Trapped: This is Life in Gaza

No way in— money transfers are blocked, as is humanitarian aid sufficient enough to provide adequate food, clean water, medical supplies and shelter. No way out—pushed to the south-most edge of the Gaza Strip, there is nowhere else to go.

For about three years, I’ve raised money for my dear friend Jehad, physician and humanitarian in Gaza, to provide food, clothing, blankets, shelter, medicines, school supplies, and transportation for medical procedures available only outside Gaza for impoverished children and their families. Through the generosity of friends (and their friends) I’ve been able to help Jehad fulfill his commitment to be of service to his beloved community, filling in the gaps with aid many would not have otherwise accessed. These children and their families are deeply grateful and their lives improved because of Jehad’s tireless efforts and because of your generous donations.

How was I able to get money to Jehad? Through PayPal. That is, up until about three weeks ago when Jehad’s PayPal account was “suspended” for 180 days.

A call to PayPal proved fruitless except for a couple of things— one of which was an encounter with a beautiful side of humanity; the other an explanation and an example of the permeating power nation-states have to exert their control, including ways that are dark, even sinister. We shouldn’t have been surprised.

Kim (made up name), a representative from PayPal, told me that if someone’s account was suspended for 180 days it actually means a permanent suspension. She explained that distribution of funds through PayPal was regulated by the specific country’s circumstances such as being at war. And that because Israel was “at war” (Israel’s view) it had the right to suspend accounts in Gaza — a non-sovereign territory without such authority. I explained to her how the money was being used.

Her voice, already soft, became even more gentle— and I heard sadness and then tears. She began telling me that she has no one to talk with about Gaza, that she was grateful to have this moment with me, someone who understood the suffering of the Palestinian people. She is Muslim and she is afraid. She is afraid to speak out. She is fearful for her children, and she is fearful of the hatred spreading in the world. She said several times how glad she was to talk with a person trying to do something to lessen the suffering. “I’m so sorry I cannot do anything for your friend” she said “but I teach my children not to hate, to be kind, to be generous, to be good people.”

Such a beautiful side of humanity, and an example of how one never knows where and when one will stumble upon this kind of unexpected beauty.

Nothing more to be done (I did, to no avail, call my congressional representative) except look for another way to get money to Jehad.

The next attempt at transferring money to Jehad was Western Union. But it, too, is not an option—the office in Rafah is closed, the man running the office intimidated by Israel’s messengers. So…we have now entered into the territory of cryptocurrency. Jehad has trusted friends who are guiding him in Rafah, while I am on a steep, obstacle-filled and mountain-like learning trek that is unavoidable since this seems to be the last option available to us for him to receive money to help people who are desperate.

We’ve had some success—but…

As we’ve heard in mainstream news, some of the food stuff coming into Gaza as aid is stolen from the trucks allowed to enter. Jehad tells me that when it is stolen, it is being stolen by desperate people. Oftentimes by starving, thirsty people (he doesn’t condemn them, has compassion for their desperation); sometimes by people who want to make money off of others’ suffering (“selfish people exist everywhere in the world,” he tells me—“sadly, here too”).

This is life in Gaza.

In times of bare-to-the-bone survival, even though aid is supposed to be free, Jehad buys what he can find to give to others most in need in an overwhelmingly needy and weakened Rafah: warm coats, blankets, thin mattresses to sleep on, a solar panel to charge phones and batteries for lights. And food: biscuits supplemented with vitamins, more than 30 cans of food—confiscated aid bought and distributed for free by Jehad.

Hunger couldn’t care less the source of its relief.

A few days back, he negotiated with a farmer for a reduction in cost of vegetables. He explained to the farmer his intent to give the food away for free to those without money to buy it. He and the farmer put together vegetable packets, enough for about 35 families.

This is life for my dear friend, Jehad, who trembles with fear when he hears bombs falling but tries to stay strong for his family, who comforts his crying little daughter with the early gift of an apple he brought home from a market as a surprise treat for the next day. She loved the apple, smiled at her beloved papa—but still she was afraid, still she cried.

Terror is deep here in Rafah. It is reinforced bomb by bomb, by threats of imminent attack by Israeli troops moving south, by deepening hunger and thirst and cold and sickness. It is reinforced by days unfolding into months of pleas for help being ignored.

Hear the screams and cries permeating the dark. Nowhere to go that is safe. Trapped.

This is life in Gaza.