Letters from Palestine (39 page)

That was when reality hit us: tens of
thousands of people were waiting there. Children, old people,
women, and worst of all, terminally ill people—all sitting under
the baking hot sun of this semi-desert area. My heart sank! But we
had to try our contact again—how could we not, when the crossing
itself was so tantalizing, mere meters away? And if we passed, what
freedoms awaited us: bookshops, movies, theatre, chocolate,
friends, fuel, food, fruits, and in my case, my long-suffering
partner. Our contact gave us more hope by asking us to move closer
to the electronic gate and ask a policeman named Bassam to let us
in.

The next problem on this long journey was
trying to reach the gate through the masses of people jealously
guarding their spots on the way to the gate. Finally we got to the
gate, which is where we realized that it would not open for us. The
authorities would not open to let a small group of academics
through, list or no list, simply because the waiting crowd would
surge through the gate en masse.

But we waited. The heat became even worse,
children cried, and the sick and the elderly sat desperately on the
ground because they could no longer stand. I decided to join them
because it was clear that the wait would be a long one.

Worse news was to follow: our names were not
on the list, and the crossing was, in fact, closed! We had to wait
outside until somebody allowed us to go inside the Palestinian hall
to spend the night there. I was so tired and felt ill. I was also
desperate for a toilet, as none had been made available to us for
all these hours.

Next to me was an old woman talking on her
cell phone about the pain she was in. Next to her was a family with
seven daughters, all on their way to Jordan. Opposite me was an
ambulance with a cancer patient; they had been waiting there for
twelve hours. The place was so hot and sticky. After three hours, I
felt a sudden sharp pain in my stomach; I stood up to lean against
the wall while yellow circles danced in front of me and a humming
began in my ear. Then everything went blank. I must have
fainted.

When I opened my eyes, people were giving me
water, chocolate, and cheese, asking me to eat and drink. Some
pronounced it a diabetic episode; others were convinced it was low
blood pressure. I was sure it was sunstroke. Whatever it was, I
resolved to go back home right away.

On my return home, I was so relieved to see
my bed, and my flat felt like paradise! That night I wanted to
cry—cry for myself, for my dignity, for the old woman sitting next
to me, for my cousin’s wife, for the patient in the ambulance, and
for the fifty thousand desperate people at the gates of Rafah
crossing.

The horror at the crossing continued after I
left. Many people spent the entire night there, only to be told the
following day that the crossing was still closed and that they
should leave. It took me almost two days to feel physically better,
but every single muscle of my body still hurt. I was angry and sad
and did not have the words to express the depth of my feelings
about this experience.

The situation that the tens of thousands of
Palestinian men, women, and children faced at the Rafah border
crossing this week was inhumane and unconscionable. Nothing can
justify this. Most rushed to Rafah crossing in as short a time as I
did with similar stories of frenzied activity and hope. More than
3,500 of them are terminally ill patients in urgent need of medical
treatment in Egyptian hospitals. Others hold residency permits in
other countries and have been trapped in Gaza for at least a year.
Some are academics and students, traveling abroad to attend
conferences or further their studies.

Instead of giving people a chance to do
these very ordinary things—go to a hospital, study, go to a
conference or work, go back to other homes and other loved ones—the
government’s failure to open the Rafah crossing only increased
their misery. Many of them spent three sleepless nights hoping to
be allowed to cross into Egypt. Like me, many fainted, suffering
from dehydration and sunstroke. The incident reminded people of
their imprisonment and their lack of human rights; it reminded them
that they move at the whim of others and that the siege of the Gaza
Strip has still not been broken.

All the people who were at the Rafah border
are civilians. Under the Geneva Conventions they are entitled to
freedom of movement and protection from collective punishment.

During the Cold War, much was made of
Checkpoint Charlie as the dividing line. We have a new Checkpoint
Charlie today, and it is called the Rafah crossing.

_PHOTO

My name is Hanan Hamouda Hamad. I am a
twenty-two-year-old Palestinian girl. I live with my father and
brothers in a small refugee camp in the middle of the Gaza Strip
called Nuseirat. I have just finished school as I was studying at
Al-Aqsa University in Gaza City, majoring in English language
methodology. If God wishes, I will be working as an English
language teacher because spending time with children and students
is one of my favorite things ever. However, for myself, the best
thing in the world is literature. I love reading, and my ultimate
dream in life is to be a feminist and revolutionary writer. My
favorite writer is the Palestinian Ghassan Kanafani, and my best
poet is the Palestinian Mahmoud Darwish. My life is a very simple
one but I love it.

* * *

In the course of my correspondence with
Professor Haidar Eid, I asked him if he had any Palestinian friends
who might be interested to correspond with me. He suggested I write
to one of his devoted students, Hanan Hammad, which I soon did. She
responded warmly, and over time a deep and mutually caring
relationship developed between us, which exists to this day.

I first heard from Hanan after Gaza was
under siege, during which time Israel was already restricting the
flow of vital goods into Gaza and keeping people from leaving, thus
rendering the population virtual prisoners who were also being
deprived, almost to the point of starvation sometimes, of the
essentials of life. And after that, of course, they were bombed
during the Israeli invasion beginning on December 27, 2008. By the
time it was over, nearly seven thousand Gazans had either been
killed or wounded, and Gaza itself had been largely reduced to
smoke, burning phosphorous, and rubble.

A passage from the Book of Lamentations
pretty well sums up what Gazans felt when emerging from the hell
they had all lived through during more than three weeks:

How does the city sit solitary, that was
full of people! How is she become as a widow! . . .

She weeps sore into the night, and her tears
are on her cheeks:

among all who loved her she has none to
comfort her.

In these excerpts from some of Hanan’s
letters to me, she describes what life was like for her and her
family during these times of terrible hardship, which then turned
into the horror of living, not just under the stifling occupation,
but under the incessant bombing and shelling of Gaza during the
war—as the city where Hanan lived became widowed and bereft of any
comfort.

I begin with her very first note to me,
written on June 1, 2008:

Dear Professor Ring,

I’m really honored to correspond with you in
an attempt to help in giving an honest view about the situation
here in Gaza.

I do not know what Professor Haidar may have
told you about me, but there is not much to say. I’m a student in
the English department of Al-Aqsa University, hopefully [I] am
gonna graduate next term. I live in a refugee camp in the middle of
the Gaza Strip, am interested in literature, and I do care about
Palestine. I would like to inform you that I might not be available
much because of electricity issues, but I will try my best.

After I responded and told her a little bit
about myself, when she replied about a week later, I was already
being addressed as “Ken.”

Dear Ken,

Hope you are fine, am really glad to receive
your email, and I would like to thank you in the name of
Palestinians all over the world. We really appreciate your concern
and your support to our cause. Palestinians have been suffering for
a long time, and the situation here in Gaza is getting worst and
worst; however, people like you and your girlfriend, who believe in
and support us, are the ones who give us hope and faith. Hope for
the future and faith in our cause. Please thank your girlfriend for
me and my people . . .

Thank you again for everything. One more
thing, Salaam is an Arabic word that means peace, and the word I
love for greeting people. Hope its OK . . .

My best wishes to you and your
girlfriend,

Hanan

Hanan’s next letter—her first real letter, as
opposed to a note—was written in mid-June, not long after Hamas and
Israel agreed to a six-month cease-fire. But even then, there was
talk of invasion, which Hanan was praying would not happen.
However, in this letter, she gives her first really personal
account of how she was experiencing the siege and also of the
nature of her opposition to it. It seems that this opening up of
our correspondence occurred because, among other things, I had just
indicated, with some anxiety about her reaction, that I was
Jewish.

Dear Ken,

Hope you are fine, am really glad to hear
back from you, and I apologize for being late in replying,
electricity was the worst the previous days. Anyway, I have
finished my exams, so I will be free to write to you.

Actually, knowing that you are Jewish makes
me respect and even admire you more and more. People like you are
people of thought and principles, so peace, shalom, salaam. It
doesn’t really matter as long as we accept and respect each
other.

Indeed, news reports have talked about an
invasion of Gaza. Pray with me it won’t take place ever because, in
case it does, the consequences will be disastrous; however, this
invasion may not take place, especially [now] that Hamas and Israel
have reached a cease-fire deal, sponsored by Egypt, starting
Thursday at 6:00 a.m.

This kind of deal is supposed to create an
opportunity to break the siege, which is the most important step to
be achieved, especially in regard to the humanitarian situation.
Here in Gaza, it’s the worst ever. Actually, when I got your last
email in which you believe that “one day surely the siege will be
lifted,” when reading these words, I was thinking that you are an
optimistic man. Let me tell you why. I reached a point in which I
go to bed each single night thinking, “Come on, Hanan, tomorrow is
another day. It is not going to be worst; it can’t be worst.” I
fall sleep dreaming of tomorrow, and wake up the next day to find
out that, yes indeed, it is another day, yes indeed, its not worst:
it is the “worstest.”

Well, linguists should consider adding this
word to the English dictionary. You think am exaggerating? Believe
me, I am not. You will see for yourself when you visit us here in
Gaza, and, of course, you are welcome any time.

Here in Palestine we are not fighting the
Jewish or the Israeli occupation. What we really fight is racism in
the shape of Zionism. I repeat these words all the time: “We are
resisting Zionist racism and racist Zionism, the two sides of the
same coin.” I’m sure that the book you mentioned [Joel Kovel’s]
Overcoming Zionism sheds light upon this specific point, and of
course, the only solution for the Palestinian/Israeli conflict is
the one democratic state solution which is the only one that
guarantees peace, justice, equality, and the most important,
freedom for both peoples. We will continue resisting, and I am sure
that these principles will eventually win, but the question
remains: How? Is it going to be by war or by thought?

Anyway, one more thing, thank you very much,
we really appreciate your concern about us.

My best wishes to you.

Hanan

After a few more brief exchanges, Hanan’s
next real letter reached me at the end of June. During that time, I
was working to try to bring attention to the disgraceful treatment
of a Gazan journalist Mohammed Omer, who had been savagely beaten
up by members of the Israeli Shin Bet upon his return from England.
(His personal account was presented earlier in this book.) This
prompted a long response from Hanan about how the media covers
Palestinians, after which she went on to answer some questions I
had asked her concerning her present situation and daily life.

My dear Ken,

I am really glad to hear back from you so
soon. I know the story of Mohammed Omer, the brave journalist, and
have followed it in the news. What he was exposed to is truly
brutal. We deeply appreciate your concern and your honest
intentions and deeds towards his and our cause.

To tell you the truth, one of our most
controversial problems has a big thing to do with media, the very
biased and pro-Israeli media in which we are portrayed as the
victimizers and they are the victims, which is totally not true.
This kind of propaganda twists the facts, and, unfortunately, our
media is not as strong as theirs. And even when we try to give the
real facts, we are faced [with] such brutal treatment, the same
which Mohammed was faced with. But I thank God because there are
still some people who believe in our just cause.

My dear Ken, I do not mind at all your
asking, and please feel free to ask whatever you want, and I will
be more than glad to answer all of your questions. Concerning the
one you addressed (whether I work), actually I don’t, although I
have tried hard to get a temporary job for summer, but I couldn’t.
Here in Gaza, there aren’t many opportunities for work, and I’m
sure you know about the increasing number of unemployed young men
and women, especially under the siege. My two older brothers are
both unemployed. The first, Bahaa, who graduated four years ago
from Iraq as a fuel and energy engineer, the second, Adel,
graduated two years ago in Algeria, specializing in psychology.