[WCUSP] A glimpse of life at the border with Gaza

[Tura Campanella Cook]

This is from Ellen Rosser, who established the Friendship and Peace 
Society in Hebron in the 1990s when she taught English there.  The 
"Poor Women's Embroidery Project" of the Friendship and Peace Society 
produces the beautiful "wallet sized social change purses" for sale on 
the WILPF website (see Resources).  These are fair trade items - 
consider purchasing for gifts!

But first read Ellen's report.


> Begin forwarded message:
>>
>> CHECKING OUT--WHAT IT'S LIKE TO BE A PALESTINIAN
>>  
>>       I've been trying to get into Gaza through the Rafah checkpoint
>> for two months now.  The Palestinians waiting here in Al Arish are
>> surprised:  they think an American passport will get you anywhere,
>> will eliminate all difficulties.  And when I ran the Friendship and
>> Peace Society office in Hebron, the American passport was
>> indeed like a magic wand.  All the Palestinians would be under
>> curfew, confined to their houses days or even weeks at a time
>> under threat of being shot if they came out, except during the
>> few hours every few days when the Israeli Army allowed them out
>> to buy food.  But with my American passport, I could leave, go
>> to Jerusalem and return as I wished.  I sympathized with the
>> Palestinians but I didn't experience their life.  But now the magic
>> wand has lost its power, and I know what it is like to be a
>> Palestinian.
>>      When I first arrived in the little resort city
>> of Al Arish with its long sand beaches, blue
>> water and brick boardwalk, I took a taxi
>> to Rafah expecting to cross into Gaza to
>> take two peace proposals to the Palestinian
>> government there.  The white-clad Egyptian
>> police let me and my taxi through the four
>> checkpoints on the way to Rafah.  I got out,
>> paid the driver the $4 it cost to travel the
>> twenty miles from Al Arish, walked toward
>> the borderand waved my magic wand.
>>      It worked somewhat.  The first Egyptian border policeman
>> referred me to is superior who spoke English.  He was very
>> polite but explained that the border was closed.  I asked why.
>> He said that no one was on the other side to allow people to
>> enter.  The European Union observers and the Israelis who
>> monitor by television from a distance weren't there. 
>> Therefore, the Palestinian border guards also weren't there.
>> I asked why people couldn't just walk through then.  He replied
>> that the other side was closed and locked.  We talked further
>> and it turned out that he was good friends with the head
>> Egyptian guard in Taba, who told me to have the guard in
>> Rafah call him if I had problems.  I then took advantage of
>> the guard's friendliness to ask if I could see the closed area.
>> He smiled and agreed.
>>      We walked to the border-passage building and entered it.
>> Everywhere Palestinian women and children were camped out
>> on large cloths spread on the floor, their food and suitcases
>> beside them.  The men were camped outside.  We went to the
>> office of the commander, who briefly with his little English said
>> he couldn't help me cross the boreder even though I worked on
>> peace.  As we walked back to the entrance booth, I commented
>> ironically in my little Arabic that this was a nice hotel.  The
>> guards laughed and I went back to my taxi driver who had
>> waited faithfully for me. 
>>       The friendly guard had said that maybe in the city of Rafah,
>> the commander of the area could help.  We drove a mile or
>> so to the headquarters.  The commander was very pleasant
>> but said in perfect English that he couldn't do anything.  I
>> asked if the Minister of the Interior could do anything.  He
>> said I could try.
>>       In Cairo the next day, I did not see the Minister of the
>> Interior--that appointment would have taken a week to
>> arrange--but I was referred to a high official in the police.
>> He was sympathetic but said he couldn't help me pass the
>> border.  I asked if he coujld help if Israel agreed.  He nodded
>> and replied that then he could help.  I left for the Israeli
>> Embassy.
>>      There, after waiting outdoors at the table for a while, I was
>> allowed inside the entrance to the ordinary looking building,
>> where, after waiting at the door leading into the stairs that
>> went up to the consul's office, I finally entered the small
>> waiting room with the two young Israeli women behind the
>> glassed off counter.  When my turn came, I went to the
>> window and asked to see the consul.  The young woman
>> asked why I wanted to see him.  I explained that I needed
>> something from Israel to give to the Egyptians so that I
>> could pass the border and enter Gaza to work on peace
>> between Israel and Palestine.  She went back and spoke
>> with the consul, then returned and told me that they
>> appreciated my good will but they couldn't help.  She
>> then reminded me that with an American passport, I didn't
>> need a visa to enter Israel.  I smiled and told her that I knew,
>> not mentioning that in Taba when I tried to return to Israel
>> to get the proper visa at the Egyptian Consulate, I was
>> refused entry after being investigated for five hours by the
>> Israeli border police.  I smiled, thanked her, and left.
>>       At my hotel, someone insisted that I go to the U.S.
>> Embassy.  He was sure that they would help me.  I
>> told him that I was sure that they would not help--and
>> I was right.  Two very pleasant political officers met me
>> in the hall, listened while I explained about needing to
>> get into Gaza to work on peace, and then one of them
>> said that they couldn't help me because Gaza was
>> dangerous and they advised U.S. citizens not to go
>> there.  I smiled and thanked them.   It was about what
>> I had expected. 
>>      When I returned to Al Arish after a side-trip to
>> Alexandria and Port Saeed, I discovered that Palestinian
>> militants inside Gaza had blown up part of the wall
>> separating Egypt from Gaza, letting in hundreds of
>> Palestinians, and a few days later the border had
>> been open for one day and thousands of Palestinians
>> had passed through in both directions.  And I hadn't
>> been there.
>>      About three weeks later, the word circulated
>> through Al Arish that the border would open the
>> next day.  At seven a.m. I checked out of my
>> hotel, flagged down one of the many white with
>> black trim taxis, and headed for Rafah.  I reached
>> the border, climbed out of the taxi, and stood
>> beside the entrance booth for a half-hour or so
>> waiting for the Egyptian police to begin checking
>> people in.  As the sun became hotter, I moved
>> to the shade of a small shop selling bottles of
>> water and coca cola. 
>>      Near the shop a young man lay near the curb,
>> resting on his suitcase, his arm over his face. 
>> His leg was in a cast and his arm was bandaged.
>> His __expression showed suffering.  Someone told
>> me he was ill and was waiting to go home to Gaza.
>> I wondered how long he had been lying there
>> waiting.  I worried that, like many of the waiting
>> Palestinians, he might have run out of money.
>> I walked over an offered him about $30, a large
>> sum in Egypt.  He took it then lay back again,
>> arm over his head.
>>      A few minutes later a well dressed man
>> sitting in a small group stood up and invited
>> me to have a chair and join them in the shade. 
>> We sat there several hours as Palestinians
>> from Gaza came through the checkpoint and
>>
>> entered Egypt.  I had begun to nod and doze
>> off when my new friend said the border wouldn't
>> open that day for those wanting to enter Gaza: 
>> it was time to go.  We found a group taxi and
>> returned to Al Arish where the driver dropped
>> me at my hotel. I  checked in again and
>> rested up from my early morning experience of
>> what it's like to be a Palestinian.
>>     The next day the word circulated again
>> through the hotel that the border would open.
>> I was ready.  I arose early, checked out of
>> hotel again, caught a taxi, and headed for
>> Rafah.  About half way there, the police at
>> the first Egyptian checkpoint signalled us over.
>> They took my American passport, talked for
>> a while over a mobile phone, came back and
>> said that the border was closed.  I could go
>> no further.  Sighing, I returned to Al Arish
>> and checked into the hotel again, but this
>> time I didn't get the room with the view of
>> the Mediterranean.
>>      I soon came to know a group of four
>> Palestinian men who sat every morning
>> outside the hotel and exchanged information
>> about the possibility or probability of the
>> border opening that day.  They were a
>> notable group of men.  Sammy was a tall
>> man in his fifties with a long tan face and
>> very close-cropped hair.  He was a plasma
>> physicist who received his MA from the
>> University of Michigan, where I had received
>> my Ph.D.,and his Ph.D. from Oxford.  He had
>> some interesting stories to tell about Oxford's
>> involvement in the Manhattan Project.
>> According to his mentors, when the first
>> atomic bomb was tested, a television line
>> was run to Oxford so that the physicists there
>> could monitor the test.  But the explosion
>> destroyed the line.  Sammy had been
>> waiting for a number of days to return to his
>> home in Gaza.
>>      Taysir was a successful Palestinian
>> businessman from Saudi Arabia who had
>> a television and computer company there.
>> He had grey-white hair and blue eyes with
>> dark stress marks under them.  He had
>> been waiting for a month and a half to
>> return home to Gaza for his daughter's
>> wedding, which had been delayed twice
>> thus far because of his absence.
>>      Mazen was a tan-skinned man without
>> much hair over his square, kind face.  He
>> worked for the Palestinian Authority in the
>> Water Department and had been part of the
>> multi-national peace talks in l993.  He was
>> returning after six months in Morocco where
>> he was pursuing his Ph.D.  He was eager
>> to see his children and wife again after six
>> months apart.
>>      Mohammed was the last of the group, a
>> charismatic dark-eyed, dark-haired, thirty-year
>> old manager of his family's electrical appliance
>> warehouse and showroom.  He missed his
>> children very much and wanted to return from
>> what was supposed to have been a brief
>> business trip to Turkey.  He was the natural
>> leader of the group with his resonant voice
>> and frequent jokes.  During some of the hours
>> that we sat around and waited to go to
>> Gaza, I taught him to speak English and he
>> and Mazen were helping me with my Arabic. 
>> Finally, one day I told the woman who ran the
>> hotel thatshe did not have a hotel, she had a
>> school.
>>      Three days ago, we heard that the border
>> would open the next morning for a few hours
>> to let in one-hundred and twenty  men who
>> had been held for two weeks in one small room
>> at the Al Arish airport.   They were not allowed
>> into Egypt because they did not have visas,
>> nor would Egypt issue them to young men,
>> and they could not return to the Arab countries
>> from which they had come because their visas
>> there had expired.  They were indeed fortunate
>> that Al Jazeera television had publicized their
>> case and they were being allowed to enter
>> Gaza on humanitarian grounds. Since the the
>> men from the airport would be going in, the
>> group of four and I planned to go to Rafah in
>> the early morning for another attempt to cross
>> the border.
>>      Since I had broken  my thrice-weekly
>> peace fast at midnight , I was still sleeping
>> soundly when knockings began on adjacent
>> doors.  It was 4 a.m., even before  the call for
>> morning prayers had sounded from the nearby
>> mosque.  Tired but ever-hopeful, like the
>> Palestinians, I arose, packed, went downstairs
>> and checked out of the hotel yet once again, as
>> did the group of four.  Since they with all their
>> luggage filled one taxi, I took a separate one and
>> started for Rafah.  But at the first Egyptian
>> checkpoint, the police turned the taxi
>> back saying the border might open at
>> eight a.m.  and if so we could go through
>> then.
>>      When my taxi pulled up in front of the hotel,
>> my driver shouted the news to the driver
>> of the other taxi, which was piled high on the
>> roof with many black suitcases and one bright
>> red one.  Their driver, however, undaunted, said
>> he knew a back way to the border, and then
>> my chubby driver said he did too.  I waved to
>> the group of four climbing into their top-heavy
>> taxi as I drove off again into the dark.  This time
>> the driver took small back roads that wound
>> through little villages and orchards.  I watched
>> the first light of dawn illuminate the olive and
>> apple trees and the huge sabra cactuses
>> whose prickly fruit is a favorite with Egyptians,
>> Palestinians and Israelis alike.
>>      About 6:30 am we pulled up at the last
>> checkpoint half a mile before the border
>> crossing.  Taxis loaded with suitcases and
>> boxes were parked on a side road
>> while owners of the suitcases sat on the curb
>> or stood by the red barricades on the main
>> roads that stopped the taxis from proceeding. 
>> Dismissing my taxi, I put my arms through the
>> straps of my little black backpack and joined the
>> waiting throng of Palestinians eager to go home.
>> I made my way over to the police officer with
>> the most stars on his epaulettes and asked
>> in English if the border would open.  When he
>> replied in excellent English, we talked a little;
>> then he said that I should wait a few
>> minutes and he would ask his commander if
>> I could pass with my American passport and
>> my peacework.    I rejoined the Palestinians
>> waiting near the barricades,  welcomed the
>> group of four when they arrived, and waited
>> and waited.
>>      As the sun came up and the day became
>> hot, I moved into the shade with my backpack
>> and black plastic bags of food.  When the
>> well-starred policeman drove off towards the
>> border without even a look at me,  I approached 
>> a two-starred one.  He gave the same response
>> and soon drove off also towards that omnipotent
>> commander hidden in the border-control
>> building.  .  I waited some time longer,
>> sitting on the base of a street lamp, my
>> long blue denim dress collecting dust
>> from the ground.  Finally, becoming a little
>> nervous, I tried a one-starred one, who just
>> made a hand gesture that means wait a
>> little while.  After another hour, I tried him
>> again and he gave me such an annoyed look
>> that I knew that my magic wand American
>> passport was so dead that not even Harry
>> Potter could resuscitate it..
>>      Then the waiting line of traffic passed
>> the barricade and entered the border crossing:
>> four big buses carrying the Palestinians who
>> had been trapped at the airport, an ambulance,
>> three gray minibuses from Luxor Tours with
>> fortunate Palestinians inside, two private cars
>> containing Palestinian Authority people, and one
>> car containing an old woman who wept her way
>> in.  The time was 7:30 am.   An hour later a
>> distinguished-looking man in a sports jacket
>> showed a card and was allowed to walk through
>> the barricades, but none of us hoi poloi waiting
>> by the barricades was allowed to pass.
>>      One short man started shouting at the
>> Egyptian police and lifted his small son's shirt
>> to show a wound.  The policeman nodded
>> sympathetically but kept the border closed.
>> An old woman came and wept, claiming that
>> she was older than the woman who had
>> passed through in the car.   The white-clad
>> policeman with no stars nodded
>> sympathetically but kept the border closed.
>> Then a young man came and began shouting
>> and a crowd gathered around him.  Then the
>> camaflouge-clad soldiers standing in front of
>> the barricades moved out with their long
>> wooden truncheons  and told the crowd to
>>
>> leave.  The Palestinian men slowly moved to
>> the side of the road again.
>>      When people began entering Egypt from
>> Gaza, I knew it was useless to wait longer
>> because Israel was only allowing traffic in one
>> direction at a time.  At 11:30 am, tired and
>> hungry,  I flagged down a taxi, returned to
>> the hotel, and checked in again, being
>> promised the same room I'd had before. 
>> However, the hotel clerk asked me to wait
>> a few minutes so that he could check to see
>> that it had been cleaned. I sat down in
>> one of the plump armless chairs and closed
>> my tired eyes.
>>       Suddenly I awakened to a voice nearby
>> shouting, "Haga, haga, come on.  Rafah
>> is open."   I opened my eyes to see a
>> curly-headed Palestinian teenager beckoning
>> me to come to a taxi where two of his
>> friends and their luggage were waiting. 
>> Responding to the polite form of address--
>> "haga" means respected older one who has
>> been on the pilgrimage to Mecca--I aked,
>> "Are you sure it's open?"   He nodded
>> emphatically, "Yes, yes.  It's open.  Come
>> on!"  Somewhat rested, I thought, why not,
>> and told the hotel clerk that I was checking
>> out again, or not checking in, whichever it
>> was by then, and I climbed into the taxi with
>> the three exuberant teenagers. 
>>      When we stopped at a mosque on the
>> outskirts of the city for the boys to do their
>> noon prayers, I told them that if the first
>> checkpoint was closed, I didn't want to
>> continue because my Al Arish experience in
>> border crossing had taught me that if the first
>> checkpoint was closed, the border was
>> closed.  One kind-looking boy said earnestly
>> in halting English that his mother had called
>> from Gaza and told him that the border was
>> open.  I shrugged my seventy-year old
>> shoulders and said, "All right.  I'll try it again."
>>      Their driver was a real expert at avoiding
>> checkpoiints.  He reminded me of Palestinian
>> taxi drivers in Hebron avoiding Israeli
>> checkpoints.  He knew just where to leave and
>> return to the main toad to avoid all four
>> Egyptian checkpoints, and finally stopped
>> in the middle of a field on a dirt road within
>> easy walking distance of the border.  The
>> tall, curly-headed boy refused my offer of
>> payment for the taxi saying proudly, We
>> are Palestinians and you are our guest."
>> He then grabbed my backpack and carried
>> it for me to the border control booth. 
>>      When the policeman saw the American
>> passport,he waved us to another booth where
>> a starred officer looked at my passport and
>> calmy stated that I couldn't cross the border
>> because I had an American passport
>> instead of a Palestinian identity card.  I
>> sighed.  The American magic wand was now
>> buried and composted.  I wouldn't have minded
>> seeing arrogant America humbled,  but since it
>> was peace proposals that were being denied
>> entry, I tried to marshal my grossly inadequate
>> Arabic to argue my case. 
>>     Fortunately, I did not have to display my
>> faulty Arabic grammar, because a pleasant
>> Palestinian woman I had met that morning at
>> the barricades earlier came over and translated
>> for me.  She was very convincing in telling the
>> policeman that I was a peace person who had
>> to go to Gaza to help with the peace process. 
>> She also told him what I thought to be the case,
>> that the Palestinian Authority had left my name
>> at the border.  The policeman looked at her a
>> little quizzically, surprised by her strong
>> advocacy of my case.  Finally he shrugged his
>> shoulders  and plunked a three-inch thick pile
>> of papers down in front of her, and said she
>> could look through to see if my name was there. 
>> Fifteen minutes later my new friend and her
>> daughter concluded that my name was not on
>> any of the special case notification papers.  I
>> thanked her profusely for her kindness and left
>> to work on the next issue:  getting the Palestinian
>> Authority to fax my name to the border so
>> that I could rejoin the Palestinians in our manic
>> attempts  to cross into Gaza. 
>>      As I walked out to the taxis, I refrained from
>> wondering why no other Egyptian border
>> policeman in the past two months had told me
>> that the American passport was useless at
>> Rafah. Instead,  I focused on the mystery of
>> why Israel would not allow the waiting
>> people to return home.  What securiy benefit
>> could there possibly be in keeping people out
>> of their country?   Did Israel think it would make
>> the them more eager for peace?  What was the
>> purpose of denying them entry?
>>       Arriving back at the hotel, I checked in
>> again, then left for the internet cafe to email  
>> friends.  When I returned at midnight, I
>> found the group of four checking out,
>> preparing to leave for the border to spend the
>> night there because they had heard that it
>> would be open in the morning and they wanted
>> to be sure to get through.  As I very sincerely
>> wished those intellectual, good  men luck in
>> their desperate night journey, I admired their  
>> cheerful patience, a quality that the Koran 
>> strongly praises.  I knew their tranquillity
>> came from their good family life and their 
>> devotion to God, shown in their faithful
>> performance of the prayers in which they
>> humbled themselves before their God
>> five times each day.  And He gave them
>> strength to endure. 
>>      But I admittedly was tired that midnight
>> and was not unhappy to have an externally
>> imposed respite.  Instead of checking out
>> of the hotel for the seventh time to ride
>> towards the ever-receding border, I could
>> check out of  experiencing Palestinian
>> life for a while.  But I still would be waiting
>> close to the border with Gaza--that bombed-
>> out city that now seemed as distant and
>> desirable as Eden.. 
>>
>> Ellen Rosser may be reached at ellen.rosser at gmail.com