Read Online Meet Me in Gaza by Louisa B. Waugh - Free Book Online
Authors: Louisa B. Waugh
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Bedouin’s Mercedes bucks like a horse. When we eventually reach al-Arish it’s very late and Tariq and I are exhausted. But the Bedouin has mentioned a hotel with a bar in town and Tariq’s thirst is now almost as great as mine. We easily find the hotel – a square monstrosity on the main street – and invite our two new policemen friends along for a drink in the bar. Which turns out to be a plush red circular salon with long drapes, frilly pouffes and two uniformed waiters who both look about 12 years old. But there is beer and gin behind the bar – and they even have ice! I ask for a gin and tonic, and when the boys look at me blankly, I just slip behind the bar and mix it myself. Tariq has a beer. The policemen both drink Egyptian-style Coca-Cola. We raise our four glasses and drink a toast to freedom, giggling about this ridiculous luxury just down the road from our
sijin.
It is much too late to talk politics, but I can’t resist asking our police escort how they became such good friends, given that one of them works for Hamas and the other for Fatah.
‘We are from the same village,’ says one of them. ‘We have always been friends and we never talk about politics.’
‘Palestinian politics is poison,’ says the other. ‘They want us to fear and hate each other – just like the Israelis want us to hate and fear each other. But I think for myself. That is the only freedom we’ve got in Gaza.’
When we leave the bar, the policemen bid us goodnight. They’ve seen what they came here for and are going back home now.
Hours later I wake up in the pink bedroom of a young girl who has been shunted to another bed so that I can sleep in hers. For a few seconds, I forget about arriving here after the bar and being welcomed by Tariq’s friends. Instead I look around, bleary-eyed, trying to recall where the hell I am. Then remember that this is Egypt, not Gaza, and I should be at work now. I call the Centre and whine about having a bad upset stomach, saying hopefully I will be well enough to come to work tomorrow.
‘It is probably the drinking water,’ says Joumana, who is so sympathetic and concerned – even offering to pop round to see me on her way home – that I feel slightly queasy afterwards for lying to her.
Our hosts are Gazans who settled in al-Arish before 1978 and they like life here. It’s busy in summer, quiet in winter – and not occupied by Israel. They are delighted to see Tariq, who’s one of the extended family. He’s in good spirits this morning, teasing me about calling in sick at work and joking that Gaza is so small, one or both of us is bound to see someone we know here. We share a late breakfast, then all stroll down to the beach for some Egyptian sea air. The beach – the main attraction here – is a long stretch of clean, pale sand, washed by clear shallows that gift good bathing and fresh seafood. We wander slowly along the sand towards a local café.
I pull off my shoes and paddle just for the pleasure of it. The water is cold and my toes tingle. I feel like I’m on holiday; last night seems an unreal, and surreal, experience. Right now I don’t have the words to describe it, even to myself.
Cities are besieged when belligerent forces want to beat the local population and their overlords into submission. After more than 3,000 years of invasions and occupations, Gaza is a veteran of sieges. When Alexander the Great, King of Macedonia, arrived in Gaza in 332 BC during his conquest of the Persian Empire, he expected the city to fall quickly or else to send advance notice of its surrender, as other cities en route to Egypt had done. But Gaza had a secret weapon: a charismatic, statuesque eunuch called Batis, who was a daring and resourceful military commander. Batis defiantly hired Arab mercenaries, rallied local Philistines, Persians and Arabs to gather weapons, food and water and prepared the city for siege. Its slightly elevated hillside position gave the Gaza
sijin.
It is much too late to talk politics, but I can’t resist asking our police escort how they became such good friends, given that one of them works for Hamas and the other for Fatah.
‘We are from the same village,’ says one of them. ‘We have always been friends and we never talk about politics.’
‘Palestinian politics is poison,’ says the other. ‘They want us to fear and hate each other – just like the Israelis want us to hate and fear each other. But I think for myself. That is the only freedom we’ve got in Gaza.’
When we leave the bar, the policemen bid us goodnight. They’ve seen what they came here for and are going back home now.
Hours later I wake up in the pink bedroom of a young girl who has been shunted to another bed so that I can sleep in hers. For a few seconds, I forget about arriving here after the bar and being welcomed by Tariq’s friends. Instead I look around, bleary-eyed, trying to recall where the hell I am. Then remember that this is Egypt, not Gaza, and I should be at work now. I call the Centre and whine about having a bad upset stomach, saying hopefully I will be well enough to come to work tomorrow.
‘It is probably the drinking water,’ says Joumana, who is so sympathetic and concerned – even offering to pop round to see me on her way home – that I feel slightly queasy afterwards for lying to her.
Our hosts are Gazans who settled in al-Arish before 1978 and they like life here. It’s busy in summer, quiet in winter – and not occupied by Israel. They are delighted to see Tariq, who’s one of the extended family. He’s in good spirits this morning, teasing me about calling in sick at work and joking that Gaza is so small, one or both of us is bound to see someone we know here. We share a late breakfast, then all stroll down to the beach for some Egyptian sea air. The beach – the main attraction here – is a long stretch of clean, pale sand, washed by clear shallows that gift good bathing and fresh seafood. We wander slowly along the sand towards a local café.
I pull off my shoes and paddle just for the pleasure of it. The water is cold and my toes tingle. I feel like I’m on holiday; last night seems an unreal, and surreal, experience. Right now I don’t have the words to describe it, even to myself.
Cities are besieged when belligerent forces want to beat the local population and their overlords into submission. After more than 3,000 years of invasions and occupations, Gaza is a veteran of sieges. When Alexander the Great, King of Macedonia, arrived in Gaza in 332 BC during his conquest of the Persian Empire, he expected the city to fall quickly or else to send advance notice of its surrender, as other cities en route to Egypt had done. But Gaza had a secret weapon: a charismatic, statuesque eunuch called Batis, who was a daring and resourceful military commander. Batis defiantly hired Arab mercenaries, rallied local Philistines, Persians and Arabs to gather weapons, food and water and prepared the city for siege. Its slightly elevated hillside position gave the Gaza
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