August 1, 2005

Alison on Aliyah:  My day in Gaza, part 1

            These days everyone is talking about the Gaza Strip, the now-infamous area from which Ariel Sharon has decided to “disengage” in a mere three weeks.  I have wanted to see the area for almost a year, ever since the pullout plan began to be discussed as a real option, but I had been dragging my feet and putting it off, proffering all sorts of excuses to myself.  I suppose most of me was just hoping the plan wouldn’t go through.  Finally, a couple of weeks ago I realized that there was a very real possibility that I might never be able to see this stretch of land after mid-August, and I began to feel an urgency to visit.

Of course, the day I made this decision was the day Sharon made a decision of his own:  to permanently close the gates and not allow any non-residents into the area.  This marked a watershed moment in the disengagement, indicating to all that there was no turning back now.  A week before there had been hundreds of visitors to Gaza daily, on organized buses and in private cars, all wanting to see what it is like and all being allowed in freely.  Now, it had become the Fort Knox of Israel, and no one except soldiers and settlers were going anywhere near it.  Needless to say, I had a hard time convincing any of my friends to accompany me on the trip.

Then, my friend Amir offered to join me, mentioning that he had served in reserve duty in Gaza and had a fairly good idea of the “lay of the land.”  We had both heard that the government was giving special permission to a select few, especially if they were invited by settlers inside the area or if they could prove that they were not planning on moving into the area.  Apparently the latest problem has been individuals from outside of Gaza going in, setting up tents, and staying there, which has increased the numbers of people to evacuate by 1,500 (nearly 20% of the prior population) in the past seven months (600 new inhabitants in the week since the borders were closed, alone).

Thus began the intensive process of requesting permission from the “Special Permit Center” that had been set up for this purpose.  We sent faxes and letters, and called nearly every hour for two days, essentially begging for access.  We answered a number of questions and I have no doubt that background checks were conducted.  We did not succeed until late Sunday night, which, in retrospect, was definitely a good thing.  Sunday had been a particularly volatile day in Gaza, with many mortar attacks (with the first severe casualties in months) and a number of violent protests at the main checkpoints.  Finally, we received the green light and prepared for our adventure on Monday.

Voyage into a “war zone”

Amir and I arrived early at the Karni checkpoint, one of the two major entrances from the “Jewish side” of Israel into the Gaza Strip.  It is in the northern part of the area, and provides access mainly to Netzarim, the largest and most religious settlement in the section.  This particular checkpoint requires visitors to park their cars outside the territory and take a military convoy through the Palestinian areas and into the settlements themselves.

We sat around at the checkpoint for about a half hour, waiting for the armored bus to arrive and watching the soldiers laze around in the already burning sun.  Finally, the bus came, and we boarded and proceeded to wait another fifteen minutes while enough soldiers were amassed to justify the trip in.  Then, right as we were seemingly ready to go, someone said something about a “threat” on the bus and we were asked to disembark and instead to board an armored military truck.  Because I didn’t understand exactly what was happening nor the majority of what was being said around me (army slang and fast accents render me useless in Hebrew), I wasn’t terribly alarmed, although I noted that Amir certainly seemed more alert than he had an hour ago.

It was when we heaved ourselves up onto this fortified army vehicle, commonly referred to as a “Safari,” with thick slabs of metal on either side and tiny, opaque bulletproof “windows,” that I realized that I was definitely in a “war zone.”  The soldiers beside me instructed me not to stick my head out through the open slit between the side and the roof of the truck, mentioning that a Palestinian sniper had shot someone doing just that only a week before.  I couldn’t hold in my curiosity, however, being simply unwilling to take a 20-minute ride through “enemy” territory I had never seen without sneaking a few peeks.  The soldiers pointed out army bunkers and “pill boxes,” wherein one to four soldiers were guarding us with their guns as we drove by.  I saw razed houses and others that were fully intact and apparently had Palestinian families living in them, literally in the middle of nowhere.  Mesmerized by the sights, I kept my head lolling outside the confines of the armored slabs for most of the ride.

When Amir and I arrived at Netzarim, we disembarked from the Safari and began to walk around the area.  Very few people were out on the streets, which we attributed partly to the early hour and partly to the emotional trauma that we assumed must be plaguing the community.  There were grassy areas, parks with sandboxes, and brightly colored jungle-gyms, all deserted and deathly silent.  Amir and I passed a brand new synagogue, which we knew to be infamous due to its recent construction and dedication a mere few months before.  We talked to some of the men praying inside, desperately wanting to know what they must be thinking, but we couldn’t screw up the courage to ask.

We scaled a large army outpost tower and looked out onto the area below.  There were tanks parked next to army tents, razed buildings alongside planted crop fields.  Far in the distance we could see the beach and Mediterranean Sea.  Aside from the conspicuous army presence and eerie silence blanketing the community, we remarked to each other that it must have been a pleasant place to live, back when people were allowed to live there.  Anxious to see more “action,” however, Amir and I hopped the next Safari back to the checkpoint to pick up the car, now well-versed in how to pull ourselves up onto the truck and where to sit to get the best view.

Leaving the Karni checkpoint, we drove about twenty minutes south and arrived at Kissufim, another rather infamous site as the major entrance into the southern settlements of Kfar Darom, Ganei Tal, and Netzer Hazani, among others, as well as the central setting for most of the violent protests that had been occurring.  Gush Katif, the largest bloc in the area, has become the “poster child” of the anti-disengagement campaigns, with slogans and bumper stickers proclaiming “The people stand with Gush Katif,” and “Gush Katif will not fall”—mere replicas, in fact, of the same slogans that had been used for the Golan Heights back when there had been talk of a northern disengagement.

            Amir and I drove through Kfar Darom first, which looked more like an average kibbutz than anything else, with simple concrete houses, trees, and gardens lining the streets.  Not until we got further inside the community did we see the real center of the action:  a substantial tent city, clearly freshly erected, to house the “illegal” inhabitants of Gaza, those who had made their way inside with the sole purpose of setting up camp and living there until the last possible moment.  I suppose the rationale is that the more people inside the territory at the moment of disengagement, the more difficult it will be to implement the plan.  The people we saw in these tents appeared to be more fervently ideological than many we had seen, and we couldn’t tell how forcefully they will be willing to protest their eventual evacuation.

We saw canvas tents with mattresses on the floor and baby cribs against every “wall,” kids’ clothing and infant toys strewn about.  I found it fascinating that the majority of the furniture in these makeshift, shoddily-maintained tents was baby-related, giving the appearance that the children were better clothed and taken care of than the parents.  There were orange ribbons and flags (the official color of the anti-disengagement campaign) flying from every corner, and everyone we saw was decked out in anti-disengagement regalia.  We saw a central dining tent and an area that was clearly meant for prayer—an entire community had sprung up here in a matter of mere weeks, if that, and would continue its struggle to exist until the bitter end.

Amir and I left Kfar Darom without engaging the settlers in conversation, both remarking that we had sensed that the time to talk to them had ended.  Even a month ago, these people would have been eager, in fact anxious, to share themselves with us, inviting us into their homes and enlightening us on any topic.  It seemed very clear to us now, however, that this era had ended.  We were not approached by anyone, and were unable to even make a great deal of eye contact.  It seemed that the period of mourning had begun, and we had ceased to be invited guests, becoming instead only intruders on an experience we knew nothing about.

            We concluded our tour with a drive through Neve Dekalim, the largest and most organized settlement within Gush Katif.  It looked no different than any other community I had seen, with a shopping center, post office, ice cream store and cafes, and even a museum dedicated to describing the history of the area.  We saw large houses with sprawling yards and gardens, Israeli flags flying in the breeze, orange ribbons everywhere.  Front doors were adorned with signs proclaiming, “Together we will triumph!” and “A Jew does not expel another Jew!”

We again wondered aloud about the sheer logistics of the upcoming disengagement.  How would these people be able to bring all of their belongings with them?  What would happen to these gardens, and the greenhouses, and this sense of community that has been built from “square one”?  How does one explain to one’s children that they must leave the only home they have ever known, and that their house will be destroyed, and they will never be able to visit again?  Amir and I drove out of Neve Dekalim, a community that has protected those of us inside the official borders of Israel from over 5,000 Kassam rocket attacks in the past five years, suffering less than ten casualties and virtually no physical damage.  I cannot help but see this little settlement as a magical place, with some kind of charmed protection from some greater force.  I still cannot believe that with all that these people have been through, the Israeli government has, in fact, become their worst enemy.

A little protest march to contend with

Amir and I left the Strip with no further incident, driving toward a Jewish city called Netivot some 20 kilometers away.  This was around the time that we remembered that this was the day of the now-infamous anti-disengagement protest march that was set to start off from this very city.  We had initially assumed that this would be the best day to be inside Gaza, since all the protestors would only be setting out from Netivot by the time we had finished our adventures in the territory.  Having spent far longer inside than we expected, we could never have imagined that we would still be very much inside the area when the march-related chaos was to begin.

Before we could reroute ourselves, we encountered a police detour that was forcing cars to drive straight, with no exceptions.  We protested that we were not interested in even going to the march, but were met with steely gazes and a no-nonsense outstretched arm showing us the only direction in which we were allowed to go.  Oddly, the police were actually routing people directly into Netivot, which seemed to conflict with what we assumed would be a desire to decrease the traffic and madness at and around the city under siege.  Amir dutifully followed the directive, however, and within a half hour we found ourselves smack-dab in the middle of gridlocked traffic and a sea of orange.

The news was reporting that an estimated 20,000 people had already arrived at the site of the march, with another 20,000 having been detained at their points of origin by police who were disallowing buses to even leave their stations if they were bound for the southern city.  The march had left a couple of hours before we arrived, but we were told that a ten-minute walk would allow us to catch the tail end of both the march and the opening ceremonial speeches to the group.  Amir and I both hastily agreed that we had had enough excitement for the day.  Still, the scene in Netivot was quite a wild one, with the city literally awash with orange in every shape and size.  Babies in strollers decked out from head to toe, waving little orange flags with great enthusiasm even in the blazing heat; pregnant mothers with toddlers sporting shirts proclaiming, “Gush Katif will triumph!”; whole families of ten or more making their way slowly across the street while trying to keep their protest posters level.  I even saw a group of religious men, covered in orange, all facing one way, praying and bowing before they set out on their journey.

Amir and I drank in the sights for a while, then continuing on towards home.  Along our way out of the area, however, we happened upon another startling scene.  As we rounded the bend, we saw lights up ahead and caught a glimpse of barbed wire.  I’m not quite sure why Amir slowed and turned the car into the drive on the left, but we were both stunned by what presented itself to us there.  We were immediately confronted by what appeared to be another tent city of sorts, but this time of gigantic proportions, with rows and rows of newly constructed or currently-under-construction army-green tents, broken only by a larger white tent every so often, which we presumed to be a dining hall or synagogue.  As we approached the fence, which had no entrance we could see, we looked left and right and saw only miles and miles of gleaming, brand new metal fencing.  There was literally no end, no turns, and no curves.  It was, in essence, a ghetto, and the only obvious question was whether it was intended for soldiers or for refugees.

As we gawked at the sights in awe and disbelief, a group of soldiers rapidly approached and surrounded the car, with one breaking away to ask us gruffly what we were doing there.  We attempted to ask the question boring a hole through our minds, but the soldier immediately barked that we were not to be there and must leave at once.  We hastily retreated and continued on our way, only later realizing that this must have been the area that had been described to us by one of our soldier friends as a combined soldier/evacuee “housing facility.”  As far as he had been informed, the tent city was to accommodate the soldiers who would be serving in Gaza and actually doing the disengagement up until its completion, at which time it would become a refugee camp for the unfortunate individuals whose houses would be razed as they sat in their tents.  I have since been told that what we saw will not be used for evacuees, but the reports are definitely conflicting.

Amir and I drove on in silence, reflecting on the fates of the individuals, both soldier and settler, who may come to know those tents quite intimately.  (See next week’s article for a personal account of the soldiers we encountered on our trip.)  We both arrived at our respective homes around 4:00am the next morning, heads spinning from what we had seen and experienced.  We spent the rest of the later morning calling the permit office again, in an attempt to gain access to Gaza for another day.  We both felt that being in Gaza was a bit like watching an eclipse—we all know that what we are witnessing is both beautiful and damaging, and we know we should look away but no one can.  We were drawn to the land, both physically and spiritually.

Neither Amir nor I feared for our lives at any point in the day; on the contrary, we felt proud and honored to be able to spend so much time in such a special place.  Our requests for access have since been repeatedly denied, and Amir and I both fear that this was, in fact, our last opportunity to experience this tiny stretch of doomed land.  No one knows what will confront us as individuals and as a society on August 15.  I fear also for the fate of the country, and of our democracy.  But most of all I feel for our soldiers, these young boys who cannot possibly be equipped emotionally to handle what will confront them in less than two weeks.  I suppose none of us are.

(To Be Continued…)