Here in the wee small hours, I have been lying awake for a while - not sure if it is the car alarm that is going off intermittently or the effect of the full moon over Gaza that has me sleepless.
Looking out of the window, the sea ripples and glints like lapis lazuli under the moon's caress, the city is still in its mantle of night. My apartment stands close to the entrance to the sea port, where the small colourfully painted boats are moored and bobbing gently, waiting for tomorrow's fishing.
Apart from the alarm, the scene is so peaceful, unlike last night, when F16 bombers were the source of wakefulness for my flat-mate. Oblivious, I slept through as they headed South to Khan Yunis, 14 miles away, to unleash their load on a chicken farm, injuring 7 people, killing all the chickens and destroying scarce pasture and a carpentry workshop. It seems farmers and fishermen are taking the brunt of Israel's ire here in Gaza at the moment- with the fishermen getting shot at and having their boats confiscated- one of the hazards of the trade it would seem.
The two weeks I have spent in Gaza have raced around in a whirl of work, meeting people and settling into an activity-filled social life. I fell in love with the place and its people as soon as I arrived- helped by the warmth of the welcome, the colourful hustle and bustle of every day life, the food and the culture. Strangely, everything feels so familiar to me. I feel at home.
Right now I'm lying here fretting about still being awake, I have a lot to do tomorrow and my working day starts at a previously unthinkable 8am. I will rise at 7, into the shower and then dressed in one of the knee-length long-sleeved cotton shirts I possess, over a pair of linen trousers with a long scarf just in case. The dress code here in Gaza is loose and modest - no bare arms, legs or chest. Local women interpret this in a variety of ways, abayas, niqabs, or for many of the young women, jeans and long top with a scarf to cover the hair, they always look beautiful. Gaza is a conservative Muslim stronghold which has many implications for how we dress and behave- more about that another time.
The walk to work is along a road running parallel to the sea, with the most colourful and betimes comical array of traffic: donkey carts loaded with workers or produce, little scooters pulling massive frames with similar cargos to the donkey carts, all manner of cars- from beat-up relics to jazzy 4X4s, and of course the ubiquitous white armoured UN jeeps with the blue flag flying out behind.
The sand-covered pavement is something of an assault course- a combination of rubbish, leaky sewerage pipes and overgrown trees and shrubs making it necessary to walk on the road at regular intervals, which is a risky business. There are as many lanes of traffic on this small dusty road as cars, donkeys and bikes can squeeze abreast of one another, and motorbikes with their pillion passengers whistle past my ears, which is quite unnerving, but the source of much amusement for them. The drivers here are hilarious, they beep their horns for every conceivable reason. As they approach they beep to see if you want a lift. La' shukran, no thank you- we only take lifts from people we know.
One of the morning spectacles is the sight of the Hamas troops jogging by in their units- sometimes hundreds, singing and cheering and generally jostling each other but in an orderly fashion. On first seeing troops around the city, I found them daunting- dressed in their black garb, often bearded and armed and with a general air of disapproval and austerity, but these morning sorties have diffused that. I am more concerned now about being in such close proximity to what would, no doubt, be an attractive target for an F16 or the dreaded zazanas or drones- responsible for the deaths of 825 Gazans in the last 6 years.
After the 12 minute walk to work, when the day is already stifling, the cool marble floors and breezy rooms of PCHR are a welcome haven. A cup of arab coffee- coffee with cardamom, taken in small strong quantities is just the thing to get the work underway.
But for now, the morning call to prayer is resounding outside my window- time to sleep methinks-3 hours to rising time. More soon.
Looking out of the window, the sea ripples and glints like lapis lazuli under the moon's caress, the city is still in its mantle of night. My apartment stands close to the entrance to the sea port, where the small colourfully painted boats are moored and bobbing gently, waiting for tomorrow's fishing.
Apart from the alarm, the scene is so peaceful, unlike last night, when F16 bombers were the source of wakefulness for my flat-mate. Oblivious, I slept through as they headed South to Khan Yunis, 14 miles away, to unleash their load on a chicken farm, injuring 7 people, killing all the chickens and destroying scarce pasture and a carpentry workshop. It seems farmers and fishermen are taking the brunt of Israel's ire here in Gaza at the moment- with the fishermen getting shot at and having their boats confiscated- one of the hazards of the trade it would seem.
The two weeks I have spent in Gaza have raced around in a whirl of work, meeting people and settling into an activity-filled social life. I fell in love with the place and its people as soon as I arrived- helped by the warmth of the welcome, the colourful hustle and bustle of every day life, the food and the culture. Strangely, everything feels so familiar to me. I feel at home.
Right now I'm lying here fretting about still being awake, I have a lot to do tomorrow and my working day starts at a previously unthinkable 8am. I will rise at 7, into the shower and then dressed in one of the knee-length long-sleeved cotton shirts I possess, over a pair of linen trousers with a long scarf just in case. The dress code here in Gaza is loose and modest - no bare arms, legs or chest. Local women interpret this in a variety of ways, abayas, niqabs, or for many of the young women, jeans and long top with a scarf to cover the hair, they always look beautiful. Gaza is a conservative Muslim stronghold which has many implications for how we dress and behave- more about that another time.
The walk to work is along a road running parallel to the sea, with the most colourful and betimes comical array of traffic: donkey carts loaded with workers or produce, little scooters pulling massive frames with similar cargos to the donkey carts, all manner of cars- from beat-up relics to jazzy 4X4s, and of course the ubiquitous white armoured UN jeeps with the blue flag flying out behind.
The sand-covered pavement is something of an assault course- a combination of rubbish, leaky sewerage pipes and overgrown trees and shrubs making it necessary to walk on the road at regular intervals, which is a risky business. There are as many lanes of traffic on this small dusty road as cars, donkeys and bikes can squeeze abreast of one another, and motorbikes with their pillion passengers whistle past my ears, which is quite unnerving, but the source of much amusement for them. The drivers here are hilarious, they beep their horns for every conceivable reason. As they approach they beep to see if you want a lift. La' shukran, no thank you- we only take lifts from people we know.
One of the morning spectacles is the sight of the Hamas troops jogging by in their units- sometimes hundreds, singing and cheering and generally jostling each other but in an orderly fashion. On first seeing troops around the city, I found them daunting- dressed in their black garb, often bearded and armed and with a general air of disapproval and austerity, but these morning sorties have diffused that. I am more concerned now about being in such close proximity to what would, no doubt, be an attractive target for an F16 or the dreaded zazanas or drones- responsible for the deaths of 825 Gazans in the last 6 years.
After the 12 minute walk to work, when the day is already stifling, the cool marble floors and breezy rooms of PCHR are a welcome haven. A cup of arab coffee- coffee with cardamom, taken in small strong quantities is just the thing to get the work underway.
But for now, the morning call to prayer is resounding outside my window- time to sleep methinks-3 hours to rising time. More soon.
