notes of a non-combatant

the northern strip

The bus ambled down the waterfront road past beautifully designed houses, canvas tents erected as temporary shelters, beachfront stores and businesses, massive piles of rubble heaped along the roadside, houses pocked with a plethora of bullets and shrapnel scars, and collapsed houses sitting like messy stacks of giant gray pancakes. We could see Israeli gunships in the distance, glinting in the morning sun with black plumes of smoke hanging over them as they fired artillery at the shoreline, attacking fishermen as they continued their daily routine.

Rubble laying along the roadside, remnants of Palestinian homes.

Israeli gunships shelling Palestinian fishermen in the Mediterranean Sea, the incessant artillery could be heard daily and at all hours.

We headed north up the coast until we reached an excessively large pile of rubble that many recognized from news reports and photographs from the most recent military conflict. We got off the bus to walk around the American International School in Gaza, a heap of broken concrete, cracked stone facade tiles, tangled masses of re-bar, and destroyed relics from the old school. As part of our coordinated trip, students from the school who had been relocated to another location in Gaza had come for the day to lead us around the entire square-block of rubble and explain exactly what the Israeli air force decimated when they unloaded their ordinance on the school. Several students in their preteen years walked with us around the site, thumbing through charred English reading digests that were used as textbooks, full of classic fairy tales and stories of better times. Some of the delegates pulled items from the rubble, finding reading lists and notebooks akin to those of any American classroom. The Scarlet Letter, George Orwell, and the like all dominated the reading list, and stickers of Disney characters depicted saying “good job!” in speech bubbles were littered all throughout one particular notebook that was pulled from the wreckage. We flipped through the pages, assignment after completed assignment all checked off and with good marks, until we finally reached the end of the spiral-bound notebook. The last assignment was dated in December.

A student from the American International School stands in front of what remains of her school.

Remains of the American International School in Gaza.

Remains of the American International School in Gaza.

A student from the American International School stands in front of what remains of his school.

A student from the American International School stands in front of what remains of her school.

The broken and detached remains of a playground at the American International School in Gaza.

Tangled masses of re-bar jut out from the remains of the American International School in Gaza.

A man sits by wreckage of the American International School in Gaza.

The main entrance to the American International School in Gaza, located in Beit Lahiya, Occupied Palestinian Territories, after the Israeli military incursion dubbed Operation Cast Lead.

The delegation then moved further around Beit Lahiya, allowing us time to compose ourselves and see a different side of the Gaza Strip. The large bus rolled down rough roads away from the American International School, past large groups of canvas tents set up in neat rows throughout otherwise empty fields, watched over by groups of young children standing on large heaps of dirt near the road, quietly tending to a fire lit in a garbage can. Another elementary school stood nearby with gaping holes blown out of its exterior walls, orifices large enough to run eighteen-wheelers through. Past the elementary school, we turned down a few streets nestled up against decimated structures, houses leaning halfway crooked with support columns destroyed in the recent conflict, some houses with cracked concrete floors angled forty-five degrees from proper. We passed the relics of houses and stores, remnants of Palestinian lives and livelihoods, and drove out of Beit Lahiya.

Temporary shelters erected for Palestinians who were internally displaced after Israel's most recent military invasion.

Palestinian children in front of the temporary shelters that have been their homes for over four months.

Once in nearby Beit Hanoun, a United Nations Relief Works Agency (UNRWA) staffer on our bus gave us information on two demolished buildings that we passed, one of which was the largest government compound in the Gaza Strip for decades, and the other which was a police station. Both complexes were leveled to the ground. We turned the bus onto the next street and parked next to an UNRWA community center. The complex, which is part of their gender initiative, is intended as a safe place for women and children to meet, learn, hold discussions, host programs, and express themselves. The atmosphere of the community center was in heavy contrast to the bleak landscape of bombed out structures that we had previously been examining. Women were enjoying the exercise room, riding stationary bicycles and working out on elliptical trainers. We stepped into rooms only to come across scenes such as children quietly sitting at small tables, thoroughly engaged in the books they were reading, quite confused as to why a group of foreigners would be so interested to interrupt their quiet time. In one particular room, a large table was entirely surrounded by women in their twenties holding a poetry slam. One after another, the women stood up and recited poems that they had written, their Arabic flowing with solid rhyme. The poetry itself was quite powerful, with each lady’s motion, tone, and rhythm running thick with meaning despite the massive language barrier that remained between us. A translator eventually followed us into the room and explained what the ladies’ poetry was about: family, children, companionship, love, and devotion were only some of the topics. One young woman was very eager to read us a poem, so a translator recited it to us in English. It was a surprise to hear this woman sensually describing her love for her husband, sitting at the table in full and proper Muslim attire, her long dress and hijab leaving only her face uncovered as she read each line of the poem. Each line related her husband to Palestine, her land and country. She described his body as she would her homeland, as the tangible entity that she identifies most with. Upon finishing the poem, it was time for us to head to another community center in Beit Hanoun.

Women reading poetry at a women's community center in Beit Hanoun.

Though we visited several different community centers, some facets remained the same and were extremely welcoming. In each center, we were reminded of how life goes on despite military conflict, economic siege, and political infighting. Leaving all those problems at the door, women and children entered the community centers to gather in each others’ company, so that women could read books or stitch needlework together, and so children could learn songs and project their voices in unison throughout the entire building. In one particular room, a group of middle-aged women gathered to discuss prominent issues in their lives, educating each other about the rights guaranteed to them by Palestinian law. They spoke about domestic, financial, marital, and legal issues that they faced in their daily lives. In a third community center, we spoke with another group of women who had gathered in a room to read books, discuss relevant topics, and educate themselves with material resources offered by the center. Describing just why they regularly come to the center, the women explained that they have extremely limited access to literature in their homes yet they retain a strong desire to get a hold of books and other media. When asked whether these women feel suppressed in their daily lives, they explained that they certainly do not feel stifled by political groups such as Hamas or Fatah, the nation of Palestine, or by the popular interpretation of Islam. Rather, the women explained that they simply feel oppressed by the military occupation of Palestine and by the political and economic blockade of the Gaza Strip that keeps much of the population in poverty and limits access to resources such as books, magazines, movies, and other cultural outlets.

After leaving the community center, we drove to a refugee camp where we strolled down extremely bleak alleys to a little yard with a canvas tent erected in it. A large group of children played underneath the tent, painting each others’ faces and running about while several teenagers quietly watched. Tired and hot under the sun, I went to sit in the shade with them. It was difficult to communicate with them though it was still possible with our limited Arabic and English skills, and we all managed to hold a little conversation and ask about one another. Some of the teenagers requested that I take photos of them, and afterwards I asked to take a photo of a quiet young man standing and holding a little baby girl. We began speaking and it turned out that we are nearly the same age, though we lead extremely different lives. After a few words with him, an UNRWA worker approached me and began telling me about the local teenagers, explaining that the refugee camp is extremely poor and that the boys are by no means average individuals. She mentioned that it was actually quite a dangerous place to be in and that she did not feel very safe, but that it was extremely important to visit such camps and spend time with their residents. When it was time to leave, I shook hands with all of the young men and walked back towards the street, down the empty alleys crowded with tall, bare concrete walls, over sandy ground full of litter and occasional patches of exposed sewage. Stepping out from under the green Hamas flags flying proudly from a utility pole, we reached the street and boarded the bus, heading out of Beit Hanoun.

A road through one of Beit Hanoun's refugee camps.

Mustafa, a 23 year old resident of the refugee camp, with his daughter.

The bus sidled up next to an UNRWA packing and distribution center that was fenced in and sitting under the blue UN flags that would move with the occasional breeze. Someone announced that we had arrived in Jabaliya, so we gathered our belongings and stepped off the bus only to be greeted by a demolished wasteland of concrete and dirt. There were massive piles of rubble, remnants of factories and industrial complexes, and stacks of concrete sheets that once served as floors and roofs of countless homes. Visible down the road as it curved between piles of dirt and stacks of rubble, an entire line of white watchtowers could be seen marking the Green Line, the border between Israel and the Gaza Strip which runs roughly three kilometers from Jabaliya. During Operation Cast Lead, Israeli forces had brought airplanes, drones, tanks, bulldozers, and remotely triggered explosives to absolutely level half the town to the ground. Nearly every building was in shambles, with UN facilities remaining the exception. Groups of men gathered in a clearing near our bus, directly beside the bombed out ruins of what used to be an apartment building. They told our delegation that a majority of the residents of Jabaliya are Palestinian “citizens,” a term used to refer to individuals whose families have always been local to the area, as opposed to “refugees” who fled their native villages sometime in the past six decades. Several people stood around a man sitting in a cove created by the pancaked ruins of a house, watching as he tore pieces of cardboard to feed a fire burning in a garbage can. I walked around the area a bit, listening to stories told by some of the locals about the most recent invasion. Some delegates walked through the rubble of a house in order to get a better look at an ambulance that had intentionally been crushed with the demolition of the house, according to locals who recounted the events of the conflict. Concrete sheets and columns sprawled and teetered about, creating a maze of rubble, full of broken chunks of concrete and random bits of re-bar sticking out from everywhere. We continued to walk among the rubble while surveying the damage off in the distance. Industrial complexes roughly a square-block in size simply lay demolished, their old steel latticed trusses mangled and laying atop the remains of supporting structures. Utility vehicles were bombed out, burnt, and overturned. For what seemed like kilometers and as far as the eye could see in several directions, houses and factories remained as little more than rubble and wreckage.

Remnants of a house in Jabaliya.

A teenager rides his bicycle by the remains of a building in Jabaliya.

A crowd gathers in front of the wreckage of homes in Jabaliya.

A Red Crescent ambulance sits underneath the remains of a house. According to locals, the ambulance was called in response to injuries sustained by three girls who lived in this house, all between 5 and 9 years old, who were all shot and two were killed by an Israeli tanker manning a .50 caliber machine gun. After the paramedics arrived, they were ordered to leave the area by foot. The Israeli tanker proceeded to run over the ambulance with the tank, then plowed it into the house and detonated the structure over top of the vehicle. This story was corroborated by one of the paramedics on scene who I met days later in Gaza City.

Young men sit next to the remnants of a house that was destroyed by Israeli forces during Operation Cast Lead.

After visiting such harrowing sights, I was entirely ready to return to the hotel that the delegation used as a headquarters. I had hoped to find a few relaxing moments and maybe even a meal, though the evening’s schedule didn’t accommodate for these things and consisted of an opportunity that I simply could not pass up. When we arrived at the hotel, it was announced that a meeting with members of the Palestinian Legislative Council was set up just for us, and I was compelled to go. With twenty minutes of rest and only a minute to wash up, I was getting back on the bus that took us to the Palestinian Parliament, the Hamas government’s central location in the center of Gaza City. We arrived and took our seats in a tent erected in the parking lot in front of the decimated structure that used to be the Parliament building. Ahmed Bahar, the Speaker of the Palestinian Legislative Council greeted us and spoke to our delegation for a while, eventually exchanging speeches with Medea Benjamin, the leader of the CodePINK delegation, and Norman Finklestein, a professor and author that was a member of the delegation. Some of the old political rhetoric remained the same, though there were a number of new and fresh ideas that were tossed about before a question and answer session ensued. Following the meeting in the tent, the entire delegation toured the bombed out Parliament building, much of which was destroyed in the recent attacks by Israel. Perhaps the most exciting part of the tour was a short discussion that took place in the damaged building between one of the delegates, an American Jew, and Ahmed Bahar, a top Hamas official. After explaining that Dr. Bahar had to leave early due to a hectic schedule that included avoiding assassination attempts, the entire delegation opened up a pathway through the crowded wreckage and allowed the Speaker to pass through, shaking hands along the way. Upon coming to Ted, Dr. Bahar and his associates shook Ted’s hand and had a short follow-up discussion with him about a conversation they had earlier in which Ted told Dr. Bahar that he is Jewish. The Hamas officials took the time to explain that he is welcome in the Gaza Strip regardless of religion or ethnicity, so long as he serves peaceful interests and not a Zionist agenda. With that said, Dr. Bahar continued to shake everybody’s hand, including a number of Jewish delegates, before we wrapped up the event and returned to the bus.

Ahmed Bahar, Speaker of the Hamas government's Palestinian Legislative Council addressing the CodePINK delegation in Gaza City.

The CodePINK delegation touring the Legislative Council building, which sustained heavy damage during Israel's most recent military invasion of the Gaza Strip.

When it was time to leave, the delegation returned on the bus back to the hotel where our absolutely hectic day had begun, finally allowing our weary bodies and souls a chance to rest, recuperate, and process the day’s events.