baths, which are literally just across the street. This old quarter of the city is built, like Gaza itself, on an ancient crossroads.
Half an hour later, my arms are weighed down from bulging plastic bags and my shopping is done. I emerge back onto the main street, turn right and walk along a short pedestrian lane to the corner where the yellow Mercedes public taxis stop to pick up and drop off passengers. Men are selling vegetables and fruit out here on the street too – but also shawarma, baked sweets dripping with honey and rolled in pistachios, and hot, sweet coffee. Women browse arm-in-arm with their friends as smoke rises like incense from food stalls. Men, women and children smile at me and I smile back.
I know there are extremists in Gaza, and not just the Doghmush clan. Pockets of Salafists in the southern Strip espouse ancient Islam, Shari’a law and
jihad
, and some of them have a violent hatred of Westerners. 28 One of the first times I walked alone in a quiet street in the city centre, a man hissed at me so that I would see him openly masturbating; and when I flinched, he laughed and bared his teeth like a dog. Since that bad start, though, I have experienced very little harassment on these streets. I feel fine about taking one of the yellow public taxis because all that I’ve encountered here today has been friendliness. But tensions are tightening. The rumours that Israel is about to launch another military operation are circling, like the
zanana
drones in the skies.
great night for a party!
The bombing starts a few days later, on a Wednesday afternoon. Israeli spokesmen in suits and narrow ties appear on television, claiming that Palestinian terrorists have smuggled long-range rockets, like Katyushas and Grads, into Gaza through the tunnels and that Israel is ‘responding’ to the situation with a military operation in order to disrupt terrorist infrastructure inside the Strip. The prime minister of Gaza, Ismail Haniyeh, states that Hamas will respond to any Israeli attack. Israel has bombed Gaza almost every day since I arrived here nearly three months ago.
I spend that Wednesday evening alone in my flat and try to watch TV. But the reception is garbled.
Zananas
are patrolling the skies and they disrupt transmission, so the newsreaders look warped on the screen and they sound like staggering drunks. I turn the television off and attempt to start reading. But then the electricity cuts out. Cursing, I reach for the matches and candles that I keep within reach on the table. Now I can hear bombs pounding. Three missiles strike somewhere close to my apartment, each one a stomach-clenching thump. I hear a helicopter in the sky. I can’t help myself – I want to see what’s going on out there, so I step out onto my living-room balcony, my back pressed hard against the wall. There is smoke everywhere, a helicopter hovering above. It emits a brief flare of red lights and what sounds like machine-gun fire. I feel an electric surge of pure fear and reverse back inside, my heart pounding out of control. This calls for emergency measures. Feeling my way along the walls into the dark kitchen, I open the fridge and fumble inside the melting freezer, where I keep a bottle of vodka. I twist off the cap, take a good swig, then another one. I don’t want to feel anything right now.
Saida calls me: ‘
Habibti
, are you OK? The situation is terrible. Listen, open your windows a little. If there’s a big explosion near you, the pressure can break all the glass and I don’t want you to get hurt.’
Her voice, usually so calm and measured, is faintly shrill. She’s truly scared, and so am I. But we both pretend we are feeling all right, and this will soon be over. When we’ve finished talking on the phone, I take a candle into my bedroom, pull the curtains apart and open the windows a little. In between explosions all I can hear is
zananas
buzzing in the sky like giant wasps.
At work the next morning we sit
Half an hour later, my arms are weighed down from bulging plastic bags and my shopping is done. I emerge back onto the main street, turn right and walk along a short pedestrian lane to the corner where the yellow Mercedes public taxis stop to pick up and drop off passengers. Men are selling vegetables and fruit out here on the street too – but also shawarma, baked sweets dripping with honey and rolled in pistachios, and hot, sweet coffee. Women browse arm-in-arm with their friends as smoke rises like incense from food stalls. Men, women and children smile at me and I smile back.
I know there are extremists in Gaza, and not just the Doghmush clan. Pockets of Salafists in the southern Strip espouse ancient Islam, Shari’a law and
jihad
, and some of them have a violent hatred of Westerners. 28 One of the first times I walked alone in a quiet street in the city centre, a man hissed at me so that I would see him openly masturbating; and when I flinched, he laughed and bared his teeth like a dog. Since that bad start, though, I have experienced very little harassment on these streets. I feel fine about taking one of the yellow public taxis because all that I’ve encountered here today has been friendliness. But tensions are tightening. The rumours that Israel is about to launch another military operation are circling, like the
zanana
drones in the skies.
great night for a party!
The bombing starts a few days later, on a Wednesday afternoon. Israeli spokesmen in suits and narrow ties appear on television, claiming that Palestinian terrorists have smuggled long-range rockets, like Katyushas and Grads, into Gaza through the tunnels and that Israel is ‘responding’ to the situation with a military operation in order to disrupt terrorist infrastructure inside the Strip. The prime minister of Gaza, Ismail Haniyeh, states that Hamas will respond to any Israeli attack. Israel has bombed Gaza almost every day since I arrived here nearly three months ago.
I spend that Wednesday evening alone in my flat and try to watch TV. But the reception is garbled.
Zananas
are patrolling the skies and they disrupt transmission, so the newsreaders look warped on the screen and they sound like staggering drunks. I turn the television off and attempt to start reading. But then the electricity cuts out. Cursing, I reach for the matches and candles that I keep within reach on the table. Now I can hear bombs pounding. Three missiles strike somewhere close to my apartment, each one a stomach-clenching thump. I hear a helicopter in the sky. I can’t help myself – I want to see what’s going on out there, so I step out onto my living-room balcony, my back pressed hard against the wall. There is smoke everywhere, a helicopter hovering above. It emits a brief flare of red lights and what sounds like machine-gun fire. I feel an electric surge of pure fear and reverse back inside, my heart pounding out of control. This calls for emergency measures. Feeling my way along the walls into the dark kitchen, I open the fridge and fumble inside the melting freezer, where I keep a bottle of vodka. I twist off the cap, take a good swig, then another one. I don’t want to feel anything right now.
Saida calls me: ‘
Habibti
, are you OK? The situation is terrible. Listen, open your windows a little. If there’s a big explosion near you, the pressure can break all the glass and I don’t want you to get hurt.’
Her voice, usually so calm and measured, is faintly shrill. She’s truly scared, and so am I. But we both pretend we are feeling all right, and this will soon be over. When we’ve finished talking on the phone, I take a candle into my bedroom, pull the curtains apart and open the windows a little. In between explosions all I can hear is
zananas
buzzing in the sky like giant wasps.
At work the next morning we sit
Similar Books
