Meet Me in Gaza Read Free

government closed the shops years ago, long before Hamas. Now because of this fucking siege we can’t buy anything.’
    In June 2006 a posse of Gaza fighters tunnelled into Israel and snatched teenage Israel Defense Forces (IDF) conscript, Gilad Shalit. In retaliation, the Israeli government sealed the crossings into Gaza and bombed the only power plant in the Strip. Since the Hamas takeover of Gaza, Israel has steadily tightened the blockade and now, says Shadi, everything, from industrial fuel to children’s hearing aids, even orange juice, is restricted or outright banned. Local supermarkets mostly sell dry goods because they don’t rot or need a refrigerator. 1
    We sit in the café with our coats on, drinking steaming black tea infused with sage leaves. As we talk, Shadi is constantly checking his phone or lighting another cigarette, shifting and restless like the sea outside. He tells me he is from southern Gaza and spent five years studying economics in Algeria, but he hasn’t been out of the Strip since the summer of 2006.
    ‘I have been a human rights activist more than fifteen years now, I never stop working. If there is even a whisper in the northern Strip, I still hear it.’ He speaks English like a poet.
    I drain my cup and huddle inside my coat, but I don’t want to go back to my cold apartment yet. A man with hollow cheeks and deep-set eyes strides over to greet Shadi, then offers me his hand too. Khalil, his name is. As he is speaking to me, a loud dull blast booms close to us. For a few seconds everything in the café stops; customers freeze in their seats, cups in their hands, cigarettes halfway to their mouths. The waiters halt mid-step … then, just two or three breaths later, they continue bearing trays across the café and conversations bubble up again. I’ve never heard a bomb explode before and look from Shadi to Khalil.
    ‘That was an air strike,’ says Shadi, his voice calm.
    ‘We should be safe here,’ says Khalil, ‘but we shouldn’t leave for a while.’ He lights a cigarette and sits down.
    Five minutes later, Shadi’s phone bleeps with a message: Majid Harazin, senior commander of the militant group Palestinian Islamic Jihad, has just been blown up by an Israeli rocket while driving his car near the Gaza City beach front. 2
    ‘Hamas has warned people to stay away from the car as there might be more explosions,’ says Khalil. His phone has also just bleeped. ‘But Harazin was carrying $100,000 dollars in cash when Israel hit the car. There are dollar bills on fire all around it and people are out there, chasing the money.’
    The two men exchange a glance. I look around, imagining the scene outside: $100 bills burning round a charred car, a hulk of roasted flesh still slumped in the driving seat.
    I excuse myself and go to find the bathroom, then wander to the front of the café, where huge sliding windows open onto a terrace. I stand out there, breathing in cold salty air. The Mediterranean is glinting midnight blue like petrol and I can see small lights blinking on the horizon. They must be fishing boats. From here they look like a rope of small lanterns loosely strung together.
    I don’t feel frightened. I don’t know what the hell to feel.
    An hour or so later, Shadi offers to drive me back to my apartment. It’ll be safe now, he says. His car is parked just outside the hotel. It looks like a square biscuit tin on wheels. When I squeeze inside, the dashboard is held together with brown tape and I can’t shut the passenger door. ‘Don’t worry,’ – Shadi chokes the engine into life – ‘my car is the best-in-the-West!’ He leans over and slams the door on my side shut. The whole vehicle shudders and my window slides wide open. I give him a look. We both start laughing and our laughter reassures me.
    Over the next few days, Joumana keeps me busy at work at the Centre, editing documents and press releases that have been translated into English and writing official