The So-Called Other: Visiting Gaza

by Ariel Vegosen

Sometimes this conflict feels so complex that my head is exploding and my heart is hurting and I’m left with only a simple vision — the ocean crashing into the sand in Gaza, where I collect stones and sea shells that I will later give to my 97-year-old grandmother, who taught me to love and to know there is no other, there is only us, we are all the others.

The so-called other is my friend Nidal’s father, who has not seen his son in years because, after Nidal lost his leg and girlfriend in an attack, he managed to escape through Jerusalem to Germany. Now Nidal’s father can not leave and Nidal can not return—

I am a poor replacement for this man’s child. I promised Nidal I would see his father and now here I am with a Gaza Freedom March t-shirt as a present, feeling like nothing could ever be enough because nothing is ever enough, because my father is my best friend and there is no replacement for engaging with your child and seeing them accomplish their dreams.

Nidal looks just like his father, and meeting his father it is so clear why Nidal is so brilliant and able to continue living strongly in this world. Nidal’s father talks to me about the complexity of Gaza, the nightmare that is this place, and the love of his son. There are no words I can possibly say that will make sense because I can not imagine my friend visiting my father in place of me and handing him a t-shirt that says free the land that you live in. It all seems so ridiculous.

Here I am to end the siege of Gaza, while your son is stuck thousands of miles away, and even when he was so close in Jerusalem, a car ride away, you could not see him. You are trapped here in this country you call home. A permanent jail, your very own Truman Show. Sorry that the rest of the 1,400 of us did not make it in. Sorry that I am lost as to what is solidarity.

One of my Seeds of Peace campers puts it best when I ask him if he is coming to the march, and he says, “My family needs food. We are not so concerned about the march.” Sorry that I am only just learning about your world now, and sorry that I was in Haifa while war planes flew overhead last year and bombed your hometown.

I had no idea what to do and for that I am sorry. And I am not asking you personally for forgiveness, or anyone for forgiveness, I am asking for your story so I can tell all the other people that did not make it in, that can not fly this distance or pay this money to show up here and learn. The story is so big, and he is just one person with his son far away, and I know every person passing us on the street has a story and every building blown into rubble had a family that called it home, or school, or place of worship. I long to understand how the world became this way. And I long for a world that re-builds with newness, a stronger, more unified community.

And the so-called other is my camper Mohammed Bashir. He comes to meet me at the mosaic project we are making in Gaza City: tiny pieces of glass placed together a design created by people in Gaza and people in California. The glass was held hostage for days along with the creator of the project, Kathleen, in Al’ Arish, Egypt. Kathleen and others were held under hotel arrest, and a police officer lived with them and followed their every move. She held strong, her one desire to bring in these tiny pieces of glass and create a beautiful mosaic with 1,400 stars to symbolize the lives lost a year ago.

Glass entering Gaza is a small miracle considering Israel does not allow glass in and many houses remain windowless. For a while, Israel would not even allow pasta in (because someone might make a bomb out of pasta). In spite of the closure, people got creative. With so little the people of Gaza create so much. They smuggle goods in through tunnels — every bottle of water I bought still had dirt on it.

Mohammed is skinny, 17. He looks at me. Doesn’t blink. Says, are you busy? I say no, I am here to see you.

Without pause he says, “My father died.”

Khalil Bashir at 52 is no more.

Khalil Bashir, who survived being shot in the back of the head by Israeli soldiers in April 2001;

Khalil Bashir, who taught his family to believe in peace, despite having their house directly occupied by Israeli soldiers for five years;

Khalil Bashir, whose other two sons were shot, one in his back by the base of his spine and one in his leg is no more.

I am stunned.

I never met the man. I had seen videos and photos and knew that he was the headmaster of a German-financed school in Deir Al-Balah, Gaza. I knew he was well loved and a true peaceworker. I was looking forward to meeting him.

I had heard the story from both Mohammed and his brother Yusuf about their home and their land being taken over by soldiers. It is one thing to hear and another to see.

Mohammed and I get in a taxi (escaping the watchful eye of Hamas who wanted us to always remain with the group) and head to his neighborhood.

A house that his father built, land that his grandfather lived on, a home.

When I get out of the taxi I am shocked to see a grey building, the two top floors blown out, no windows, and barbed wire at the top. Mohammed says, “This is my home.”

I think of the home I grew up in, in Long Island — neat grass, beautiful windows, warmth and ease, next to countless similar looking homes in a safe neighborhood with drinkable tap water, and grocery stores a short walk away.

Here in Gaza, in this neighborhood called Deir Al-Balah, there seems to be nothing. Silence. Emptiness. A pit in my stomach growing. Could this really be his home?

I remember him telling me that during the invasion a year ago he couldn’t shower and there was little food to eat. I think of myself at 17 hanging out with friends and going to parties. In America, the water flows from taps and food comes in from all over the world, which I buy with ease in supermarkets. In Gaza, 17-year-old Mohammed has to worry about his family, where food will come from, and how to deal with years of abuse from Israeli soldiers. At 17, he and his twin sister share the ongoing trauma of PTSD. The soldiers might have left their house in 2006, but their childhood was filled with weapons and bullets and never feeling safe in their own home. And a father who through all of it stayed peaceful, nonviolent, and courageous. Who taught his children to love even when things seem impossible. Who taught his family to give when there is so little.

And now their house is missing this key figure of love. In his place, thousands of letters pile up from peace activists and friends, co-workers and family, sharing grief and thanks.

Their family is hope, proof that in the midst of great violence love is possible. The mural with 1,400 stars is proof that art as a means of activism is happening. All of the internationals who arrived in the Middle East and all of the people who marched in their hometowns to end the occupation and who continue to do powerful peace work are proof that a new world is possible. The ocean meeting the sand over and over again reminds me that borders can shift, walls can come down, soldiers can leave and become humans again, that sometimes picking up a sea shell for my grandmother is taking action and living peace. The people of Gaza are in my heart always.

Ariel Vegosen participated in the Gaza Freedom March (GFM, gazafreedommarch.org) in late December 2009. She was one of about 90 GFM participants — of 1,400 total — who were permitted to enter Gaza. As a young Jewish American from Valley Stream, New York, Ariel’s efforts for Middle East peace have included projects with Seeds of Peace, CodePink Women for Peace, the Fellowship of Reconciliation, and the political theater piece “An Olive on the Seder Plate.” She works for Mintwood Media, a public relations collective serving the peace movement, organic & fair trade movement, and other social justice organizations.