Nagoua pulled up in an enormous SUV right at seven am. With reflexes slowed by a night spent drinking Egypt’s finest Stellas in the famous revolutionary hangout Hurreya, or Freedom, I hopped in the back and offered her a croissant.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” she said, smiling while revving the engine. We drove down the street to pick up her two charges – Dutch filmmakers on their way to work on a documentary about the smuggling tunnels of Gaza. I sat in the front so they could babble in Dutch while Nagoua and I chatted in English. Later, I was told she was the best fixer in Cairo, but she was incredibly generous and sweet to me in a way I’ve been lucky to find from Tunis to Perpignan, Johannesburg to Bulawayo, Knysna to Dar es Salaam, and now Ramallah to Gaza. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
Cairo traffic was a brutal slow march towards Suez. At about nine, we crossed over the enormous Japanese-built bridge spanning the world’s largest oil artery. Between Africa and Asia, the hazy air blocked the immense scope of the project. At times it seemed like the massive concrete line vanished into grey clouds on the horizon. The land was a bleak mix of sand and rock sprinkled faintly with green bushes and squat houses. The heat broke my sweat by 10am when we passed a military checkpoint. They were the first of three that simply waved us through – no paperwork needed.
At eleven o’clock we pulled into El Arish, a coastal town with chateaus built with tunnel-money and the last stop before the border. I called Mousa’d from the Egyptian Press Office, and I caught a taxi to pick him up nearby. From there we traveled along a thin ribbon of asphalt through barren desert, north towards Rafah. At the border, an Egyptian dropped a rock on my foot and my toenail broke clean in half. I squashed in back down on my big toe, where hopefully it will reintegrate molecularly.
Mousa’d disappeared with my passport and letters of requisite and told me to wait in the nearby cafe. I plopped my gear bag and clothes sack on the ground, pulled out a biography of Ibn Khaldun called The Polymath, and tried to patiently wait in the sweltering air. The fly bites hurt, so I sank my feet into my backpack and tapped my soles to keep them away. Both of my phones, Egyptian and Palestinian, weren’t making calls. I was paperless, phoneless, in a veritable black zone.
“Sam well, sam well, sam well?” a crusty teenager began asking the crowd, then switching to determining if everyone was Palestinian, Egyptian or American. A nearby American from New Jersey of Gazan descent talked to him and then approached me. I had been waiting smugly somehow not obviously foreign (although maybe I was just behind the right set of columns). I followed the teenager, thanked the American and entered beneath the wide, tall gate of the Egyptian border crossing at Rafah.
Musa’d found me rambling to a man about The Journalists Center and ushered me through the rest of the process. “Howa sahafi, bass wahid isbuwa’ fi Gaza li shugul,” Musa’d repeatedly often: He is a journalist and will spend just a week in Gaza for work. Many “peace be upon you”s later, and I boarded a packed bus to Hamas-controlled border entry. It was sticky hot inside. A family of five greeted me and offered me a seat, inviting me to their house later at night. While usually a “yes” man, one must be careful in Gaza.
My interrogators inside the Gazan border were very nice. Three of them, two gingers and a 24-year old named Ahmed, talked with me in a mix of English and Arabic about my purpose in Gaza. I tried to explain the concept behind my planned documentary on pollution and water scarcity, and they read the Arabic letter the Egyptians had written for me. We then talked about the Bahi’a faith (blasphemy!), the occupation, the Egyptian revolution and my imminent Islamic conversion.
We talked in a room lined with orange plush chairs and no pictures. Odd troops walked in and out as we chatted. The big boss came in and told me to “enjoy Gaza”. According to all, the recent revolutionary change in Egypt had not really opened up the Gazan border. Egyptian complicity in Israel’s siege continues, they said. My bags were never searched. When Ted called from inside the compound, they led me to another office where he was answering questions in Arabic about his purpose in Gaza. Smiling, respectful, we were soon on our way.
“Welcome to Gaza,” Ted offered as we piled into a taxi. The short drive to his house along the beach was through poor neighborhoods of Rafah and then Khan Younis. Bullet holes marred many broken buildings. More niqab and full-length hijab fluttered about, when seen at all, and the streets themselves seemed empty.
From my new abode for the coming week, I took this photo: Palestine’s coast in twilight. Finally, the other side of Falasteen.
