BY RAMZY BAROUD
I grew up by the Gaza sea. Through my childhood, I could
never quite comprehend how such a giant a body of water, which promised
such
endless freedom, could also border on such a tiny and cramped stretch of
land—one perpetually held hostage, even as it remained perpetually
defiant.
From a young age, I would embark with my family on the
short journey from our refugee camp to the beach. We went aboard a haggard
cart, laboriously pulled by an equally gaunt donkey. The moment our feet
touched the warm sand, the deafening screams would commence. Little feet
would run faster than Olympic champions and for a few hours all our cares
would dissipate. Here there was no occupation, no prison, no refugee
status.
Everything smelled and tasted of salt and watermelon. My
mother would sit atop a torn, chequered blanket to secure it from the wild
winds. She would giggle at my father’s frantic calls to his sons, trying
to stop them from going too deep into the water.
When I was five or six, I believed that immediately behind
the horizon there was a country called Australia. People from there were
free to go and come as they pleased. There were no soldiers, guns, or
snipers. The Australians — for some unknown reason— liked us very much,
and would one day visit us. When I revealed my beliefs to my brothers,
they were not convinced. But my fantasy grew, as did the list of all the
other countries immediately behind the horizon.
One of these was America, where people spoke funny.
Another was France, where people ate nothing but cheese. I would scavenge
the beach looking for ‘evidence’ of the existing world beyond the horizon.
I looked for bottles with strange lettering, cans and dirty plastic washed
ashore from faraway ships. The sea was apparently more mysterious than I’d
ever imagined.
Before the first Palestinian uprising of 1987, the Gaza
beach was yet to be declared off-limits and converted into a closed
military zone. The fishermen were still allowed to fish, although only for
a few nautical miles. We were allowed to swim and picnic, although not
past 6 pm. Then one day the Israeli army jeeps came whooshing down the
paved road that separated the beach from the refugee camp. They demanded
immediate evacuation at gunpoint. My parents screamed in panic, herding us
back to the camp in only our swimming shorts.
Breaking news on Israeli television declared that the
Israeli navy had intercepted Palestinian terrorists on rubber boats making
their way towards Israel. All were killed or captured, except for one that
might be heading towards the Gaza sea. Confusion was ominous, especially
as I saw images of captured Palestinian men on Israeli television. They
were hauling the dead bodies of their Palestinian comrades while being
surrounded by armed, triumphant Israeli troops.
I tried to convince my father to go and wait by the beach
for the other Palestinians. He smiled pityingly and said nothing. The news
later declared the boat was perhaps lost at sea, or had sunk. Still, I
wouldn’t lose hope. I begged my mother to prepare her specialty tea with
sage, and leave out some toasted bread and cheese. I waited until dawn for
the ‘terrorists’ lost at sea to arrive at our refugee camp. If they made
it, I wanted them to have something to eat. But they never arrived.
After this incident, boats began showing up on the
horizon. They belonged to the Israeli navy. The seemingly hapless Gaza sea
was now dangerous and rife with possibilities. Thus, my trips to the beach
increased. Even as I grew older, and even during Israeli military curfews,
I would climb to the roof of our house, and stare at the horizon. Some
boats, somewhere, somehow were heading towards Gaza. The harder life
became, the greater my faith grew.
Today, decades later, I stand by some alien sea, far away
from home, from Gaza. I have been denied the right to visit Palestine for
years. I stand here and I think of all those back home, waiting for the
boats to arrive. I follow the news, with the stifling awareness of a grown
up, and also with the giddiness and trepidation of my six-year-old self. I
imagine Freedom Flotilla loaded with food, medicine and toys, immediately
behind the horizon, getting close to turning the old dream into reality.
The dream that all the countries that my brothers thought were fictitious
in fact existed, embodied in five ships and 700 peace activists. They
represented humanity, they cared for us. I thought of some little kids
making a feast of toasted bread, yellow cheese and sage tea, waiting for
their saviours.
When the boats were attacked just before crossing the Gaza
horizon, killing and wounding many activists, the six-year-old in me was
crushed. I wept. I lost the power to articulate. No political analysis
could suffice. No news reports could explain to all the six year olds in
Gaza why their heroes were murdered and kidnapped, simply for trying to
breach the horizon. But despite the pain that is now too deep, the lives
that were so unfairly taken, the tears that were shed across the world for
the Freedom Flotilla, I know now that my fantasy was not a child’s dream.
That there were people from Australia, France, Turkey, Morocco, Algeria,
the USA and many other countries, who were coming to us in boats loaded
with gifts from those who, for some reason, really liked us.
I cannot wait to get to Gaza, on top of a boat, so I can
tell my brothers, “I told you so.”
(Ramzy Baroud is a distinguished Arab American commentator
and author, most recently, of My Father Was a Freedom Fighter
published by Pluto Press.)