28 Jan 2009 The Traveler Series: A trip to Gaza (part 2)

Things get hot as TripShake’s CMO Giorgio approaches the war zone, on the border between Israel and the Gaza Strip. Keep tight, the trip goes on, here’s the second and last part. (The first here.)

Hearing an alert siren threw me to a sort of unreal dimension. Of course it was expected, but it sounded like a starter signal: the game begins, go hide! I freezed there, standing in front of a house that was hit a few days before. I watched Alon and Keren – it was the first time for them as well, but for sure they were better prepared than me. Keren pulled my arm and we took cover behind the garden wall. I didn’t look up for the rocket, I kept watching the ground and waited for the siren to stop. What I didn’t expect was to hear the boom. A dull sound, meaning it was real, it was not a game.

The Grad missile hit a house near a religious school. When we got there, the area was stuffed by police and firemen, and I noticed the scared eyes of a young boy overlooking from the building facing the damaged house, hid behind his window.

Nevertheless, life flew ordinarily in Ashqelon. People gave us directions while waiting for their buses, gave us way at the roundabout, they checked our bags at the mall, welcomed us warmly at the hospital. Keren met a cousin she had not seen for years and he showed us the video of some other rocket, on his phone. People smiled at me, and as Alon explained in Hebrew where I came from, they offered me to drink, they blessed me, and they took me to meet a wounded soldier in room 14.

Keren stepped back to let me get first into the room. The big guy was shaving behind the door and smiled, his parents drew back to make room for us and we could talk to him for a while, thank to Alon’s interpreting. After a few minutes, the soldier’s father stood up from his chair and solemnly said to his son, in French, to tell me that they were grateful for my visit, that it was very important for them. Alon asked me if i knew French and I began to speak French.

At the mall, two Italian soldiers (Carabinieri for E.U.) were waiting for their lunch and we talked about Italy and Milano and how homesick they were. I suggested to take a picture, together with the group of cute boys and girls from the Israeli Air Force brigade who were having lunch next to us. But the idea did not work, Italians could not compromise themselves with one side of the conflict. Lucky me, I could, and I cheered and took pictures with both groups.

Driving along the Gaza Strip in a sunny day of war was quite weird. It rather looked like a big, busy, much awaited day. On our way to Beer Sheva, we met huge trucks, carrying even huger tanks, we met fast military jeeps waving white and blue flags, old Fiat Unos carrying (at least) 5 big soldiers and convoys of trucks with humanitarian aids coming out of Karni.

Alon got a phone call from Gilad, a friend of him and journalist for Channel2, who invited us for a tour. “It’s your lucky day, GioRgio”. Gilad picked us up at Keren’s apartment in Beer Sheva and took us to meet an Army spokeman. I could hear Alon telling him about me in Hebrew and I picked the word “Italki” only (“Italian”). I guess it was enough.

The sun was going down quickly, so Gilad drove us fast to a hill on the border, where a number of journalists were gathered to look upon Gaza. There we climbed the stairs and got an astonishing view on the overcrowded area of Bayt Hanun and Gaza City. The Strip appeared as an unnatural, endless bunch of dark buildings, completely different from what we had behind our shoulders – green, hilly, rural landscapes with wide roads, villages and small cities. The orange sky was quite clear, except for a quiet Apache waiting above us and two observation balloon from which they said they can read any Palestinian’s shoe size. Gilad set up his equipment and called me for some short interviews, which I answered with a trembling voice, both due to the sight and to the chilly wind. “Poor little Italian”, Alon teased me, while the wind brought the sound of three explosions.

With my Canon suffering some inferiority complex comparing herself to camera lenses of Japanese and British journalists, we left the Hill for Sderot, just a few hundred meters far. Gilad parked the SUV in the main square and I jumped off with my explorer-like backpack full of chocolates, flags and (poor) lenses. Even Sderot – I could not believe it – was lively and crowded. People walking around, open restaurants, and of course Fire, Police and Defense Departments on alert. 8.000 rockets landed here in the last few years. I wondered what would happen in Italy if thousands of rockets fell from Istria into Trieste – Trieste would probably be deserted.

We entered the military compound going round big cement blocks, we smiled and spreaded “shalom” to the young guys and girls standing there with cigarettes and M16s. Inside, the barracks were crowded of soldiers dutifully going back and forth and 5 of those came to sit on a bench next to us. Gilad suggested me to make a speech but I declined. Then the commander – a cute 20 year old girl – took me privately and checked what I was going to ask, speaking and listening in a very close face-to-face. After my statement, she nodded and smiled: it meant I passed. Gilad and other officers asked for silence by beating on the desk and everybody turned their eyes on me. Uh-uh.

“Oh, ehm. Hi, I’m Giorgio, I came here from Italy to bring and mmh show you the support of many people from my country. I’m sure that, just as we always see the bad side of the war here, you too see the bad part of Europe, you see protests, burnt flags. Well, I’m here to tell you that most of us support you. And we love and admire you, because you are strong and brave, because you put yourself at stake to defend your brothers and sisters. We don’t know what it’s like to be here, because we are not here, but be sure, we admire you and understand you. We share your values, and we are with you.”

After what had to be a sort of Braveheart speech, we talked for a while – still under Gilad’s camera eye and officers’ prompting signs behind my shoulder. We missed the chance to take a photo together but I could give some Italian chocolates to the group.

Later, someone wrote in a comment “let’s hope the chocolates were not poisoned.” And I actually noticed that, once gained the trust of a number of people and having asserted my supportive intention, the gates of Israeli hearts had opened wide to welcome me warmly. Chocolates could really have been poisoned, I could have a gun with me, my bag could be filled with explosives. No one checked me when we entered the town-council bunker to meet the Mayor of Sderot. He pinned a small Sderot shield to my jacket and we shook hands friendly. We had humus and shawarma with agreeable ladies who told us about their kids and their lives in Sderot, and I felt part of the family. In just three days, I changed from being persuaded myself of being a very dangerous terrorist, to be eventually acknowledged as a true friend or even as an icon of national unity and foreign support.

My support for Israel is both rational and emotional. The reactions I got from those people were amazing, it was to me like a very warm embrace and definitely a sign of love and reciprocal trust. At our closing-tea moment, back at Keren’s place in Beer Sheva, I felt at home and I felt Israel was the place I belong to. I kept listening to the three of them talking Hebrew and I felt like it was my language. We shared an intense day and we discovered our likeness. I was so surprised when I realized I couldn’t actually understand a word.