Читать книгу The Gaza Project - Cyrill Delvin - Страница 9

Every day after morning prayers, Haīkal walked to the city with his small band of orphans from the al-Qubāʾ refugee camp where the children lived without parents or relatives. Most of them, like the fugitive families housed here, came from even poorer regions to the south of the Gaza Strip or the surrounding areas of the Israeli cities Netivot or Sderot from where they had been evicted. The orphans among them now had to fend for themselves. Some were taken in by other families from the same or neighbouring villages. Others found nobody.

Up to a few years ago, the PLO, then the Fatḥ and finally Ḥamās had been the sole Palestinian organisations to care for these children. Not always on humanitarian grounds only, but frequently motivated by political calculations. It was a means to gain prestige and the support of the local population. The children were often placed in fundamentalist Islamic schools. It was soon a generally accepted side effect of the system that later on, as young adults, they could be easily talked into suicide missions.

The necessity to fight had slowly but firmly lodged itself in the Palestinians’ hearts over the long years of conflict with Israel. For the majority this was simply a matter of survival. But for a few of them, who had attained notoriety in a media world craving for news, it was a question of non-negotiable faith and rights issues. They became heroes in the holy war against the occupying forces and the infidels.

A couple of years ago, however, something had started to change in al-Qubā and the other refugee settlements. Alongside the local organisations and the few international aid agencies, a new provider slowly captured the refugees‘ souls. Suddenly Ḥamās was no longer the only organisation present with slogans and food. It still remained the only one to engage in inciting propaganda, though the new group’s influence increased steadily. Not through empty words, but concrete deeds. The organisation appeared to have unlimited access to food, medical supplies and clothing for the impoverished population.

Right from the start Haīkal ingratiated himself with the ›newcomers‹: »The new benefactors have arrived. They’re bringing rice and bread, Allah be praised. They’re helping us to get fat without lifting a finger.«

»Just have a look,« laughed a stocky man bowing with an expansive arm movement, »our fasting brother from al-Qubāʾ honours us with his presence. If he won’t take anything more off us, we have no choice but stuff ourselves.«

Haīkal wasn’t accustomed to someone standing up to him, but he quickly recomposed himself. The foreign aid workers were usually pompous and arrogant or quiet and uncommunicative; rarely funny and frequently American or European. But these ones here all seemed to be from the region.

»Indeed,« Haīkal countered, »you certainly don’t need any more food…«

»Unlike you,« the stout man interrupted the gangly youth. He rummaged through a bag and handed Haīkal a Farareer: »Take it and eat in peace.«

Haīkal looked at him in amazement, but accepted the sweet pastry without hesitating. He could hardly remember ever having been given something so delicious.

»Thank you,« he said, now in his normal tone of voice. »My name is Haīkal.«

»I am Ḥusām, Ḥusām Ḫalīl from Egypt.«

The two of them looked at each other and before Haīkal could turn to leave, Ḥusām added: »And we can do with people like you to give us a hand.«

It was the first time the fifteen year old boy had ever been asked for his help. Three years ago Haīkal had come to Gaza looking for work. The little village close to the Israeli border where he had grown up couldn’t provide for him anymore. And the wall relentlessly held the children and adolescents entrapped in its own world. But even the big city couldn’t offer enough work for everyone, and so he barely scraped a living. Like other boys of his age, he had ended up in the camp and was compelled to revert to begging, sometimes stealing.

So far he hadn’t succumbed to the Ḥamās; the tales of paradise and martyrs they dished out simply seemed too ridiculous and insipid. And Haīkal was well versed in the art of story-telling. Ever since he had been a child, he had regaled the people in his village with his stories. A gift which didn’t make life any easier, but frequently more tolerable.

»So?« Ḥusām probed.

Haīkal just stood there open mouthed. The question had actually left him speechless for once. He still hadn’t decided if he should be glad or annoyed about the offer. What was he supposed to do the whole day long if he’d already filled his belly in the morning? Besides, he had become his own master by now. On the other hand, it was tempting to help the feisty Egyptian. He might have some fun.

»What kind of help?« he wanted to know. »I don’t have time for pointless stooge work. I’m a skilled… a skilled… bricklayer. And I won’t blow myself up into paradise. Are you Ḥamās people?« Haīkal bit his lip. It had been a while since he had expressed himself that badly.

Ḥusām suppressed a giggle: »We are not, and we don’t sell tickets to paradise or to hell either for that matter. We just need people to help us transporting our supplies. It’s just an unpaid afternoon job. We feed everyone anyway, doesn’t matter if they help us or not.«

»In other words, the works not demanding, utterly boring, and doesn’t get me anywhere,« Haīkal rediscovered his voice. »It sure sounds like the ideal job for someone like me. And when I’m big and strong, I can still be a bricklayer or a bomber.«

This time the Egyptian couldn’t stifle his laugher. »In that case I can only hope you don’t grow up too fast. See you tomorrow after prayers.« A handshake settled the matter. Haīkal’s eyes beamed when he ran back to the camp and bit into his Farareer.

Over the two years, since he had first gone to the landing place at the beach, his job hadn’t changed, but by now he was a kind of foreman leading a flock of other children and adolescents. The work was easy and satisfying. His troop unloaded the food and other supplies from the small boats and then transported their cargo to al-Qubāʾ in handcarts.

Haīkal and his gang weren’t the only ones rushing back and forth over the short distance. There were countless others like them. Young girls and women also helped. Over time, the goods weren’t just delivered to the refugee camps but everywhere else as well. It was said that the entire Gaza Strip was supplied from the large cargo ships anchored just off the coast.

The aid Ḥamās distributed always prominently displayed its origins. Wheat from Russia, rice from Thailand, blankets and tarpaulin from France. Commodities from the Red Crescent, from the UNESCO, the EU and so on. This organisation, too, had a name, but nobody understood it. People had got into the habit of calling it the Whale. The dolphins on the big ships‘ logos seemed too small for what they delivered. Like the largest of all the creatures inhabiting the seas, this non-profit organisation gave endlessly. Therefore the Palestinian helpers soon called themselves the Whalers.

In the morning Haīkal and his friends roamed around Gaza on the lookout for reusable rubbish. Everything was thoroughly inspected. It didn’t happen very often, but sometimes they did find something. In the past these things could be exchanged for food in the camp. Today, when nobody was starving anymore, the boys swapped their finds for other desirable goods. Occasionally Haīkal simply gave the things he had scavenged to those who needed them most.

The little troop generally returned to the camp around noon to be ready for the delivery work after the midday meal and prayers. Their route took them past the piles of rubble near the western Gate. The gang and others had already repeatedly dug through the waste, and the chances of still coming across anything usable were virtually non-existent. The exercise was pure routine. Despite the city noises, Haīkal suddenly thought he heard someone groaning.

»Did you hear that?« he asked Mishal who was pushing some loose stones around beside him.

»What?«

»The groaning?«

»No, I didn’t hear anything. Where did it come from?«

»I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking you!«

But at that moment they both heard it.

»It’s coming from over there, from behind those cardboard boxes.«

»Be careful. Could be a hurt dog. Their bite’s the worst,« another one of the boys cried out.

Haīkal cleared the rubbish without listening to him. The rest of the gang stood close by, watching him in anticipation. To everyone’s surprise they didn’t find a wounded animal but a boy lying contorted between bits of plastic and cardboard. Haīkal called out to him, but he didn’t respond. When Haīkal turned him around, the boy wheezed without opening his eyes. The front of his shirt was drenched in blood.

»Let’s take him back to the camp,« Mishal suggested.

»The little one looks pretty bad,« Haīkal said, »We’ll better leave him here and get some help. You two stay with him and don’t move from this spot while we get Ḥusām,« he eventually instructed two of the older boys.

Ḥusām was at the supply station on his medical round. As a physician, apart from co-ordinating the medical provision for the entire Gaza Strip, he was also responsible for the health care in al-Qubā.

»Ḥusām! Come quickly! We found an injured boy. He’s covered in blood.«

»Calm down. Do you know him?«

»No, I have never seen him before.«

»Where did you find him?«

»In a rubbish heap in front of the western Gate.«

»Was he buried under the rubble?«

»I don’t know, he’s lying in it. Perhaps he crawled there himself.«

In the meantime the doctor had pulled out his bag with the red crescent from beneath the table. »Okay, take me to the boy.« Addressing two other aid workers outside the tent he said: »And you two best come with me. We may need some help.«

Haīkal led them to the pile of rubbish where the boy was still lying, breathing heavily. Ḥusām knelt down beside him and asked: »What’s your name?« He didn’t get an answer. The irregular creaking when the boy breathed out was the only sound he made when Ḥusām examined him. When he was finished, he got up and said: »He must have internal injuries in the stomach region. Maybe he fell or he was beaten.«

»But what about all the blood?« Haīkal asked.

»I don’t know where it’s coming from, but it is at least half a day old. I can’t give him a proper check-up here. We’ll have to get him onto the ship.«

»The supply ship?«

»Not the supply ship; the command ship. I may be able to treat him there if it isn’t already too late.«

His usually cheerful disposition had given way to a worried expression. He took out his mobile phone and walked a few steps away. Although Haīkal didn’t catch much of the conversation, he noticed that the discussion was quite heated.

»Get the cart and a few blankets from the supply station. We’ll get him on board as quickly as we can!«

By the time the others got back, Ḥusām had given the little Arab an injection and prepared him for the transport as well as he could. On their way to the ocean they tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. They had hidden the injured boy, whose breathing became increasingly laboured, under the blankets.

When they finally arrived at the shore, a dinghy was already waiting for them. Haīkal deciphered the name: Malta III. The mist lingering above the water created an opaque wall in the distance. Behind it must be more than the supply ships which were still just about visible from the shore. In the afternoon, when the boys returned to the city with their fully laden cart, Haīkal gazed across the ocean once more. The mist had slightly lifted at this stage. Far behind the supply ships he saw a small dot slowly rising up into the air. A helicopter, he surmised and thought I hope the boy will make it.