“Eight nos, but nothing new.” This is the reaction I hear over and over again from Palestinian refugees here in Lebanon’s Wavel Refugee Camp, where four generations wait to return to the homeland from which they were brutally evicted over 60 years ago, in response to Israeli prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s so-called landmark policy speech.
This is from those who even bothered to listen.
The US and Europe saw his speech as a move towards recognising two states (while dismissing the right of return, a divided Jerusalem and an end to settlements, and the list goes on) and thus some sort of advance towards peace; others suggested it was a step backward.
Both analyses are flawed. One confuses a call for a Palestinian ghetto as a call for a sovereign, viable Palestinian state. The other is based on the assumption that progress was made over the past (few) decades vis a vis Palestinian statehood.
The speech was full of rosy conjectures. The word “peace” was repeated 45 times.
Tellingly, the word occupation was not mentioned once. Neither, for that matter, was international law. Or freedom – except in the context of facilitating some freedom of movement only after Palestinians give up their rights to move freely.
“Peace has always been our people’s most ardent desire,” he explained, citing three “immense” challenges that stood in the way (the Iranian threat, the economic crisis and the advancement of peace).
In fact, it is an illegal, draconian and malicious occupation that has stifled peace and continues to pose the biggest threat to Israel’s security.
In his speech, Netanyahu called for negotiations without preconditions while simultaneously imposing the conditions that would make a just and viable peace impossible: an undivided Jerusalem, no right of return, no sovereignty, continued settlement expansion.
The demands to recognise Israel as a Jewish state annuls the right of Palestinian refugees to return to their homes from which they were systemically and violently expelled in 1948 in what is now Israel – a right enshrined in international law and at the heart of the Palestinian struggle.
Such a state would promote, subsidise and allow Jewish-only immigration and rights as it does now while denying native inhabitants this same right.
Nations are quick to dismiss the Palestinian right of return, but equally quick to facilitate the return of Darfur, Kosovan, or East Timor refugees in recent years.
This demand also consolidates Israel’s discriminatory policies, and would dismiss in one fell swoop the rights of the Palestinian minority in Israel, who make up 20% of the population. It is effectively saying: we have the right to discriminate against you, to take any measures we deem necessary in order to sustain the Jewish majority. Such measures have already been suggested in the Knesset, like a loyalty oath, even population transfer.
Then there is talk of the illegal settlements. New settlements aren’t the issue. Who needs new settlements if Israeli loophole policies in recent years have provided ample room for expansion?
Currently the illegal annexation barrier, together with settlement-related infrastructure (including settler-only roads, army bases, closed military zones and more than 600 checkpoints) consume 38% of the West Bank, annexing land and livelihoods, dividing villages, towns, and families from one another and tearing apart the very fabric of Palestinian social and economic life.
So, we have not moved forward. But we are certainly a step backwards from the heyday of Oslo, some might say. The fact is, during the Oslo years from 1993 to 2000, four under Netanyahu’s reign, the Israeli settler population expanded by 71%.
Such policies are already being implemented in Jerusalem, where land theft and demolitions continue daily, and where Palestinian Christian and Muslim residents are subject to draconian laws that would strip them of their residency rights there if they fail to renew their ID cards regularly.
Netanyahu’s vision of a Palestinian states is bereft of the very factors that make a state sovereign: effective control over land, sky, and sea, among other things. But this should come as no surprise. Israel’s longstanding policy has been one of repackaging the occupation and postponing viable Palestinian statehood indefinitely by rendering it impossible.
It is a goal summed up by the late Israeli sociologist, Baruch Kimmerling, as politicide: a gradual but systematic attempt to cause their annihilation as an independent political and social entity. In tune with this policy, nowhere in Oslo is there mention of a Palestinian state, only limited self-rule. Netanyahu’s own Likud party’s charter flatly rejects the establishment of a Palestinian state.
Neither is Hamas the issue, with whom Netanyahu foreswore talks. It has not even elected prior to 2006. It did not even exist before 1987. But it enjoys broad support among Palestinians; it was rightfully elected in free and fair elections encouraged and unhindered by the US and Israel respectively; and it is deeply entrenched within society; it is a reality with which Israel must come to grips.
And long before Hamas, Israel was similarly destroying civilian infrastructure, assassinating Palestinians, closing borders, de-developing the economy and sowing lawlessness and chaos in Gaza; all punishment for not being “co-operative” enough; “moderate” enough; tame enough.
All of this, of course, is leaving aside the 1.5 million human beings consigned to a life of living death by Israel and its allies – and by allies I also mean the Arab world. Closed in on all sides, deliberately deprived of the most basics rights of life.
Even after the so-called disengagement from Gaza, the landmark event that supposedly reigned freedom unto Gaza and its people, Israel continued to maintain effective control over Gaza’s borders, her air, sea, sky, even the population registry; and continued to impose a longstanding siege. This despite warnings from experts about the dire consequences that would ensue by not guaranteeing movement and access to people and goods. Gaza faced poverty and unemployment unprecedented in 40 years since Israel’s occupation as a result.
But by Netanyahu’s estimates, this is peace. Gaza is the model – the vision – for what a so-called Palestinian state would look like. In his article for Comment is free, Progress in the Peace Process, Jeremy Sharon said that if the Palestinian national movement is to make any progress, its “maximalist demands may have to be walked back”.
The trouble is, Sharon’s maximalist demands are another’s minimalism: Palestinians have already conceded 78% of their historic homeland in favour of the two-state land for peace deal (I am a proponent of a one-state solution, with equal rights for all, as are increasingly many others).
Netanyahu talked idyllically of a peace in which a tourism-driven economy would draw millions to Nazareth and Bethlehem. He forgot to mention the caveat that tourists would first have to face an apartheid barrier twice the size of the Berlin wall, navigate a Kafkaesque matrix of Israeli administrative control and, if they carry the wrong colour ID, scale sewers if they desire to visit a family member across the way in East Jerusalem.
“Its not very comfortable in there is it?” said the stony faced official, cigarette smoke forming a haze around his gleaming oval head.
“Its OK. We’re fine” I replied wearily, delirious after being awake for a straight period of 30 hours.
“You could be in there for days you know. For weeks. Indefinitely. “So, tell me, you are taking a plane tomorrow morning to the US?”
—–
It was our journey home that began with the standard packing frenzy: squeezing everything precious and dear and useful into two suitcases that would be our sustenance for the course of 3 months.
The trips to the outdoor recreation store- in preparation for what I anticipated to be a long and tortuous journey across Rafah Crossing to Gaza. The inspect repellent; the mosquito netting; the water purifier; the potty toppers for my kids and the dried fruit and granola bars and portion sized peanut butter cups. This time, I wanted to be ready, I thought to myself-just in case I got stuck at the Crossing. The Crossing. My presumptuousness is like a dull hit to the back of my head now.
In addition to all the packing of suitcases, we were also packing up our house- my husband was finishing up his residency at duke University and set to start a medical fellowship at Johns Hopkins in July. In the meantime, we were “closing shop”, putting our things in storage, selling the rest, and heading overseas: me to Gaza, he to Lebanon to visit his family.
Eventually I was too meet him there (assuming i could get into Gaza, and the, assuming I could get out). Yassine is a third-generation Palestinian refugee from the village of Waarit al-Siris in northern historic Palestine; he was born in a refugee camp in Lebanon and holds a Laizze Passe for Palestinian refugees. Israel denies him return to his own home- or even to the home of his spouse in Gaza. So when we go overseas, we often go our separate ways; we cannot live legally, as a unit, as a family, in our own homes.
I hold a Palestinian Authority passport. It replaced the “temporary two-year Jordanian passport for Gaza residents” that we held until the Oslo Accords and the creation of the Palestinian Authority in the mid ’90s, which itself replaced the Egyptian travel documents we held before that. A progression in a long line of stateless documentation.
It is a passport that allows no passage. A passport that denied me entry to my own home. This is its purpose: to mark me, brand me, so that I am easily identified and cast aside without questions; it is convenient for those giving the orders. It is a system for the collective identification of those with no identity.
—–
We finished packing as much as we could of the house, leaving the rest to Yassine who was to leave a week after us, and drove 4 hours to Washington to spend a few day sat my brother’s house before we took off.
First, we headed to the the Egyptian embassy.
Last year, my parents were visiting us from Gaza City when Rafah was sealed hermetically. They attempted to fly back to Egypt to wait for the border to open- but were now allowed to board the plane in Washington. “Palestinians cannot fly to Egypt now without a visa, new rules” the airline personnel explained, “and no visas can be issued until Rafah is open” added the Egyptian embassy official.
They were in a conundrum, aggravated by the fact that their US stay entry stamp had reach passed its six-month limit. Eventually, they got around the issue by obtaining an Egyptian tourist visa, made easier by their old age, which they used to wait in Egypt for one month until Rafah Crossing opened again.
I did not want to repeat their ordeal, so I called the embassy this time, which assured me the protocol had changed: now, it was only Palestinian men who were not allowed to fly to or enter Egypt. Women were, and would get their visa at the Egyptian port of destination. I was given a signed and dated letter (April 6, 2009) by the consul to take with me in case I encountered any problems:
“The Consular Section of the Embassy of the Arab Republic of Egypt hereby confirms that women, who are residents of the Gaza Strip, and who hold passports issued by the Palestinian Authority are required to get their visa to enter Egypt at Egyptian ports and NOT at the various Egyptian consulates in the United States on their way to the Gaza Strip for the purpose of reaching their destination (i.e. Gaza Strip)” it read.
With letter and bags in hand, we took off, worried only about the possibility of entering Gaza- the thought of being able to enter Egypt never crossing my mind.
2 long-haul flights and one 7 hour transit later, we made it. I knew the routine by heart. Upon our arrival, I was quick to hit the bank to buy the $15 visa stamps for Yousuf and Noor’s American passports and exchange some dollars into Egyptian pounds. I figured it would help pass the time while the lines got shorter.
I then went and filled out my entry cards-an officer came and filled them out with me seeing my hands were full, a daypack on my back, Noor strapped to my chest in a carrier, Yousuf in my hand…
we then submitted our passports, things seemed to be going smoothly. Just then the officer explained he needed to run something by his superior. “You have a Palestinian passport; Rafah crossing is closed…”
“I promise it will just be 5 minutes” he assured me. But that’s all i needed to hear. I knew I was in for a long wait. It was at this point I yanked out my laptop and began to tweet and blog about my experience (full progression of tweets here courtesy Hootsbuddy). At first I thought it would simply help pass the time; it developed into a way to pool resources together that could help me; and ended as a public awareness campaign.
—–
The faces were different each time. 3 or four different rooms and hallways to navigate down. They refused to give names and the answers they gave were always in the form of cryptic questions.
The first explained I would not be allowed entry into Egypt because Palestinians without permanent residency abroad are not allowed in; and besides- Rafah Crossing is closed he said (my response: so open it?). I was told I was to be deported to the UK first. “But I had no British visa” I explained. I was ordered to agree to get on the next flight. I refused-I didn’t come all this way to turn back.
I was escorted to the “extended transit terminal”. It was empty at first, save for a south Asian man in tightly buckled jeans and a small duffel bag that spent the good part of our time there there in a deep sleep. During the day the hall would fill up with locally deported passengers- from villages of cities across Egypt, and we would move our things to the upper waiting area.
Most of the time was spent in this waiting area with low level guards who knew nothing and could do nothing.
At different intervals a frustrated Yousuf, fully caped in his black Spiderman outfit and mask, would approach them angrily about “why they wouldn’t let him go see his seedo and tete?” and why “they put cockroaches on the floor”. When we first arrived, he asked if these were the “yahood”, his only experiences with extended closure, delay, and denial of entry being at the hands of the israeli soldiers and government. “No, but why don’t you ask them why they are are allowed through to sunbathe and we aren’t to our own homes?”
“Rabina kbeer” came the response. They were impotent. God is great.
There was very little time I was given access to anyone who had any authority. I seemed to be called in whenever the new person on duty arrived, when they were scheduled for their thrice daily interrogation and intimidation, their shooting and crying.
Officers came and went as shifts began and ended. But our status was always the same. Our “problem”, our case, our issue was always the same. We remained, sitting on our chairs, with our papers and documents in hand, waiting, and no one the better.
Always waiting. For this is what the Palestinian does: we wait. For an answer to be given, for a question to be asked; for a marriage proposal to be made, for a divorce to be finalized; for a border to open, for a permit to be issued; for a war to end; for a war to begin; for a child to be born; for one to die a martyr; for retirement or a new job; for exile to a better place and for return to the only place that knows us; for our prisoners to come home; for our home to no longer be prisons; for our children to be free; for freedom from a time when we no longer have to wait.
We waited for the next shift as we were instructed by those who made their own instructions. Funny how when you need to pass the time, the time does not pass.
“You need to speak with whose in charge-and their shift starts at 10 am”. So we pass the night and wait until 10. “Well by the time they really get started its more like noon”. So we wait till noon. “Well the real work isn’t until the evening”. And we wait until evening. Then the cycle starts again.
Every now and then the numberless phone would ring requesting me, and a somber voice would ask if I changed my mind. I insisted all I wanted to do was go home; that it was not that complicated.
“But Gaza is a special case, we all know that” I was told.
Special, as in expendable, not human, not entitled to rights special, I thought.
Unfamiliar faces that acted as though though I was a long-lost friend kept popping in and out to see me. As though I were an amnesiac in a penitentiary. They all kept asking the same cryptic question “so you are getting on a plane soon, right?”
First, a gentleman from the Palestinian representative’s office that someone else whose name I was meant to recognize sent. ” It’ll all be resolved within the hour” he promised confidently, before going on to tell me about his son who worked with Motorola in Florida;
“Helping Israeli drones do their job?”
“That’s right!” he beamed.
An hour came and went, and suddenly the issue was “irresolvable”, and I was “a journalist up to trouble”.
—–
Friends and family in Egypt, the US, and Gaza, worked around the clock with me, calling in any favors they had, anyone they knew, doing anything they could to get some answers and let me through. But the answer was always the same: Amn il Dawla (State Security and Intelligence) says no, and they are the ultimate authorities. No one goes past them.
Later a second Palestinian representative came to see me.
“So you are not going on that second flight are you?”
“What are you talking about? Why does everyone speak to me in question form?”
“Answer the question”
“No, I came here to go to Gaza, not to return to the US”
“Ok that’s all I needed to know; there is a convoy of injured Palestinian with security clearance heading to the border with some space; we are trying to get you on there with them; 15 minutes and it’ll all be resolved, we just need clearance, its all over” he assured me.
Yousuf smashed another cockroach.
—–
We were taken down a new hallway. A new room. A new face. The man behind the desk explained how he was losing sleep over my case, how I had the while airport working on it, ho he had a son Yousuf’s age; and then offered me an apple and a bottle of water and told me istaraya7i, to rest, a command I would hear again and again over the course of the 36 hours.
Is this man for real??? an apple and a bottle of water? I thought to myself, my eyes nearly popping out of my face.
“I don’t want your food. I don’t want to rest. I don’t want your sympathy. I JUST WANT TO GO HOME. To my country. To my parents. IS THAT TOO HARD TO UNDERSTAND?” I screamed, breaking my level-headed calm of the past 20 hours.
“Please don’t yell, just calm down, calm down, everyone outside will think I am treating you badly, c’mon, and besides its ‘ayb (disgraceful) not to accept the apple from me”.
“‘Ayb?? What’s ‘AYB is you denying my entry to my own home! And why should I be calm? This situation doesn’t call for calm; it makes no sense and neither should I!”
A distraught Noor furrowed her brows and then comforted me the only way she knew how: by patting me on the back with her little hands and giving me a hug. Yousuf began to cry.
“C’mon lady don’t have a breakdown in front of your kids please. You know I have a kid your son’s age and its breaking my heart to do this, to see him in these conditions, to put him in the conditions, so please take the plane.”
“So don’t see me in these conditions! There’s a simple solution you know. LET ME GO HOME. Its not asking a lot is it?”
“Hey now look lady” he said, stiffening suddenly into bad cop, his helpless grimace disappeared.
“Rules are rules, you need a visa to get in here like any other country, can you go to Jordan without a visa?’
“Don’t play the rules game with me. I HAD APPROVAL FROM YOUR EMBASSY, FROM YOUR CONSUL GENERAL, to cross into Egypt and go to Gaza; and besides how else am I supposed to get into Gaza???” I shouted, frantically waving the stamped and signed document in front of him as though it were a magic wand.
“So sue him. Amn il Dawla supercedes the foreign ministry’s orders, he must have outdated protocol.”
“The letter was dated April 6, that is 2 days ago, how outdated could it be?? Look- if I could parachute into Gaza I would, trust me. With all do respect to your country, I’m not here to sight-see. Do you have a parachute for me? If I could sail there I would do that too, but last I check Israel was ramming and turning those boats back. Do you have another suggestions?
“What is it you want lady- do you want to just live in the airport? is that it? Because we have no problems letting you live here, really. We can set up a shelter for you. And no one will ever ask about you or know you exist. In any case you don’t have permanent residency abroad so our government policies say we can’t let a Palestinian who does not have permanent residency abroad”
“I have a US Visa- its expired but my extension of status document is valid until the end of June. and besides- what kind of illogical law is that? you aren’t allowing me back home if I don’t have permanent residency abroad?”
“I don’t read English please translate..”
“You see it says here that my status is valid until June 30, 2009”
“Good, so then we CAN deport you back to the US” he said, picking up the phone and giving a quick order for the Palestinian convoy of injured Palestinians heading to the Crossing to go on without me, my only hope of returning home dissipating before my eyes at the hands of a barely literate manipulative enforcer.
“You just said if i have permanent residency abroad I can go home, now you say I can’t, which is it??”
“I’m sorry you are refusing to go on the plane. Take her away please.”
We were ushered back to the extended waiting area, back to our roach ridden premises that had become our home, along with a newly arrived Luxembourgian and French couple and their two children who had failed to produce their passports and were being sent back home. Here I was, about to be deported away from home, over prepared, with my documents and signed papers, from consulates and universities and governments; and they, used to traveling passport-free the EU, being sent back home because they had only an ID card.
—–
It wasn’t long before a new guard came to us, and request we follow him “to a more isolated room”. “It will be better for you- more private. All the African flights are arriving now with all their diseases, you don’t want to be here for that! It’ll get overcrowded and awful in here.”
Given the the well-wishes that preceded my last interrogation about the “uncomfortableness” I may endure, I somehow had a feeling where we were headed.
We were asked to bring all our luggage and escorted down a different hallway; this time we were asked to leave everything behind, and to give up our cameras, laptops, and mobile phones. We took our seats in the front of a tiny filthy room, where 17 other men (and one Indonesian woman was sleeping on the floor in the back, occasionally shouting out in the middle of her interrupted sleep) of varying nationalities were already waiting.
A brute man-, illiterate by his own admission, took charge of each of files, spontaneously blurting out vulgarities and ordering anyone who so much as whispered to shut the hell up or get sent to real prison; the room was referred to as “7abs”, or a cell; I can probably best describe it as the detention or holding room. a heady man with a protruding belly that seems at odds with his otherwise lanky body was the door guard.
Officer #1 divided up the room into regions: the 5 or so south Asians who were there for whatever reason-expired paperwork, illegal documentation- were referred to as “Pakistan” when their attention was needed; The snoozing, sleep-talking woman in the back was “Indonesia”; and the impeccably dressed Guinean businessman, fully decked in a sharp black suit and blue lined tie, was “Kenya” (despite his persistence please to the contrary). There was a group of Egyptian peasants with forged, fake, or wrongly filed Id cards and passports: a 54 year old man whose ID said he was born in 1990; another who left his ID in his village 5 hours away, and so on.
By this point, I had not slept in 27 hours, 40 if one were to count the plane ride. My patience and my energy were wearing thing. My children were filthy and tired and confused; Noor was crying. I tried to set her cot up, but a cell within a cell did not seem to her liking and she resisted, much as I did.
We took the opportunity to chat when officer #1 was away. “”So what did you do?” asked Kenya, the Guinean.
“I was born Palestinian” I replied. “Everyone in here is being deported back home for one reason or another right? I bet I am the only one being deported away from home; the only one denied entry to my home.”
Officer #1 returned, this time he asked me to come with him “with or without your kids”. I brought them along, not knowing what was next.
There was two steely-eyed men on either end of a relatively well-furnished room, once again inquiring about my “comfort” and ordering-in the form of a question- whether I was taking a flight that morning to the US.
Noor began making a fuss, bellowing at the top of her lungs and swatting anyone that approached her.
“She is stubborn. She takes after her mother I see” said the man.
Soon we were escorted back to the waiting area. I knew there was nothing more I could do. We waited for several more hours until my children exhausted themselves and fell asleep. I bathed them in the filthy bathroom sinks with freezing tap water and hand soap and arranged their quarters on the steel chairs of the waiting room, buzzing with what seemed like a thousand gnats. Thank God for the mosquito netting.
Eventually, dawn broke, and we were escorted by two guards to the ticket counter, our $2500 flights rerouted, and put on a plane back to Washington.
I noted on one of my tweets that I would be shocked if my children’s immune system survived this jolt. It didn’t.
My daughter vomited the whole flight to London as I slipped in and out of delirium, mumbling half Arabic half English phrases to the flustered but helpful Englishman sitting next to us. I thank him wherever he is for looking after us.
Whatever she had, Yousuf an eye caught in the coming days-along with an ear and throat infection.
Eventually, we reached Dulles Airport. I walked confidently to the booth when it was my turn.
What was I going to say? How do I explain this? The man took one look at my expired visa, and my departure stamps.
“How long have you been gone?”
“36 hours” I replied bluntly.
“Yes,I see that. Do you want to explain?”
“Sure. Egypt forbade me from returning to Gaza”.
“I don’t understand- they denied you entry to your own home?”
“I don’t either, and if I did, I wouldn’t be here.”
With that, I was given a a stamp and allowed back inside.
Now that we are warm; clothes; showered, rested and recovered from whatever awful virus we picked up in the bowels of Cairo airport, I keep thinking to myself: what more could I have done?
“The quintessential Palestinian experience,” historian Rashid Khalidi has written, “takes place at a border, an airport, a checkpoint: in short, at any one of those many modern barriers where identities are checked and verified.”
In this place, adds Robyn Creswell, “connection” turns out to be only another word for separation or quarantine: the loop of airports never ends, like Borges’s famous library. The cruelty of the Palestinian situation is that these purgatories are in no way extraordinary but rather the backdrop of daily existence.”
(CNN) “Listen, listen to this!” shouts Fida Qishta as the crackling of rockets is heard over her phone receiver.
“It’s difficult for anybody to imagine that in a second, maybe when I am talking to you on the phone, maybe something [will] happen to me or to my family,” the Palestinian blogger told CNN from her home in Gaza.
She has gotten little sleep during the past 10 days as Israel continues its attacks on her homeland, attacks the Jewish state says are designed to stop months of rocket strikes on southern Israel by Hamas militants in Gaza.
Qishta writes furiously, hoping to convey the horror she sees. “The Israeli army are cannibals. They don’t look for civilians, for children or women. Most attacks happen on families, on their houses,” she said, her voice rising in anger.
For what Qishta cannot put into words, there are agonizing photographs: Bloody Palestinian children, their skin burned, lie limp in their helpless parents’ arms. Hospitals, filled to capacity, redefine chaos as much-needed medical supplies are stalled a short distance away at the blocked border with Egypt.
At one hospital, a man bows his head and cries. He rests his hand over the bellies of his two toddler relatives. They look uninjured; their eyes are shut. They were both killed Monday.
They are the faces of a Palestinian death toll that has surpassed 500.
“There’s always two sides to every story,” said Dov Hartuv, who lives close to the southern border in Israel’s Kibbutz Nahal Oz, which he says has been hit by Hamas rockets in the past. Israel has said its campaign is aimed at stopping Hamas rockets from terrorizing its own civilians.
Asked about Fida Qishta’s strong comments, Hartuv said it’s hard not to react.
“But I am not going to argue with her,” he said. “We are in the eye of the storm just as she is.”
At the Egyptian border, Antar Mahmood stands and waits. At his feet are drums of cooking oil, food and a heavy bag of supplies he is trying to take to his family. He says his house was flattened by the Israeli airstrikes.
But Israeli and Egyptian guards aren’t letting anything or anyone get through this part of the Gaza border.
“I just called home and asked what happened, and they said your son Mohammed has been wounded,” he said. “He’s alive, but he’s wounded.”
In Israel, where four civilians and one soldier have been killed since the attack on Gaza began, Israelis have been gathering every morning on a southern hilltop to watch Apache helicopters. Nearby, reporters who have been banned from entering Gaza set up tripods and position their long lenses.
“It is somewhat surreal to be standing on grassy hillsides with Israeli civilians sitting in chairs, watching the ongoing Israeli military offensive,” Dion Nissenbaum, a McClatchy Newspapers Middle East correspondent, said in an e-mail to CNN.
“They don’t seem to be bothered by the occasional Qassam rockets and mortar rounds that explode in the surrounding fields,” Nissenbaum wrote in his blog, Checkpoint Jerusalem. “They have come to watch the war.”
Dov Hartuv, who describes himself as a fatalist, said he has a fortified safe room in his home.
“I’m not really afraid for myself. What will happen will happen,” he said. “But it certainly is very frightening and nerve-wracking to live under these conditions, and I’m sure everyone is affected by it. … We think about people on our side and on the other side who are suffering and hope that it will end as quickly as possible.”
From her part-time home in Durham, North Carolina, Palestinian mother and blogger Laila El-Haddad is constantly talking to her father in Gaza. Cell phone coverage is spotty, but the two manage to video conference using Skype.
“I’m thinking about my family all the time,” she said. “I have lived through Israeli bombardments in the past, but this is much fiercer than anything ever before.”
A few years ago, during air raids by Israeli jets over northern Gaza, she was living with her son in Gaza City.
She tried to tell the 2-year-old that it was just popcorn popping outside. He replied, “I don’t like that kind of popcorn.”
Even today, in the quiet of an American suburb, the boy still cannot sleep through the night.
“He remembers the shelling and gets up and crawls into bed with me,” she said.
Her father, Moussa El-Haddad, is a physician who volunteered Monday at Gaza’s Shifa Hospital. On Sunday, a Norwegian doctor at Shifa told reporters that the facility was overwhelmed with so many “patients lying everywhere” that they were dying before doctors had a chance to get to them.
Moussa El-Haddad says that after dealing with death at work, he comes home to robo-calls: “Urgent message: Warning to the citizens of Gaza. Hamas is using you as human shields. Do not listen to them. Hamas has abandoned you and are hiding in their shelters. Give up now.”
His daughter said he hangs up in disgust every time.
To ease the dark mood, Laila El-Haddad asked her father how his exotic pet bird is faring through the airstrikes.
“My dad has got a sense of humor,” she said. “He told me that it used to go ‘chirp, chirp,’ but now it goes ‘boom, boom.’ “
