A Month by the Sea (29 page)

I forced my way onto the step, passing two old women in tears; one had been verbally abused by Ali’s thickset mate who thrust her rejected documents at her so roughly she almost fell backwards. When I replaced her at the window Ali enjoyed telling me that Mr S—’s intervention had failed. But now there was a different story; I must return to Gaza City because the Egyptians had cancelled all non-pilgrim 2 July crossings. Walid translated, ‘Last Thursday we had a closure and all that list must cross today. Only that list. No one else.’

As my passport was returned, panic loomed. A postponed crossing would involve considerable financial loss. The faithful Abdallah must somehow be paid later on. My Cairo–London flight was booked for Monday 4 July and would be forfeited. On Tuesday 5 July I had a three-hour appointment with an expensive London dentist who imposes a hefty penalty if not given two working days’ notice before a broken appointment – and my mobile couldn’t reach London and anyway it was Saturday … I didn’t burden Walid with these sordid details but he recognised my near-panic and advised, ‘Ring your Mr S— again. If he contacts the Egyptians, you might get an exception order.’ I handed Walid my phone but by then Mr S—’s was switched off and the Department had closed.

Back at the café, I admitted defeat and was about to leave when a spotty youth came hurrying from the Office and said, ‘Sit down, please! Sit down and wait!’ When Walid questioned him he merely repeated in Arabic, ‘Sit down.’ Walid himself, having been thwarted by the Thursday closure, would probably get through before Gate 2 closed at 6.00 pm. He then explained why, in his estimation, Mr S … being out of reach didn’t really matter. It seems my trump card was a dud, and could even be counterproductive. Gate 1’s International sufferers might be victims of Department of
Transport
versus Department of Foreign Affairs faction fighting. Gate 1’s staff were Department of Transport employees, described by Walid as a disheartening example of Hamas’ stupid, uneducated, fanatical element, the sort of people who shouldn’t be given control of a wheelbarrow never mind a hypersensitive international border – a crossing which affects so many Gazans’ welfare on so many levels: emotional, medical, educational, economic. Those two departments employed different sorts of people – or so Walid alleged – and as the cake was being cut Transport perceived Foreign Affairs seizing an unfair share. And of course there were clan issues, into which Walid preferred not to go.

As we spoke the Gate slid open to release another Mecca-bound coach. That was the twelfth since my arrival and each carried 54 pilgrims to be processed individually by the Egyptians. Only three Internationals were listed for 2 July so it seemed perverse – in fact downright malicious – to compel us to wait all day though we had arrived before most of the pilgrims. I asked myself, ‘Do certain anti-Western officials enjoy punishing us for our past collective crimes? Is it our turn to be dominated, discriminated against, humiliated if possible?’ That would be unfair yet understandable. And in everyday life, away from Gaza’s place of torment, most Palestinians and Egyptians do treat one courteously and kindly.

At 1.40 pm Walid was called and a few minutes later the other Internationals appeared – striking figures in Gaza, so tall and fair.
Gunnar and Jan were from Sweden and the former, having spent 23 years in the OPT, spoke fluent Arabic. He wasn’t even slightly surprised by what I now thought of as a crisis. Together we advanced on the Office where Gunnar stood at the window, flanked by Jan and myself, and made a long speech while presenting our passports to Ali. My spirits rose; by some means I couldn’t divine, these Swedes were exercising a benign influence. For a silent moment Ali stared at Gunnar, his thin lips
compressed
, his jaw rigid with animosity. Then he picked up our passports and took them into no man’s land. When I quietly clapped my hands Gunnar cautioned, ‘Don’t be too joyful, we still have a long way to go!’

For the next 25 minutes we stood close to the step, in the full glare of the sun, watching Ali’s mates being nasty to a succession of distressed Gazans.

Then Ali returned our passports and freed us. I felt quite weak with relief as the Gate slid open, just for us, and we hurried towards the minivan link to the EUBAM buildings where a new set of procedures awaited us – this time computerised.

A dozen or so other non-Palestinians (Egyptian and Emirate citizens) were waiting amidst many rows of orange metal chairs facing six computer booths manned by three PA officials. These were polite and smartly uniformed but not at ease with our
passports
. As they stood arguing about them, passing them from hand to hand, Gunnar recalled being present in November 2005 when Israel formally handed over Rafah crossing to the PA, to be run in harness with Egypt and EUBAM monitors. The PA were allowed to admit only registered Gazans – no other Palestinians, no foreigners. Then in June 2007 Israel ordered total closure.

A tingle of alarm ran through me when the uniformed men returned our passports unprocessed. Looking apologetic, they explained: a new message had come from Gate 2 – only pilgrims could cross that afternoon, all others must return to Gaza City
and register for an alternative date. Now near-panic threatened the Swedes, they who had seemed so in control at Gate 1. Gunnar pleaded with the most-braided official: he and Jan were booked to fly from Cairo at noon on the morrow. All three officials expressed sympathy and looked genuinely concerned but had no pull with their counterparts at Gate 2. Jan then rang the Swedes’ liaison officer in Gaza City and sought for pressure to be put on the Egyptians by the PA interim administration in Ramallah. I said nothing; I’m good at playing the role of insignificant female.

We moved to the air-conditioned ‘Waiting Lounge’, a very long, bright room smelling strongly of EU taxpayers’ money with facilities for praying and purdah, soft golden-brown armchairs and sofas, glass and wrought-iron coffee tables, several TV sets and walls hung with anaemic watercolours of European beauty spots and (decorous) Picasso prints. The contrast between this space and Gate 1’s ‘café’ had a disturbing political symbolism.

And there sat Walid, also stymied. He looked aggrieved rather than angry and remarked, when I joined him, that our uniformed friends represented the internationally recognised though unelected Palestinian government. Therefore they were natural enemies of the Gate 1 contingent, adding another faction fight to the Rafah equation. In mid-sentence he broke off with a startled exclamation. ‘It’s you!’ – he pointed to the nearest TV set, showing a publicity video for Freedom Flotilla II. In Dublin, on the eve of my departure for Gaza, I had joined the MV
Saoirse
activists for the making of this video and now I was exhorting viewers to ‘Stay human! Stay human!’ – Vik’s trademark phrase, adopted by the Flotilla as its slogan. I detest TV and in my already hyper-stressed state this was too much: a feeling of total unreality overcame me momentarily. But I had to adjust to stardom: that video was replayed every ten minutes during the next hour.

When the liaison officer reported that Ramallah couldn’t help I suggested ringing our ambassadors in Cairo but on a Saturday
afternoon neither was within reach. Later I discovered that they are friends who may have been sharing a weekend outing as we stood biting our nails at the Gate.

We were looking at one another – who would first admit defeat and summon a taxi? – when hope was rekindled. A notably tall and handsome young PA official, in civvies, had been contacted by Ramallah and
might
be able to get an Egyptian ‘exception order’ as we were only three Internationals.

The next half-hour was the worst. I paced the room, thinking of the emergency emails I’d have to try to send from Gaza City – if the electricity allowed computers to function. And how to pay Abdallah? Someone could take a verbal message but wouldn’t it be daft to give dollar notes to a total stranger? By then the sheer insanity of the day’s events had switched off my optimism.

Walid halted my pacing with the good news. Somehow he knew, before our saviour returned, that the exception order had been granted – of course only for Internationals. This made the Swedes and me feel bad but Walid reminded us, ‘Gazans don’t expect life to be easy. We’ll all sleep on these sofas and tomorrow go on waiting.’

As the exception order was handed to the passport officers we chorused our thanks in our best Arabic – though come to think of it, this was scarcely an occasion for gratitude. We should have been dealt with at 8.30 before the pilgrim flow began. Or was Hamas to blame for not letting us through? Impossible to know and anyway it didn’t matter now …

My passport was first to be stamped and I rushed to the exit; it was 4.20 and Abdallah had been waiting for more than five hours. Outside the door three policemen stopped me – I must return to the Waiting Lounge and ‘Sit down please’. Angrily I protested that I had been sitting in that lounge for more than two hours and at Rafah for six and a half hours and my passport had been through two procedures and now I wanted to get into Egypt fast! I was
misbehaving – shouting in English at men who understood hardly a word of the language and were not personally to blame for anything, apart from their own aggressive attitudes. Then two of them made to grab my bags and that cowed me into returning – to find myself being upbraided for trying to evade a departure tax of which I knew nothing. In my rush I hadn’t seen a small notice beside a closed kiosk – ‘Exit Tax: 60 NIS’. Gunnar and Jan beckoned me: we had to wait for the kiosk to open. And then we had to wait for the minivan that would take us to Travel House, the Egyptian processing plant.

‘Sit down, please!’ Gunnar teased me, patting the metal chair beside his. I didn’t see the joke; my sense of humour was in abeyance. ‘Let’s walk,’ I suggested. ‘It’s a five-minute drive away and none of us has much luggage.’ Gunnar shook his head. ‘Walking is very forbidden – sit down please and wait!’

Ten minutes later the tax-kiosk clerk came dawdling along, chatting to a friend. Our 60 NIS earned a glossy receipt for US$15, paid to the Ministry of Finance, Palestinian National Authority. The opening of the Rafah Gate could not be allowed to benefit a ‘terrorist’ organisation.

We returned to our seats, having been assured the minibus was ‘on its way’, and I wondered what my companions made of all these convolutions. It would have been tactless to ask; INGO workers have to be circumspect in conversation with writers. Then, telepathically, Jan commented that at present chaos was inevitable. Rafah had opened on 28 May, soon after Egypt’s announcement that it would open – which gave no one enough time to get their act together.

For admission to Egypt, Gazans had to be PA-vetted; but they couldn’t get past Gate 1 to the PA checkpoint without registering their exit date on a Hamas list back in Gaza City. We noted a sad irony in two of the statements made by Egypt’s Foreign Minister, Nabil Elarby. He had given his own spin to Rafah’s reopening –
‘to end the Palestinian division and achieve national reconciliation’. But he also explained – ‘rules in effect before the closure shall be reinstated’. Those two statements couldn’t jell. Egypt was still deciding how many might cross each day and the nightmare hours (or days) people spent at Gate 1 were a result of a Hamas
muscle-flexing
exercise. Their supporters undoubtedly got preference on the ‘exit date’ register and because they controlled this they were, in effect, empowered to imprison Palestinians on the Strip. Yet no marks had been made on our passports by the ‘Ali’s Office’ faction who were physically able to block individuals’ movements. Moreover, though they could prevent people from crossing, their allowing someone through was no guarantee that the PA would do likewise. Or that Egypt would admit them: every day scores were being ‘returned’ from Travel House.

By now Walid and his fellow-rejects had settled down in the Waiting Lounge and we were on our own in the computer hall. Eventually even Gunnar reckoned it was time to stop adapting to the Middle East. He went exploring, in search of our vehicle – only to find that it had been and gone, its driver having failed to find us in the lounge. A uniformed PA man led him back to us and said, ‘Sit down please and wait. Soon the car will come again.’

Twelve minutes later a limousine picked us up and as the driver was about to start, three young men gathered around his door, leaning on the bonnet, demanding a lift to Gate 2. They all spoke together and as the argument lengthened we protested, quite vigorously. ‘No problem,’ said the driver, ‘wait five minutes’ – at which point I again misbehaved, thumping my fist on the window beside me, not caring at that moment if I broke it. The driver then took fright and accelerated hard, leaving the young men shouting furiously and waving their fists. We sped under the ‘Welcome to Palestine’ archway, then crawled through three checkpoints where Egyptian soldiers in crumpled uniforms spent
time fumbling with our passports and examining our departure tax receipts as though they were likely to be forged.

Since my arrival there had been a development in the long, wide corridor leading to the Travel House concourse. Four mobile booths displayed hand-written bilingual notices – ‘Government of Egypt Customs’. Each was equipped with a luggage
weighing-scales
and two cheerful, friendly customs officers over-keen to justify their existence. They opened and examined every item of everybody’s baggage. At one stage I caught Gunnar looking at me rather anxiously, perhaps fearing the enraged old lady would have a stroke and die on the spot.

Hundreds of obviously stressed-out travellers thronged the vast passport control concourse where our final ordeal was a currency crisis. Passports cannot be stamped before the departure tax is paid and only Egyptian pounds (of which we had none) are acceptable and the bank in the corner was firmly locked. It was now 5.20 and a policeman told us it wouldn’t open until the morrow. But for the Swedes, I might have spent that night in Travel House. Gunnar disappeared for some ten minutes and returned with a bank clerk. But then our passports had to be taken upstairs and it was 6.40 before I was free to half-run to Gate 2 where I could see Abdallah frantically waving, wreathed in smiles. He was accompanied by his charming eldest son because he had expected quite a long delay …