to Gaza to
implement a sustainable home gardening project and remained there
until December 2007. Currently, Yassmin lives in Nahr al Bared,
Lebanon, where she is taking part in the reconstruction of a camp
that was destroyed in the summer of 2007. She is unable to return
to Gaza because of the closing of the Rafah borders. Yassmin has an
MA in conflict analysis and resolution from George Mason
University.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Dear all,

I’m sorry for not being in touch and for not
writing sooner, but words are failing me, and I cannot articulate
what Gaza feels like right now. A hopeless prison with a dark
gloomy cloud over it. It’s been raining for three days now, and
it’s starting to get cold. Unfortunately, with rainstorms come
power outages, so that means there is no water or electric heaters.
Gas heaters are not operational either because of the high price of
gas—that is, when gas is even available. But also because most
people are saving their gas for cooking food rather than using it
for heaters, especially with a possible invasion coming in two
weeks and the possible cut off of gas. I feel for people without
access to heat. I also feel for people like my aunt whose house was
demolished and is living in a half-built house with no windows that
UNRWA stopped building because they ran out of cement and other
building materials. It’s the beginning of the winter. It’s only
going to get colder.

I also can’t help but think of Gaza’s sick
and dying . . . in their frailty, lying there helpless . . .
wishing . . . hoping . . . praying that by God’s mercy they would
be allowed a permit to leave Gaza or by some sort of miracle
someone will save them. But most are denied access . . . and most
die a slow agonizing death, and only then are their bodies
free.

And the world reads about it, but it’s just
another story, another one of Gaza’s tragedies. But I wish the
world would realize how real this is and how real these sick people
are. Some of these sick patients are my uncle who has heart disease
or my little cousin with a tumor, and now, unfortunately, my aunt’s
husband, who one day was walking and the next day woke up crippled
from a brain tumor.

And when you see people you care about so
sick and unable to leave Gaza, you first get angry for having such
shitty luck and for the injustice of the world . . . the type of
anger that turns into fury and consumes you, until it becomes
exhausting. You then resign yourself to the reality of Gaza’s fate,
which finally sinks in. But with that reality comes hopelessness
and the crippling feeling of helplessness. And so my uncle, my
cousin, and my aunt’s husband lie in a hospital, waiting for their
permits, and none of us can do a thing other than pray or chase
around people who may know someone who knows someone who can help
us with a permit. But we know full well how real death is, and that
most just die while waiting.

And then a human rights organization issues
a statement, yet again: another Palestinian dies because they were
denied access to medical care. And their only crime was being born
Palestinian in Gaza and falling ill. Nowhere else will you see this
but in Gaza. And no place else will the world remain silent at the
obscenity of Israel’s inhumane acts, except in Gaza.

It’s hard to not feel like we’re in a large
concentration camp as I see Gaza’s empty streets, and the hopeless
feeling in the air . . . and just the gloominess that has covered
Gaza. I think most people feel abandoned as we are literally locked
up in this small, concentrated space, and we don’t know what the
world plans for us, or what to expect next. It’s hard to imagine
what being in Gaza does to someone’s will until you’ve come here.
You no longer feel alive. In fact, you’re not living; you’re just
killing time until some sort of change happens.

Sadly, Gaza has become desensitized to the
rest of the world, as it feels like the international community has
turned a blind eye to the reality that is Gaza. And as long as
Israel is allowing some food in and hasn’t completely cut off
electricity or gas, and as long as we are kept alive, no one will
ask about us.

But just because we are breathing, that
doesn’t mean we’re alive.

_PHOTO

Haidar Eid is an associate professor of
English and cultural studies at Al-Aqsa University in Gaza,
Palestine. He received an MA in postcolonial literature from
Eastern Mediterranean University in Northern Cyprus. After teaching
in Northern Cyprus, he went on to earn his PhD in English
literature and philosophy from the Rand Afrikaans University in
Johannesburg, after which he took a series of positions at various
universities in South Africa, Gaza and elsewhere in the Middle
East. He is on the steering committee of Palestinian Campaign for
Academic and Cultural Boycott of Israel (PACBI), he is a board
member of Al-Dameer Association for Human Rights, and he is a
one-state activist.

* * *

In April 2008, when I was first trying to
find Palestinians with whom to make email contact, I wrote to Ramzy
Baroud, the editor of the
Palestine Chronicle
(who had
already responded warmly to a letter I had written him about one of
his books), asking if he had anyone to suggest. Ramzy provided a
short list of some of his colleagues whom he thought might be
receptive, and the one with whom I have maintained a sustained
relationship was a prominent Gaza professor and a highly respected
activist named Haidar Eid.

Haidar, though exceptionally busy as always,
replied with the kind of warm and friendly words of welcome that I
have found to be characteristic of Palestinian professionals. Here,
in part, is what Haidar wrote to me:

Thank you so much for contacting me. You are
most welcome. One thing—amongst others—that we, Palestinians, share
with Jews, but not Zionists, is generosity and welcoming our
guests. As you said, life here is so miserable, thanks to Israel. I
am sure that by now you have an idea about the kind of life we are
leading in Gaza . . . Your experience and field of expertise is a
great asset to us here in Palestine. If you visit us here, and I
wonder whether the Israeli authorities would give you a permit to
visit Gaza, you’ll see with your own eyes the horror that is being
inflicted on most Palestinians with an unparalleled impunity.

I have yet to visit Gaza, though Anna and I
very much want to, but over the past year, I have read hundreds of
articles that Haidar has forwarded to me—many of which he has
written himself. No one has been a source of more vital information
to me than Haidar, whose expressions of friendship have also meant
a lot to me. Indeed, Haidar has already been helpful to me in
multiple ways and has also put me in touch with a number of his
colleagues and students, some of whom, thanks to him, also appear
in this book. Because of Haidar, I have learned a great deal about
what life in Gaza has been like for its encaged inhabitants.

Despite the grimness—indeed, often the sheer
ghastliness of life in Gaza as reflected in the articles he has
sent to me—Haidar’s personal notes are frequently laced with his
droll humor. Recently, seeming to conflate and contract my name,
Ken Ring, he started addressing me simply as “King.” I took this as
a compliment, not a confusion. But to me, it is that Haidar is
himself a prince among Palestinians because of his steadfast,
unswerving, and uncompromising devotion to the principles of
liberation and justice for the Palestinian people to which he has
dedicated his life.

I feel very privileged to be able to
introduce him to you in this book, and it is my fervent hope that
one day, before too long, I will be able to greet and thank this
man face-to-face in Gaza. When you read his contributions to this
book, you will see even more clearly why this meeting would be such
an honor for me.

Haidar Eid, writing from the occupied Gaza
Strip, July 8, 2008

On Monday, June 30, Gaza was abuzz with the
sudden announcement that Egypt would open Rafah crossing—the only
gateway for 1.5 million Palestinians who have been imprisoned here
for almost two years—for three short days. Although I had good
reasons to use the crossing to leave Gaza, I was unsure about
pressing my luck to escape, if only for a short while. Past
experience has made me painfully aware that thousands of my fellow
Gazans would also try to capitalize on this very rare opportunity
suddenly available to us.

On the one hand, I had also already asked my
university to add my name to the list of academics who intended to
travel to Egypt to further their studies, as I had accepted an
invitation to a conference to be held at University of Brighton in
London in September. Moreover, I wanted to be with my wife, who was
in South Africa and whom I have not seen for almost two years as a
result of the siege. On the other hand, the story of failed
attempts to leave Gaza through Rafah crossing is an agonizingly
familiar one to every family in Gaza.

Nevertheless, the temptation was too great,
and hope triumphed over experience. At 2:00 p.m. on Monday, I
called the university’s public relations officer. I was told in two
short sentences to be at the Rafah crossing at 2:00 a.m. on Tuesday
morning. The reason for this strange departure hour was not
explained, and I did not question it. If one wants to leave Gaza
after two years, one simply follows orders.

My mind went immediately to the myriad of
tasks that must be completed in preparation for a journey. Money,
packing, goodbyes, tickets—how would all this happen in less than
twelve hours? I was not prepared at all, and the banks were closed.
I allowed myself ten minutes to think about the steps I should take
to ensure that I would be at Rafah crossing, which was forty
kilometers from my home at the end of badly damaged and unlit
roads.

I then remembered that the bank manager was
my neighbor. When I called with my unusual request outside of
normal banking hours, he was so helpful that getting the money I
needed turned out to be the easiest step. I then called my niece to
help me pack and prepare for my unexpected journey. Dozens of phone
calls were made, but I did not call my wife because I did not want
to raise her hopes only to have them dashed, as had happened so
many times during this siege of Gaza. I myself did not have high
expectations, but I wanted to try because in Gaza one never knows
for sure.

I made another call to our public relations
officer just to find out what I was supposed to do on arrival at
the crossing. “Wait with the other academics,” was the answer. At
around 11:00 p.m. on Monday night, a colleague called to tell me to
delay my departure until morning. His sources at the crossing had
informed him that our names were not on the list sent to them by
the Egyptians. He suggested I wait for more instructions in the
morning. I did not sleep that night. In the morning, I got a call
from another colleague, who was also leaving Gaza with me because
he had to attend a conference in London. He suggested, on the
advice of the public relations officer and another colleague who
has contacts on the other side of the crossing, that we go to Rafah
and wait for someone to help us enter the crossing because “Our
names are on the list.”

We left Gaza City at about noon and drove
straight to Rafah. Our taxi was stopped by Palestinian policemen at
a mobile checkpoint five kilometers before the crossing. We were
asked to leave the taxi and wait along with other people. I was
encouraged to see only a few people; perhaps the list was being
used, and we would be able to leave after all.

It is almost impossible to go anywhere in
Gaza without bumping into familiar faces, and true to form, I
immediately saw my cousin, whose wife had cancer, waving at me. He
said he had been at this checkpoint since the night before.
Needless to say, this was not good news. My colleague and I then
called our friend who had contacts on the other side. He told us to
wait there because one of the policemen at the checkpoint would be
informed by his senior officer to allow us to walk to the crossing.
That call never came. Our contact himself then called to get our
exact location because he was on his way to fetch us. What relief!
Three hours later, we were still waiting, and the mobile checkpoint
was disbanded. We decided to drive to the crossing itself.