Archives for June 2012

This is Part Two of a rare first hand account of accessing Gaza through the tunnels that connect the Gaza Strip to the outside world. To protect those involved, the author is anonymous and all the names have been changed. Note: The photos are of Gaza tunnels, but they were not taken by the author of this account, nor were they taken at the same time as the author’s trip.

Getting out

The exit leg of the trip was long and worrisome:

Because my return flight from Cairo to Tel Aviv was set for 9:00 am on Sunday Cairo time, and to avoid driving from Rafah to Cairo through Sinai at night, I decided to leave Gaza City the day before, Saturday  as soon as I finished my lecture.

It was arranged for a taxi to pick me up at 12:30 from IUG and to take me directly to Muthanna (my Palestinian “tunnel” organizer), who was waiting for us at the Gaza Mental Health Program “chalet” on the beach, not far from Al-Zawaydeh (the middle part of Gaza).  There, we had to wait for about 30 minutes for Abu Tarek, originally a Bedouin from the Rafah area (and our effective and indispensable “key” for the tunnel procedure.)  He met me at the tunnel opening when I entered.  He’s Muthanna’s reliable contact. The plan was that I’d be accompanied to the “mouth” of the tunnel in Rafah with Muthanna, Abu Tarek (of the inviting organization).

We arrived at the tunnel area in Rafah about 40 minutes later.  We were led to the office of “Central Operations, the Borders’ Commission” of the Ministry of the Interior in the Gaza Government.  Government offices are closed on Fridays and Saturdays, we were told.  This office had a skeleton staff of one—a very nice young man, with a cute smile, dressed in black shirt and black trousers, no evidence of any gun to his waist, but he could not (or would not) take any personal responsibility for the decisions he had to take.  This situation spelled disaster for us.

I showed my documents: (1) the permit from the Ministry of Interior to enter Gaza, (2) My US passport stamped in Egypt with an entry visa, and (3) my return ticket.  He recorded my data, which he had a hell of a time deciphering, on a loose sheet of paper.  He kept repeating my name as “ad-daktoor.”  I kept on correcting him every time he called someone with the information, but he kept repeating the same thing.  Also, my accompanying team in the office kept correcting him and telling him: “Ad-Doktoor is an important doktoor and professor, and he came to lecture.”

The young man kept trying to call “his superiors” for authorization.  He said that all my information was in order, but he could not “authorize” me to cross in his own capacity.  The person, or persons, he was trying to call had their Jawwals (Palestinian cells) turned off.  He said he was sorry for this, but he could not do anything about it. In the meantime, we sat in his office on a very wide dusty bed (with no sides or pillows for back support), constantly shifting our bodies for comfort, searching and hoping to keep our backs straight.  We were very hot; dust and more dust everywhere.  The cab driver sat in his cab and waited for us.  All of us waited and hoped for the Jawwal on the other side of the signal to turn on!  We assumed this was the reason for the delay.

We became very intolerant with the nonchalant attitude and indecisiveness. My team kept repeating “Ad-Doktoor had to leave today; otherwise he’ll miss his flight tomorrow morning to America.”  He had the ticket in front of him, on the dusty and bare desk, showing, for anyone, who could read English, and that my flight was to Tel Aviv not to America! He kept apologizing for delaying us, and insisted that he needed authorization, and he could not take the responsibility on his own to let me through.  He said perhaps his superior was sleeping.  We said: “why don’t you wake him up; if he’s sleeping nothing gets done?”

We consulted among ourselves on how to nudge the decision process. In the meantime, we had been sitting, fidgeting, sighing … and Abu Tarek making his Islamic supplications, recalling Koranic verses, intermingled with Arabic jokes to release tension … As we “sat” there, a colleague of our indecisive young man, from another Ministry of Interior office next door, came in and, after hearing the story and that my papers were in order, he urged our young man repeatedly: “Hurry and authorize the crossing of ad-Doktoor so he can be on his way”.  This, however, was to no avail on the claim that he needed authorization from his superiors.  Suddenly, and without receiving any external calls, or any indication that he received the “needed” authorization from his superiors or anybody, he decided to let me cross … just like that!  We got up after nearly two hours; thanked him, and followed, in our taxi, his colleague, in his jeep, towards the “mouth” of the same tunnel through which I came in.

Entering the tunnel was no problem at all, no delay.  The platform elevator was level with the ground, where the passengers—I and two full-size, horse-pulled carts, awaited and ready to board.  The carts, with their horses and drivers, loaded side by side on the wooden platform, followed by my suitcase on one of the carts.  “Yalla doktoor, hop on,” I was instructed, and I gladly obliged, relieved that the ordeal was basically over.  Down the 40-meter shaft we were lowered: I, two young men, two horses, two carts on four wheels each, and my suitcase.  As we reached the ground, one of the carts proceeded ahead of us, while my driver asked me to hold on tight.  The only way I could hold on tight was to lay flat on the dirty cart hanging on my suitcase.  (Keep in mind that I was coming directly from giving a lecture at the university with a white shirt, dressing dark pants, suit jacket …).  I held on tight for my life with great fear at times of falling, as the horse trotted most of the 750 meters of the tunnel, jerking my body right and left, until we got to the opening on the Egyptian side, where I let a big sigh when I could see the natural light!

I got out from the tunnel with my suitcase, shoulder satchel, jacket, pants, shirt, and hair, all full of white powdery sand and dirt; thirsty and without anything to eat since 6:00 am.  By now, it was about 5:00 pm.

A young boy was asked by the tunnel operator to help carry the suitcase of al-Hajj (me) to the wire gate signaling the entrance, a distance of 20-30 meters.  The young boy dragged my suitcase in thick dirt and sand, and placed it outside the gate, which they closed behind me.

Now, I stood alone with my suitcase immediately outside the gate, with no sign of my driver who transported me from the airport to Rafah a few days back, and whom I expected to see waiting for me at the gate, especially since he is reliable, and we had called him the night before and informed him about the arrangements.  We had asked him to be there about 2:30 pm, but I arrived about 3 hours late.  What to do now? I stood at the entrance gate, in an unknown and potentially hostile territory, with an overwhelming sense of panic.  I felt I was standing in a mafia-controlled territory, as the sun was gradually disappearing.  This is an area under the total control of Bedouin tribes, marauders, traders and transporters of every commodity for which there is demand and pay, between the two sides of Rafah.  There is clearly no control of the Egyptian central authority here.  On the contrary, these people are overtly opposed to the presence of any symbols of central authority.  The last two days, the area witnessed armed confrontation between the northern Sinai tribesmen and Egyptian police and army.  Police posts were attacked with RPG’s and some were ambushed, which resulted in several injuries and one dead. They don’t hide their deep mistrust and hostility towards the Egyptian police and army, and they express openly their desire to establish an “Islamic Salafist Imarah” in this region.

As I stood there, I tried desperately to call my driver on his mobile to no avail.  I could not get hold of him.  He was praying.  After about 30 minutes, which seemed forever, he showed up, and sped with me towards Cairo airport, dodging the hot spots of confrontation and burning tires on the main access road, and clearly rushing to avoid driving in the dark in northern Sinai.

He dropped me off at about 10:00 pm at Novotel airport hotel, in which I had reserved a room the night before.  All I needed at that minute was to have a decent place where I could have a nice hot bath, a meal, a bottle of wine, a TV with good reception, clean sheets, and sleep.  That I did, until I was awakened at 6:00 am to ready myself to catch my flight back to Tel Aviv.

Observations at-large

I will start with observations of little things, compared with Ramallah:

• Observable on the streets are old, run-down cars, with more pollution; absence of fancy, new, late model cars observable on the streets of the “imaginary bubble” called Ramallah.  On the other hand, animal-pulled carts (donkeys, mules and horses), abound on the streets of Gaza to transport rubbish, building materials, cases of water and soft drinks, vegetables, etc.  Most often, they are “driven” by younger boys; in some cases, middle-aged women were “driving” their donkey-pulled carts with some homegrown vegetables to peddle at different stops.

• Popular foods (falafel, humus, fool, etc.) are much cheaper than in Ramallah; in my experience, the price is about one-third what I am used to in Ramallah.  In one instance, I walked to the “popular food” shop across the street from the apartment where I stayed, to get some falafel and humus for lunch.  When I asked about the cost of the falafel, he told me “seven for one Shekel”.  My shock was obvious from my body reaction.  The owner said: “clearly you are not from here”.  No, I answered, “I am Palestinian from Galilee but living in Ramallah”.  “How much is it in Ramallah,” he asked, “generally, three for one Shekel,” I answered.

But, when the average person has no money, this seems to be the only affordable quick food. On the other hand, the only available commercial bread is the tiny, white-flour, tasteless, cardboard-like, “kmajeh”, which young people refer to as “bitah”! I looked hard to find other kinds of bread, dark, or whole wheat, etc., hoping in my exuberance of visiting Gaza in spite of all kinds of restrictions, to stumble upon “taboun” bread, but to no avail.

• Unless you were planning to shop at the new mall, it was almost impossible to walk around with denominations bigger than 50 Shekels. Small shops cannot handle bigger denominations, and have no small change.
• During my stay, electricity was interrupted every day, during the day, sometimes for 7-8 hours; often it came back late during the night.  So, one had to plan when to charge mobile phones, what to keep, or not to keep, in the refrigerator, when can you heat water on the gas stove for coffee or tea, if you don’t smoke and don’t walk around with a box of matches or a lighter, etc. Not to mention, of course, if you’re hoping to keep up with your favorite TV show…
• I walked up and down Omar Al-Mukhtar Street, one of the main, and at one time fancy, streets in Gaza city.  When the electricity was out, every shop, small or big, had a running small generator by the door.  The noise is deafening; and combined with the heat and dust of the day, the noise pollution is overbearing.
• Tap water is salty.  I would brush my teeth in the morning, and I have the constant taste of salt in my mouth until I had a chance to eat or drink bottled water.  Of course, this water is undrinkable. But who can afford bottled water? How does the average person, who has no money and cannot afford to go to restaurants, manage?
• Long cues of cars are frequently observable in front of gas stations, waiting for cheaper Egyptian gasoline and solar (mazoot) to arrive.  Next to the cars, I observed another long cue of empty tin cans and gallon jugs waiting to be filled, so they can be sold on the black market for some profit (which is illegal; taking pictures of these cues is also illegal).  The price of the Egyptian gas is less than half the price of the Israeli gas.  I observed these phenomena also in northern Sinai district, as I entered and exited Gaza.
• Not readily observable are young “professional technocrats” walking around with their name tags, attached to blue ribbons, and dangling down from their necks, as is the common scene in many Ramallah streets.  A few “NGO types” can be observed, mainly near fancy hotels and meeting halls, but not abundantly.
• Walking the streets, during day or night, I never feared for my personal security.  Nor did I notice signs of armed groups, or such menacing scenes.  I felt the place was quiet.

Some observations of the bigger things:

• Readily observable is the presence of a big and clear chasm in geography, thought and speech simultaneously.  The Gaza Strip appears to be a world in its own.  Unity of Gaza and the West Bank is illusory. It appears to me that, more and more, Gaza is extending southwards, through language, social and human relationships, economic interests, daily interactions, and tyranny of religious thought, etc., and connecting with northern Sinai.  As observed, northern Sinai district exists in a sort of “imaginary self-rule”, detached from the central authority and in confrontation with it.
• I began wondering about the implications of such geographical and emotive fragmentation, and the role and planning of Zionist colonization in fueling such disintegration in order to control the available energy resources in the entire area.  I also began questioning our contribution in feeding this fragmentation and disintegration, the more we insist on seeking a solution based on the partitioning of Palestine, and disregards its historical wholeness.
• There are allusions that current society in Gaza is undergoing a “Talibanization” process, evidenced by the insistence of the Ministry of Education to introduce “Sharia” classes, required at the basic education level.  Drew my attention, in this context, a big sign affixed to the wall of the police training academy (that was shelled at the beginning of the war on Gaza), stating in bold calligraphy: “The liberation generation will emerge from the mosques”.
• One is very impressed by the resilience and creative steadfastness shown by the average people of Gaza in their daily adaptation to the most difficult and oppressive living conditions and environment.  It was very clear to me that there was a prevalence of positive feeling of interactive human solidarity and concern to each other, which exceeds by leaps and bounds what I observe in Ramallah.

I am very excited to be able to share this rare first-hand account of accessing Gaza through the tunnels that link the Gaza Strip to the outside world. To protect those involved, the author of the account is anonymous and all the names have been changed. Note: The photos are of the Gaza tunnels, but they were not taken by the author of this account, nor were they taken on the same trip.

Opening remarks

1. I was invited to visit Gaza by a small organization, Tida Gaza. I accepted the invitation on the same day.
2. After being informed of the documents I hold, the organizers proposed two options through which I could enter Gaza.  The first option: to enter through the official crossing point at Rafah (al-Ma’bar), which meant that I would fly from Tel Aviv to Cairo, and be driven from there by car to Rafah. This required me to visit the US Embassy in Cairo a day before (since I would be traveling on my US passport) in order to give me a letter clearing them from any responsibility, while in Gaza.  It required also pre-coordination with Egyptian intelligence. The second option: to enter through the underground tunnels, which required pre-coordination with the Ministry of the Interior of the Gaza government, but without any coordination with the American or Egyptian authorities.
3. I opted for the second option right away based on the principle that I, as a Palestinian, should not require external coordination, especially with our enemies, to interact and deliberate with my people, wherever they are, on important issues that affect our collective future.  My organizers took upon themselves to do the necessary coordination with the Gaza authorities.
4. All communications with me were through emails and telephone.  I received a scanned copy of an entry permit from the Ministry of Interior valid for 30 days; a lecture was arranged for me; samples of my earlier writings were requested and sent; a scanned copy of my US passport; and names and numbers of all necessary contacts in Gaza responsible for my visit. At this moment, early on, I was impressed, and worried at the same time, by the level of openness, overtness, and normalcy of the whole process.  On the other hand, I kept reiterating to myself that I was not on a secret mission; I was going to lecture to university students, and to hold discussions in an open small seminar with concerned young people on pressing issues of “development”, which I addressed in my most recent book.  Accordingly, I reserved my flight.

Getting in

My flight on Air Sinai from Tel Aviv to Cairo was scheduled to leave at 12:00 noon on a Monday; it was about 30 minutes late.  We arrived at Cairo airport at about 2:00 pm, Egypt time. As an Israeli citizen, I exited from Tel Aviv on my Israeli passport, and I entered Egypt on my American passport.  This is the only way I could travel.

After I came out of customs, I saw four taxi drivers holding names of persons for whom they were waiting.  I veered towards them in search of my name, but it was not among them.  My heart sank for a minute; I was calm, however, but panic was about to set in! At that moment, my designated driver, whose name and cell number I was carrying, came in with my name and identified me.  Without wasting anytime, he picked up my suitcase, directed me to his car, and we started heading northeast in the direction of Rafah (on the Egyptian-Palestinian border—keep in mind that Rafah is an artificially divided city on both sides of the border).

It was a drive of about 4-5 hours (450 km).  I tried to learn everything about “Mohammed” (my driver), and he about me.  Often I had to repeat my question or comment because of difference in our spoken Arabic dialects, which rendered some word usages too incomprehensible to both of us. Nevertheless, I learned that he grew up in various regions of the Sinai desert because his father was the chief engineer for putting in the railroad tracks for the “Hijaz Line” in the early thirties under the British occupation.  I felt reassured, particularly as it began to get dark, that he was familiar with the region in which we were driving, and that he spoke the local vernacular.  Most of the road northeastward, after clearing the Egyptian city of Ismailiyya, was dusty, to a suffocating degree, with sand in the air—a desert—until we got to the city of El-Arish on the shore of the Mediterranean.  From there we continued towards the city of Rafah, not to the official Crossing point between Egypt and Gaza, but to the “tunnel area”, which we reached around 5:45 pm.

Whereas the official Rafah Crossing is clearly marked with Egyptian flags, visible structures and signs, the entrance to the “tunnel area” is buried in the sand, and decipherable only to the knowledgeable; neither my driver nor I possessed this needed knowledge. Finally, we reached, as close as we could, the general tunnel area, and waited for instructions from my organizers on the Palestinian side.

In a way, it was tantamount to arriving at the right “terminal” in the airport, so to speak, but without any “gate” information, i.e., which of the nearly 1,700 tunnels we’re “scheduled” to take so that we can meet in the right place with our people on the other side. As we approached, Mohammed suggested calling my contact on the other side.  I called twice as we waited on the Egyptian side.  A “committee”, we were told, was convening to decide which tunnel to “allocate” for my crossing, since I had a formal entry approval from the Palestinian Ministry of the Interior—Gaza Government.  Fearing that it would become dark soon, and I won’t be able to cross, and may had to stay overnight on the Egyptian Rafah side, Mohammed decided to seek the advice of his local tribal contacts.  He did, and someone by the name of “Abu Bilal” met us there soon after.  After a brief discussion he proposed the “right” tunnel to take, which, I assumed, it was based on considerations of familiarity, safety and reliability? He knew it by the name of its owner/operator (a privately-owned).  He directed us to the “mouth” of the tunnel.  There, we encountered two men sitting on plastic chairs in the sand, without any appearance of urgency, sipping coffee or tea comfortably, around the “mouth” of the tunnel.  Hovering around them were two or three young men.  One of them had a Vespa-like motorcycle (referred to locally as “tuk tuk”), ready to service us. Our local guide explained the situation and my urgency to cross before it gets dark, since my people are awaiting my arrival on the other side, and that I had an official entry permit (which I pulled out on cue).  One of the men made a couple of contacts on his Jawwal (presumably to their men at the other end); and then they approved my crossing into their tunnel.  It was a “commercial” transaction, for which I knew I had to pay $100 each way. Immediately, we conveyed this info to our “organizers” on the Palestinian side.  At last, I was very relieved to know that I was cleared to enter through “their” tunnel.  No pictures were allowed; my mobile with camera was withheld at the beginning, and returned to me at the end of the ride.

Now, how to get to the other end of the tunnel?  Hop on “doktoor” on the tuk tuk behind the “driver”.  “What about my suitcase,” I asked, “the driver holds it in front of him,” the explanation came.  I hopped in behind him, but I was in a very precarious position, with my satchel on one shoulder, and my permit in one hand, as if expecting checkpoints on the way!

The instructions to the “tuk tuk” driver were to take me to the “well” (al-Bir) at the end of the tunnel. We zipped through the 750 meters length of the tunnel on a pressed sand and white dirt path, but with numerous bumps and potholes.  The path was wide enough, and high enough for cars, or big animals, to drive or gallop through (one-way).  The walls and the ceilings were of pressed mud and cement, protected with mesh wire, and lit by electric lights on small poles on both sides, spaced, what looked like every 10-15 meters.  Afraid of falling off, I pressed hard on the driver’s waist, without uttering a word.  Neither did he.  It became obvious later that the driver of the “tuk tuk” was mute.

The “well”, or Al-Bir, at the end of the tunnel, is a big circular open shaft, about 40 meters deep, where natural light from the Gaza sky could be seen.  Filling the complete diameter of this shaft is a wooden platform elevator operating by side pulleys, wide enough to transport people, cars, animals, animal-drawn carts, cement, gasoline, etc. As we arrived to Al-Bir, a maintenance crew of 4 young men was fixing the platform.  The atmosphere was nonchalant and normal.  I did not feel any sense of urgency, or that they were on some sort of a military mission; they were joking and laughing with each other and taking their time. Sometimes they were serious.  But they appeared like a normal maintenance crew, taking their job seriously.  Every now and then, they asked me questions about where I was from, and why did I come through the tunnel not the official crossing (al-Ma’bar), etc.  When I said I am a Palestinian living now in Ramallah, one asked, “where in Ramallah do you live? I lived there until ‘Al-Khityar’ (Abu Ammar) died; I was in the presidential guard,” he made a point to tell me, and to indicate, perhaps, that he was (or is) Fateh?  We waited in Al-Bir, 40 meters underground for about 20-30 minutes until the crew completed the maintenance chores.  During this time, electricity went out and the entire tunnel was pitch-black for a few seconds until generators kicked in without delay.

Now the elevator-platform is ready for operation.  I was ready and elated to be lifted up with my suitcase. Before I did,  I handed the “tuk tuk” driver a few Shekels for his trouble. Once on top, my contacts/organizers were waiting with broad smiles that I made it safely. A policeman was sitting there on a plastic chair “checking” those coming in. A car drove us to Gaza City, and that was it.

Read Part Two of this account to be posted on June 6, 2012.