Coming to Gaza

The taxi took around 75 minutes to drive from Jerusalem down to the
Erez checkpoint at the northern end of Gaza.  Two years ago, when
I was trying to enter Gaza to do some consulting for a US-based NGO, I
waited here at the main entrance to the crossing-point for about five
hours before it started to get dark and I decided to hitch a ride back
to Jerusalem with some passing UN bureaucrats.  This time, my
Israeli press pass worked like a charm.  The Israeli army girls
behind the counter had me fill out one form– I believe I was signing
something to the effect that I understood that going to Gaza was very
dangerous but I was going anyway– and then told me to walk on
through.  That was literaly all there was to the border
formalities at this end.

They indicated that I walk “straight through”.  There was a sort
of maze of gates, concrete blocks, watchtowers, little trailers,
concrete blocks and so on outside.  As I approached a one-way
turnstile one of the security people said, “No!  Gate No.
2!”  So I went through gate No. 2 and entered the beginning of a
long, covered and enclosed walkway.  It was  maybe about 25
feet wide.  The “walls” on each side were made from the same
sections of preformed concrete that the “Wall” in the West Bank– and
indeed, the wall that surrounds Gaza– is also built.  That is,
sections of concrete walling about four feet wide and to one side of me
about 8 metres tall, to the other, about 6 metres tall, each section
sitting on its own heavy 20-inch-high solid footing.  Above the
tops of the walls there were light metal structures that gave a few
inches more open height for ventilation and also provided a frrame for
the canvas that formed the “roof” of the tunnel.  Somewhat
bizarrely, these canvases were in different colors– starting out blue,
then moving to pink and green, all of which gave the light inside the
tunnel  some interesting tones. 

I am the only person in this tunnel, which has two sides to it, divided
by a metal fence….

On my side there is just one single broad
walkway.  On the other side, which is for pedestrians seeking to
enter Israel, the walkway has been divided by metal dividers into three
separate “lanes.”  I imagine when it was built there was some idea
that many laborers from Gaza would be traveling to work in Israel every
day, in which case they would be penned up in those lanes  (as I
have seen them penned up, but in more promitive structures, on this
side of the Erez checkpoint on previous occasions.)

After about 150 yards, there is a bend in the tunnel, and beyond it two
sets of metal heavy metal gates.  H’mm, I try to push the first
one open.  It doesn’t give.  I see a call button and push
it.  Nothing happens, then there is a loud groaning and the first
gate in front of me starts to wheeze open on a heavy hydraulic
hinge.  I look up: yes, there are indeed video cameras up there
watching for me to have arrived.  Maybe I didn’t even need to push
the call button?

That gate wheezes shut.  I am penned in between the two sets of
gates.  I look around for another call button, but this time,
before I find it the second gate starts to push automatically open at
the command of well-hidden hands.  After that one, there is
another kink in the tunnel.  But I am immediately assailed by a
young man pushing a very primitive cart who insists on hoisting my
wheelie bag and shoulder bag onto the cart.  We walk on along
additional pastel-tinted expanses of tunnel.  The porter, who is
Palestinian, kicks at some of the trash on the floor.  “See this?”
he says.  “Israelis!  Dirty, dirty!  Wait till you
see the Palestinian side.”

When we do get to the “Palestinian” section of the tunnel there’s
another bend in the walkway, and the construction of the tunnel changes
markedly.  Now, the walls are less tall, and the pastel-colored
canvases have been replaced by corrugated tin roofing.  And yes,
the floor does look as though it has recently been swept, though to be
honest there’s so much dust all around here that the only way to keep a
concrete floor like this really clean would be to give it a good
go-over with water and a squeegee, which evidently has not been done
here.  Seventy yards or so of walking along the “Palestinian”
tunnel brings me to their checkpoint.  I am directed to, I think,
the women’s section: two middle-aged women with broad Gazawi smiles and
hijab scarves sitting in a small room behind a counter.  One of
them registers my passport number.  “Ameriki?” she says. 
“Welcome to Balestine.”  And that’s it.  Here I am in Gaza.

Later, I’m sitting at lunch in a restaurant overlooking the fishing
harbor that serves– you guessed!– absolutely fabulous fish. 
Little yellow boats are bobbing in the harbor.  Some boys are
having fun riding past on one of the donkey-carts that is still a major
means of transportation around the Strip.  My friends the
parliamentarian Ziad Abu Amr and the psychiatrist Iyad Sarraj are
talking about the stress and strain of living in Gaza, and making
various assessments of the national political situation.  I
haven’t seen Iyad for many years.  I haven’t been to Gaza for
nearly four years; haven’t seen Ziad for two years…  I listen
avidly and put in the occasional question.

It is a large restaurant with a pleasing view out over the harbor. And
did I mention the sensational food?  Grilled sea-bass, sweet and
tender calamari rings, spicy prawns, hummus, and a wide variety of
salads and pickles…

On a langorous Friday (weekend) afternoon, the three of us are the only people
lunching there.