October 9, 2010
An Israeli missile comes across a home-made Palestinian rocket. The Palestinian rocket asks the Israeli missile: "Where are you going?" The Israeli missile replies: "I'm going to hit the metal workshop of Ramzi En-Najjar in Khan Younis. And you, where are you going?" The Palestinian rocket replies: "I don't know!" (Gaza joke, September 2010)
It was on Saturday 27 December 2008 when the earth split in the tiny Gaza Strip and we fell in the heart of hell. The barbarity was coming from the sky.
The then Israeli Foreign Minister Tzivi Livni went to Cairo two days before to illustrate to President Mubarak her plan to eradicate Hamas from the Gaza Strip and to make a new Gaza. Something easy, like to eradicate a thorny plant from the Gaza sand after an abundant rain.
In Shifa hospital amidst the scores of victims, at the very beginning of the Israeli aggression code-named Cast Lead, the first one I recognized was my friend Mahmud. Mahmud, 28-year old, green eyes, a student at the Polytechnic, superb and always extremely elegant, was injured to his left arm. He was passing in a taxi when the bombardment of the former Presidential Palace El-Muntada took place.
Mahmud was amid the first casualities of the war on Hamas... but Mahmud was not Hamas! Mahmud is an old militant of the leftist Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine.
For three days I heard on the local radio stations appeals to donate blood. On the third afternoon I went to visit friends in the Beach Camp and before returning home I wanted to donate blood.
I walked for half an hour. It was completely dark. There was no public illumination, no cars, no even a cat in the streets and it was raining. It was a self-imposed curfew. Sometimes a passing vehicle gave some light.
I reached Shifa hospital at around 20:00. The hospital was all illuminated thanks to its generators. I was told the Blood Center didn't need anymore blood, they had received enough from Jordan.
In the courtyard I met Akram, an old acquaintance with an important position in the government. Akram proposed to accompany him to Jabalia RC.
We sat on the back of a van. With us were a handful of men too. All along the way Akram and me spoke about politics. Perhaps the driver thought to drive a Palestinian tank under Israeli shelling. Several times I almost fell on Akram and my small bag was escaping from my back.
Once in Jabalia RC we walked a little, Akram took his car and we returned to Shifa. On the way we continued to speak about politics. As soon as I went out of the car I realized my small bag was no anymore on my back; neither it was in Akram's car. Akram was in a hurry, he said he would see in the van and left. I forgot to ask him his mobile number.
In my small bag I had the two keys to my home, money, my telephone book, some telephone cards, an old press card. How to return home? Since a long time I was at war with the owner of the small flat I was renting near the new fishing harbor. I couldn't go there, ring and ask him to open the doors. I returned very late to my old friends and spent the night in the Beach RC.
At that point started my personal nightmare in the immense general nightmare. How to ask help to people facing death and annihilation? How could I dare speak about a small bag and two keys?
In normal time I would go to El-Abbas police station to report the loss of my bag... but there was no anymore El-Abbas police station. It was bombarded on the first morning of the war: 9 killed, 23 injured. Other police stations were already destroyed or would be destroyed soon. The Police HQ (El-Jawazat) had been bombarded! The Gaza Central Prison had been bombarded! The security buildings had been bombarded! The night I lost my bag the Ministry of Interior and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs were destroyed!
Where to go? All the police cars had disappeared! All the security vehicles had disappeared! All the uniformed people had disappeared! All the beards had been shaved! To whom could I ask help? And under the circumstances who could take the pain to search for my two keys?
Everything was closed, except the groceries and the bakeries. Few people were in the streets. The only crowded place in Rimal district where I stayed most of the time was Shifa hospital, a place of life and death...
Some days later in a completely deserted street, at around 14:00, I saw at a distance two young men. I was certain they belonged to the security forces because nobody could remain standing in the street. I approached them. They were indeed from the security. I asked them to help me because there were no anymore police and security buildings and I didn't know what to do, where to go. They replied: "Don't worry, we are here and we work in the street."
They gave a call and asked me to wait. Came on foot two other young men in civilian clothes. They took all the information and told me: "We will forward the appeal for your bag on our wireless. Give as your mobile number." But... to this day I am the only one in the Gaza Strip without mobile phone for some personal and obscure reasons.
After several days I came across an acquaintance in the street, a young officer of the Naval Police. I told him: "There is no anymore the police. Please, help me!" He answered: "No, there is still the police. You can find the police in such a place... They are there to help the citizens. You can go there now."
It was around 16:00. I went there. First, I saw at a distance a policeman directing the traffic. I thought he was a simple policeman. I asked him where was the police. He listened to my story. He was speaking good English. He gave me his full name and added: "I am a colonel."
I noticed he was wearing the old winter police jacket from the time Fatah was in power. He said: "Yes, I was an officer in the Fatah police force and I continue to serve my people and my country under the Hamas government."
The colonel called a couple of men in plain clothes who were standing nearby. He asked them to go to speak with the owner of my flat. They took me in an old small car.
The owner said to the security men I received youths in the flat. One of the men jumped on his chair from the shock. Me, I was not aware of youths coming to my flat. Even the flies couldn't enter. Only once I saw a mouse. After a sterile discussion I left the three men together.
I tried to get the mobile number of Akram. It took a few days. The media linked to the government surely had his number but either their offices were closed and they stopped working or there were working from secret locations. Other organs of press were either closed or had not the mobile number.
Finally, a journalist gave me the number of two people working with the government, including what he believed was Akram's number. We walked with a friend till the Unknown Soldier Square in search of a mobile phone. The square was completely empty. It was a splendid sunny morning. Came to speak to us two young men in civilian clothes. I immediately understood they were members of the security forces. Another man with grey hair joined us, their chief. He had heard on their wireless the appeal for my bag, he said. He dialed on his own mobile phone the numbers of the two men from the government. No answer. At that time certain people had turned off their cell phones.
That day I went to the police again after a number of visits. As soon as I arrived a group of men in plain clothes holding rifles were fleeing. They were going to arrest someone selling overpriced flour.
The Chief as usual wore his police uniform and his old Fatah jacket as well as a number of officers. He sent with me three young policemen in plain clothes to speak with the owner of the flat. It took half an hour of walking. In the sky there were drones, helicopters, F16 warplanes and around us bombings and explosions.
The owner said to them he didn't want me anymore in the flat because I received young men and men in the night and he added some other wrongdoings. The three policemen gave up after a long discussion and we left
The Chief asked another group of three in civilian clothes too to accompany me. A major, a friend of mine who happened to be there, gave 20 shekels to one of them and asked him to buy for me a new lock for my door.
The meeting with the owner of the flat was a repetition of the previous one. On our way back, always on foot, I refused to take the 20 shekels from the young policeman.
The Chief said now he himself would come with me. The local correspondent of a foreign TV channel interviewed me about law and order during the massive ongoing destruction of Gaza. It was by pure chance. So I could say what I was experiencing first hand in this precise moment: the police and the security forces were present serving the citizens. And after me the Chief was interviewed too.
We left. It was around 14:30. The Chief was young, tall and elegant. His two men wore plain clothes. From time to time I could see the butt of a rifle.
Our march was majestic. There were practically no vehicles and no passers-by. The street was large, beautiful and sunny. In front of us, the sea; around us, debris. Some groups of men were sitting outside their homes sipping tea and coffee. Sometimes they greeted the Chief, sometimes me, sometimes both. It was a replica of the 1st and 2nd morning marches, but this time more more solemn. The Chief ordered me to walk quickly. "Because the missiles! the missiles!" he said.
We saw an open shop in a lateral street selling locks! We entered and the Chief inquired about the prices. At that point I couldn't buy a lock because the 20 shekels were with a policeman of the 2nd march... but I remembered I had a lock at home.
We sat with the owner of the flat. He was extremely upset to be obliged to receive now also the Chief. He refused to let me re-enter the flat. I had to search for another accommodation immediately, under the bombardments. The Chief disagreed. At that time, due to the influx of refugees from the north, it was already difficult to find any accommodation.
Finally, the Chief found a compromise: I would remain in the flat until the end of the current month of January. Unwillingly the owner and me signed the deal written by the Chief. It was very serious indeed. The Chief put the paper in the pocket of his police jacket. Wow! But the owner didn't want to give me the key of the main gate and the Chief gave me only vague promises!
The Chief, his two men, the rifle and me returned to the shop. There, there were two youths who could change my lock. The mission of the Chief was over. He went back to his base on foot with his man who had the rifle.
I returned to the habitation with the second policeman and the two locksmiths. The old lock was removed and changed. The owner had to pay for it by order of the Chief. I had to put the 100 dollars for the rent of January in the hand of the policeman. But I was without the key of the main entrance! The policeman said: "Tomorrow!" which in Gaza means never.
That night I slept in my bed after 12 days of absence. The morning after I had to go out because I was without food... and the nightmare continued because I refused to bang on the iron gate and to call loudly in the street for someone to open the gate every time I had to return home - like wanted the owner.
I went to speak to the colonel and to the police again and again. After some days I took with me an old friend who was just passing in the street, a lawyer by profession. He looks like a prophet with his long and large white beard, his blue eyes and his light complexion. First we met the police and he angrily shouted with his cards of lawyer in hand: "How can you leave this lady in the street under the bombardments! Shame! Shame to you!"
Then, while he was speaking with the colonel using the same words and the same professional cards, appeared a middle-aged man in plain clothes. "A senior security officer! a big boss!' said the colonel who called him. The senior officer ensured me I would have the key the same day and he sent a team to retrieve it. In the afternoon, at around 17:00, I got the key.
Before Sunday 18 January 2009, the day the war ended, I came across Akram who had not found my bag. Incidentally, the mobile number the journalist gave me was the number of someone else.
I left the flat at the end of January with all my belongings and my big archive inside. In April the owner of the flat, 58, was killed in USA by a car - according to his family - and his corps remained there.
At the end of August comrades from the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine resolved all the remaining problems with the oldest son of the late owner in a peaceful and fair way.
During all the days and nights I was homeless and penniless I survived thanks to the help and generosity of the Gaza people.
The salaries of the police were paid during the war in cash passing from hand to hand. The new police jackets were ready for the winter of 2009-2010. The colonel got a new rank in the summer of 2010.
There are still some other episodes to tell about the police and security forces which kept under watch and control and as safe as possible every street and every neighborhood through the war... while the international community kept the Gaza people enclosed like flies in a bottle of vinegar.
- Flora Nicoletta is an independent French journalist living in Gaza. She currently works on her fourth book on the Palestinian question.
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