Meet Me in Gaza

Shortly before I left the West Bank, a friend of a friend, originally from Gaza, gave me some advice. ‘Worry about your own safety, but not too much – there’s no point,’ he said. ‘Just keep your eyes open, don’t do anything really stupid – and laugh as much as you can.’

While learning street Arabic and making friends, I also found myself literally stumbling over local histories – of pilgrims, pagans, madmen, sailors, purveyors of lingerie and

g friends, I also found myself literally stumbling over local histories – of pilgrims, pagans, madmen, sailors, purveyors of lingerie and

Gaza, on the other hand, looks grubby and battered, full of rubble and bullet-smacked buildings, and scraggy donkeys dragging carts along broken streets.

But first I had to secure an entry permit from the Israeli military, who control all traffic, human and otherwise, entering and leaving the Strip.

Local Palestinians sometimes joked that they were living under two occupations – one by Israel, the other by international aid organisations.

local non-governmental organisation

I have no watch and my mobile phone is switched off, so I guess the time by the sun.

His open-necked white shirt looks comfortably loose and though she’s completely swathed in black, including a black face veil, she’s walking barefoot like me – and they’re holding hands.

I want to be happy here, but – who can be happy in Gaza?