Gaza Diary, Day Two: The Beautiful Beach

I sat on the Gaza beach with a friend. I don’t like the beach, truth be told. But I filled with gratitude for the chance to sit on the Gazan sand– because it is the place of so much history, so much bravery, all the way from the Mavi Marmara to the fishermen who risk being shot so that we can eat shrimp. And because it is a strip of beauty in this very tragic place.

As we spoke I picked out the pretty shells, the multicolored ones, the unbroken ones, and stashed them away for my daughters, or maybe for me.

Twice, my friend jumped in fright when the metal from a truck bed clanged open to unload dirt. I pretended not to notice, not to notice her vulnerability, to memories, of powerlessness.

We chatted about organizations and women and opportunities. We could imagine so many ways to work together, now that we had seen each other for the first time. Now that we could see, not just hear, the sincerity in each other’s eyes.

And when there was a lull, she sighed, a deep sigh, and wished that I could come again, and wished that she could visit Jerusalem, and wished that life wasn’t so hard. Don’t they know that what they deny grows more and more valuable in the hearts of people?