stand on every corner of the city, and though many locals despise their ideology, they have welcomed the new law and order that has secured the streets. Even the Doghmush, always the most hard-faced of the clans, have a whiff of desperation about them these days. The police have already torched half a dozen Doghmush apartments, and if the Army of Islam does carry out its threat to snatch a foreigner, Hamas will no doubt butcher them.
But even though this latest kidnap threat is probably grandstanding, I know I am vulnerable going out on my own like this. I always wear long sleeves and trousers and a modest neckline, though I don’t cover my hair. But I have yet to see another Westerner walking the streets here. I’ve only seen them sitting inside white UN four-wheel drives. That knot in my guts twinges whenever I set off alone. But I have to wander around, otherwise I won’t see anything.
Pushing through a narrow side street into Souq al-Zawiya, I immediately see and smell the fruits, meat and spices on display. This stretch of the
souq
is dominated by fruit traders, now flogging left-over crates of oranges and strawberries – the season for both is nearly over – but further along, the men are mainly selling vegetables. The meat section, with its stinking cages of half-bald hens, is somewhere in the middle. Herb and spice stalls are dotted in between, along with stalls selling pots, pans and other household bits and pieces.
I’m always drawn to the spice stalls and their opulence of seeds, powders, dried flakes and leaves. I stop at one now, to buy another bag of sage leaves to infuse my tea, plus a stub of ginger, a crimson spice powder called
sumac
(which Saida tells me has a delicate lemony taste and is especially good with chicken) and, as an after thought, some black peppercorns. The stallholder scoops them loose from the tub with a wooden ladle, pours them into a small plastic sac and seals it with a quick knot. He asks where I come from.
‘Scotland,’ I say.
‘Ahhh, Scotlanda – Braveheart!’
We laugh. Every country needs its heroes, real or imaginary, usually an amalgam of both. Braveheart is very popular here (though I doubt many people know that his real name was William Wallace). But Che Guevara is beloved, his name and profile plastered in red all across the city, his hooded eyes staring down at the Strip as though he can save Gaza from the Israeli occupation and from itself.
The stallholder wants to know if I like Gaza. I say that I do – the people are friendly and the food is good. He gives me an indulgent smile. Then, like the businessman he is, he asks if I would also like to buy some
za’atar
, a blend of crushed thyme, oregano and marjoram, to eat with bread and olive oil. Gazans do love their spices.
One of the reasons that Alexander the Great laid siege to Gaza back in the fourth century BC was his desire to control the lucrative international spice trade, of which Gaza was a key hub. Spices were being traded across the Arab world before history was recorded, and as an ancient crossroads spanning three continents, Gaza became a vast international spice market and caravanserai. The peppercorns I have just bought are an everyday household item here, though not a great favourite with Gazans. But pepper – by far the most popular spice in the history of the trade – and other spices, like cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg, were branded as decadent ‘must-haves’ of the ancient world. And from the early days of the trade, raconteurs wove incredible stories about the perils of harvesting spices. Most of the tales were sheer colourful nonsense – but they thrilled customers and knocked up the price, and the kudos, of exotic spices.
It was from the brimming warehouses and heaving ports of Alexandria and Gaza that vast quantities of spices, perfumes and incense were shipped across the Mediterranean to Western Europe. Incense was considered a sacred spice, as it soothed angry gods of all
But even though this latest kidnap threat is probably grandstanding, I know I am vulnerable going out on my own like this. I always wear long sleeves and trousers and a modest neckline, though I don’t cover my hair. But I have yet to see another Westerner walking the streets here. I’ve only seen them sitting inside white UN four-wheel drives. That knot in my guts twinges whenever I set off alone. But I have to wander around, otherwise I won’t see anything.
Pushing through a narrow side street into Souq al-Zawiya, I immediately see and smell the fruits, meat and spices on display. This stretch of the
souq
is dominated by fruit traders, now flogging left-over crates of oranges and strawberries – the season for both is nearly over – but further along, the men are mainly selling vegetables. The meat section, with its stinking cages of half-bald hens, is somewhere in the middle. Herb and spice stalls are dotted in between, along with stalls selling pots, pans and other household bits and pieces.
I’m always drawn to the spice stalls and their opulence of seeds, powders, dried flakes and leaves. I stop at one now, to buy another bag of sage leaves to infuse my tea, plus a stub of ginger, a crimson spice powder called
sumac
(which Saida tells me has a delicate lemony taste and is especially good with chicken) and, as an after thought, some black peppercorns. The stallholder scoops them loose from the tub with a wooden ladle, pours them into a small plastic sac and seals it with a quick knot. He asks where I come from.
‘Scotland,’ I say.
‘Ahhh, Scotlanda – Braveheart!’
We laugh. Every country needs its heroes, real or imaginary, usually an amalgam of both. Braveheart is very popular here (though I doubt many people know that his real name was William Wallace). But Che Guevara is beloved, his name and profile plastered in red all across the city, his hooded eyes staring down at the Strip as though he can save Gaza from the Israeli occupation and from itself.
The stallholder wants to know if I like Gaza. I say that I do – the people are friendly and the food is good. He gives me an indulgent smile. Then, like the businessman he is, he asks if I would also like to buy some
za’atar
, a blend of crushed thyme, oregano and marjoram, to eat with bread and olive oil. Gazans do love their spices.
One of the reasons that Alexander the Great laid siege to Gaza back in the fourth century BC was his desire to control the lucrative international spice trade, of which Gaza was a key hub. Spices were being traded across the Arab world before history was recorded, and as an ancient crossroads spanning three continents, Gaza became a vast international spice market and caravanserai. The peppercorns I have just bought are an everyday household item here, though not a great favourite with Gazans. But pepper – by far the most popular spice in the history of the trade – and other spices, like cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg, were branded as decadent ‘must-haves’ of the ancient world. And from the early days of the trade, raconteurs wove incredible stories about the perils of harvesting spices. Most of the tales were sheer colourful nonsense – but they thrilled customers and knocked up the price, and the kudos, of exotic spices.
It was from the brimming warehouses and heaving ports of Alexandria and Gaza that vast quantities of spices, perfumes and incense were shipped across the Mediterranean to Western Europe. Incense was considered a sacred spice, as it soothed angry gods of all
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