4th January 2009: Interview with Alberto Arce, International Solidarity Movement in Gaza
Author: ISM Media Group
Interview with ISM volunteer Fida Qishta in Rafah
Rafah, Gaza:Interview with Fida Qishta – ISM co-ordinator in the Gaza Strip
Jabalia 6pm Saturday to midday Sunday
By Sharon in Gaza
To view Sharon’s blog please click here
5.30pm: at Ramattan media office. Shelling has noticeably increased in the city in the last hours. Rumours increase that the Israeli Occupation Force will begin the land incursion tonight. We hear that a mosque in Beit Lahia has been attacked during the prayer time just past, resulting in 50 injured and maybe 10 dead. We decide to head immediately to Jabalia’s Red Crescent Ambulance Operations Centre, which is a walk from F’s house which the family has left.
6pm: When we arrive, there is an air of chaos and anxiety, as the ambulance workers have just finished dealing with the mosque injuries which included children. Explosions are constant and nearby. We understand that these are now coming from tanks shelling the area from the other side of the border, a new development.
7pm: Some semblance of calm has returned to the Centre but not the surroundings. A magnesium rocket (we understand this is designed to set things on fire) lands in the field beside the Centre. The explosions continue through the whole night without pause, rocking the building. We can see many people leaving the area on foot. We hear a water tank is destroyed.
7.30: Ambulances called out. We are unable to pass a huge crater in the road into which a car has already nosedived. Taking the long way round, we collect a man in traditional dress, in his 60s, from what seems to be his family farm. He is bleeding from the face and very frightened. On the way to Karmel Adwan hospital a particularly close explosion rocks the van. I mustn’t have jumped enough, beacuse the driver mimes “did you hear that?” to me. I am beginning to realise Palestinians are fond of rhetorical questions, such as “how do you find Gaza at the moment?”
8pm: We collect a man in his 30s from a family house in a main street. He is continually bleeding from the face near his eye and also has wounds to his hand and upper and lower legs. He has made makeshift bandages for himself. We take him to Al Awda hospital. On the way back we pick up a woman and her daughter who are in danger having gone to collect water.
8.20: Bread and tea at the Centre. Ambulances called out.
8.40: Medic worries “we are taking too long; ten minutes.” However at our dangerous and darkened destination no-one arrives in response to the ambulance loudspeaker, the electricity lines are down, and smoke fills the air. The ambulances retreat, describing it as a no-go area. Immediately beside it, a peasant family of about 10 emerge from the smoke, looking bewildered. Some of the children are crying, everyone is holding tight to each other’s hands. One woman is pregnant. The medics shout at them to leave the area, then decide to evacuate them in the ambulances. We drop them in the nearest town, to go god knows where.
8.55: we hear the Israeli army has crossed the border – in Rafah, in Gaza centre near Bureij camp, and here in Jabalia. We hear Israel has told the Red Cross (the communication medium) that people must evacuate to a distance of 1km in this area. I glimpse a teapot and tea but we are called out again.
9.10: We collect a young woman and an older. I am not sure what the issue is, although the younger woman appears pregnant. We deliver them to Al Awda hospital where we are given tea. H, one of the medics, tells me about his 3 children and his wife, who is very worried about him.
9.30: Back to the Centre for short period of quiet (except for the noise.) Our driver has decided he likes me because my beret reminds him of Che Guevara. He is driving with his arm in plaster.
10pm: Ambulances called out. A family of about 12 was round the fire outside their house, having no other way to cook or get warm. They were hit by a rocket and all are injured. Many ambulances converge at Karmel Adwan to transfer them to Al Shifa in Gaza city which has more resources. The wounded are pushed into one after the other. We have a young man, perhaps a teenager, whose breathing is being done for him by a medic with a handheld pump. I can’t help but wonder if one of the 29 ventilators is free right now. But our driver says afterwards that he probably won’t survive the night.
10.55: We leave Al Shifa to head back to the Jabalia Centre. There is coffee. Mo makes a coffee sandwich, which is just weird. There is a pause in the calls. Hassan asks me about my book, “Nature Cure”; I explain it is about an ecologist’s route out of depression. “People get depressed in the West?” he asks in surprise. Understanding how implausible that must sound right now, I say that many people get caught up in a life that mainly holds work and buying stuff, and without some sort of meaning – religion, or the dream of your land being free, or something like that, people can get very lost.
“Actually Israel is trying to force us into a meaningless life like this,” he says. “Like, sometimes I feel that all that really matters to me right now is a kilo of gas. I built a stove for my family and I feel like I did something amazing.” The discussion becomes animated as all the medics join in, but it’s in Arabic. We have a quiet stretch – again, despite the noise.
1am: This is a call to a woman in labour. V has a similar call. What a night to give birth. The stress is bringing on labour early for many women. Hassan says he should have documents for her to hand in at Al Awda, but they’ve not been allowed through from the West Bank for some time.
At this point I lose track of the time for a while and also get a couple of hours sleep. When I wake I find that A has come back from a grim call. The ambulances were called to the Beit Lahia Salatin area, outside the Mu’a’ia School to assist the Atar family. However the IOF forced them to turn back by dropping a bomb in front of the ambulances and shooting in front of them, so they were not able to access the wounded.
However, as they turned back, a donkey cart pulled in front of A’s ambulance. On it were an older man and woman, probably the parents of the three teenage boys on the cart. One of the teenagers was attempting to shield the other two with a blanket. One of these two had a serious head wound and his eye was detached. The other had an open chest wound, and his arm was partially detached. Despite this he was conscious and shouting. A could see his lungs, one appeared punctured, and the clearly disturbed mother was patting his wounds. Back at the Jabalia Centre, A quietly described how he had assisted the medics to lift this boy off the donkey cart, and in doing so, found his hand inside the boy’s body.
6am: My ambulance goes to three women, waiting in the dark street. They are young and quietly weeping. One carries a boy of about 4 years old wrapped in a blanket. His head flops back and his eyes are half open. I find myself hoping maybe he has just fainted from fright. Eventually I understand, perhaps from the weight of grief on their faces, that he is dead. We deliver them to the hospital.
6.30: several of the ambulances leave again to try again to reach the Atar family. Mine only gets a short way before rubble bursts the tire. This appears to happen nightly. While the medics try to fix it, we see a rocket strike very close to the Ambulance Centre. By the time we get back from getting spare tires, we have been told not to return to the Centre as the shooting is now right near it.
8.15: We return to evacuate the Centre as the army is now very close. People on the streets are running away. We move our base to someone’s shop in a Jabalia main street. No more tea kettle or generator.
9.30: 3 ambulances attempt to reach wounded. We wait to have access co-ordinated with Israel by the Red Cross. Israel refuses.
9.45: Israel broadcasts the message all over the Gaza strip: “for your own safety, leave your homes immediately and head towards the city centre.” Mamy people have been on the streets this past night, carrying children and bundles, and now the number increases. But there are also many people simply waiting at home, without any belief in a safe place. A rocket hits near us while the ambulances are all off. The injured man is pushed into a car, which rushes off.
10.50: We collect an old women from a farming area. She is very distressed and has a bullet wound to her upper shoulder. The medic inserts a cannula into her arm despite the bumpy road.
11.30: We go straight from the hospital to another call. As with many of our calls, locals line the way, pointing the ambulance to the correct turn. A house has just been bombed. Neighbours are frantically dragging out the wounded and the medics cram four people into our ambulance, which is meant for one.
The stretcher place is taken by the dead body, covered in dust, of a man in his 30s. His abdomen is ruptured and damaged organs visible. His legs look as if they no longer contain bones and are twisted implausibly. One foot detaches as he is put in the ambulance. Another man, maybe older, looks to have internal injuries and might also have had injured legs, but the chaos is such that I can’t clearly identify his injuries, neither can I with the man in his sixties, who is shoved into the remaining space. He is in shock, sweat covering his grey face. I helplessly stroke his cheek, wondering if he is about to stop breathing. Halfway through the journey, his eyes focus slightly. I hope not enough to realise he is crushed against a corpse. The injured boy of about 3 is held in the front seat by his father.
At Karmel Adwan hospital, a wail of grief goes up from all waiting there at this scene of disaster. They haul out the living, and we are left with the dead man. We move the ambulance away from the delivery area. Our medic strokes the man’s face. “Actually, he was my friend.” he tells me. “His name was Bilal Rabell.”
We are told that since last night 47 people are dead, 12 of them children, and more than 130 injured. These numbers are increasing as more people are found and as more die from their injuries.
Journal: Late post for Sat night
By Sharon in Gaza
To view Sharon’s blog please click here
Last night E rode with the Palestinian Red Crescent in Jabalia, where attacks have continued to be very heavy, and was witness to the collection of three martyred folks – one was 24 year old caretaker of the American school, whose body was in a terrible state as a result of the school being bombed during the night.
Our Jabalia friends, F’s family, had further near misses during the night and were very distressed, so E went to see them this morning. She found that Israel had dropped leaflets in the area announcing that everyone must leave their houses because they will be destroyed. So F’s family have today left behind what must now seem like the comparative safety of their basement. But E met the neighbours, who have ten children, and are not leaving – because they simply have nowhere to go. And also, Sara’s husband from F’s family is not leaving the neighbourhood, though he won’t stay in the empty house. I guess he’s just had enough, and perhaps only wants to join his wife in paradise.
Our local colleague Mo told us of a teenager from his youth group who died yesterday. 16-year-old Christian girl, Christine Wade’a al Turk, died of a heart attack brought on by a severe asthma attack, resulting from the stress of the ongoing strikes.
Bombing across the road from me at the port this morning destroyed further boats, filling the sky with thick black smoke. One wonders what the point is. V and I will be with Jabalia’s Red Crescent Service tonight.
THANK YOU for today’s rallies! I’ve made a new section on on the blog called Gaza Solidarity Worldwide, please post any reports there you’d like to share.
Shortly after I got this far with this draft, we had to go to Ramattan for a press conference stating that though 400 internationals left yesterday, many of us are remaining to stand beside our Palestinian friends. And to state our belief that Israel wants no outside witnesses to its next actions, and perhaps no possibility of being called to account for the deaths of any inconvenient Westerners. At about 5pm the rumour reached us that the army’s ground incursion was about to begin, and we dropped everything else to run to the Red Crescent in Jabalia…
What the medics see, do, and are subjected to; uncensored
By Eva Bartlett in Gaza
To view Eva’s blog please click here
On 31st December, around 2 am, two emergency medical services personnel were targeted by an Israeli missile as they attempted to reach injured in the Jabaliya region, northern Gaza. The first died immediately, the second soon after of complications from his internal injuries.
Two days later, 2 more medics were injured in the area east of Gaza, again in the line of duty, again trying to reach the injured.
Under the Geneva Conventions, Israel is obliged to allow and ensure safe passage to medical personnel to the injured. Instead, Israel routinely targets them.
At the Jabaliya Palestinian Red Crescent Society (PRCS) station, the team there tells me of their injuries. Half, they say, of emergency medics and drivers in Gaza have been injured by Israel while trying to perform the duties.
One shows me a scar from a gunshot wound to his arm. Another tells of being twice injured: once, shot in the stomach, another time, also shot in the arm. The bullet holes in their ambulances speak for themselves.
Internationals from the ISM (International Solidarity Movement) and the Free Gaza Movement have decided to join the EMT personnel in their work around Gaza.
I start in Jabaliya, in northern Gaza at the eastern border, where I meet an amiable team of professionals. After delivering a pregnant woman to hospital, our first serious call is to retrieve the bodies of two killed resistance fighters, hit by shells. The sight of the one in our ambulance is ugly, his face has exploded. The knowledge of his life and death is uglier: he was born into a life of occupation, and he has chosen to resist, as one would when being invaded. The ugliest aspect lies in the knowledge that he was undoubtedly a father, a husband, a man who probably has a mixture of photos on his phone: beautiful women, cute children, cats, a fighter with a gun, pictures of his family, random lovely scenes of nature, and the slapstick video clips that seem to be common among those with high tech-cell phones. He was a regular guy, of this I’m sure, thrust into an unbearable, deadly role. His silver lining is that at least he doesn’t have to live in hell on earth any longer.
The next call, at just after 4 am, is to retrieve one injured, one dead, at the American high school in Beit Lahia, the northwest of the Strip. We have to navigate roads that are more than pot-holed, destroyed by time, lack of construction materials (the siege), and more recently, the F-16 missiles. Finding only the one injured man, we take him to hospital, returning after daybreak to find the corpse.
After sunrise, we return to the northwest, passing a dead cow on the side of the road. En route, near the bombed high school, the van gets a flat. We walk in from there, moving quickly as drones and F-16s still circle, second and third strikes are all too common. In the light, I see what had been a large structure, a quality high school a friend had studied at. What’s left of the body has been found and brought out to the nearest clearing, the playground. [Later in the morning, I re-visit the site with a film crew, tell the story. I notice the sea beyond, hadn’t seen it in the dim morning light. Notice the twisted wreckage of the playground, and the pieces of shrapnel littering the ground. As we film, 2 missiles blast in the vicinity. It’s hard not to feel like prey in this open area, clearly visible]. I don’t immediately see the corpse unwrapped, but I suspect that he is not all there. The dead, a 24 year old night watchman, had no warning of the at least 2 missiles which leveled the school and tore him apart.
The medics work to load the corpse, first having to replace the flat tire. Working frantically, still fearful of potential strikes, they crowd the ambulance, hoist the van, replace the flat. A missile hits 50 metres away. Surely, undoubtedly, those warplanes above us know –from the markings of the ambulance, the clothes of the medics, the crystal clear photos their drones can take –that we are civilians and medics below. Yet they fire.
They change the tire, load the body, and we’re off, screeching as much as the tired ambulance and pathetic roads will allow. It’s straight around the back of the hospital, to the mortuary, where men mourning the latest dead before ours are ushered out, ordered to make room for this new body. In the cold room, the body is transferred to the fridge shelf, but while that happens the blanket comes undone. The patch of burned skin, in no way human, reveals itself to be a half-body, the head hanging loosely by what neck remains.
I see it, as I saw the dead man in the ambulance. And I write it, because everyone must see it, hear of it. The children of Gaza must see these images, or are these images, so we have no right to censorship from such gruesome deaths.
But I cry, too, at the disfigurement of the young corpse, and the knowledge that he is one of so many (over 470 now) killed in the last week.
The medics have seen ghastly things and urge me to keep it in, keep working. They must, and so I do.
We return to the centre, I leave them intending to return a day later, to spend my day reporting and writing. In the end I return to the ambulance station a half day later, as Israel ramps up its bloodletting.