A diary from Gaza...

January 29, 2009:

As I sit in my room in Gaza listening to the wind blow through the plastic where glass should be, I ponder and feel the anger rising at what I have seen today.

There are no Mercedes or Land Cruisers on the street, just donkeys pulling wooden carts, driven by beaten-down old men and boys who should be in school.

In Beit Lahiya it was like déjà vu: Bosnia, all over again. The houses, schools, hospitals, factories and greenhouses all flattened, sometimes from F-16s flying overhead and dropping the instruments of death, sometimes big bulldozers deliberately flattening the humble homes.

The bulldozers rolled into the field a week before harvest and over 100 tonnes of tomatoes were lying squashed and rotten on the ground I sat in the World Vision office and listened to our staff member describe the scenes his four-year-old son had witnessed -- body parts of men and children on the street. I spoke to farmers whose livelihoods had been taken away from them. I spoke to women who have seen their loved ones die.

At one World Vision project of 50 greenhouses, over half were completely destroyed and the rest were partially damaged. The bulldozers rolled into the field a week before harvest and over 100 tonnes of tomatoes were lying squashed and rotten on the ground. The ones that were still whole could not be collected or eaten because the white phosphorous bombs released in the area made them poisonous to eat.

There’s one field where World Vision beneficiaries, five families, were growing strawberries and onions. The field was relatively safe. The soldiers had slept in the furrows between the rows of strawberries. No bombs fell on that field. When the soldiers moved on they destroyed the irrigation system, so for over two weeks the food didn’t get any water, causing them to start to die. Three days after the bombing stopped, during the fragile peace, a World Vision project manager visited the beneficiaries and saw their plight. World Vision’s storehouse had pipes to be distributed, so immediately gave them to the farmers and once again water could flow that saved the crops.

East of Jabaliya reminded me of Bam, Iran, after the earthquake of 2000. Most of the houses were flattened. We stopped at one house that was perched on the side of a hill. A lady sat, dignified and still on a stool on the porch. The picture didn’t look right because the whole house was destroyed except for one room where 30 people now took shelter at night. The walls had gone, the roof was caved in, and the whole structure looked like the wind could blow it flat. The men of the house were below, picking through the rubble by hand. One concrete block after another was picked up and thrown to one side, with the hopes of finding something, anything.

Friday, January 30:

This story should never be told.

Amir, 9 years old, and his family of eight, hid in their house as the F-16s flew overhead. When the bombing started they moved to the house next door. They were told it would be safer. In front of the house was a small field. Amir’s father looked outside and saw his brother had been hit by some of the artillery from the plane. Amir’s father and uncle ran out of the house to try to rescue their brother, only to be shot dead by the helicopter gunship hovering above. Amir’s house collapsed after a bomb landed on it. The family then ran from the second house through the field where Amir’s father and uncle lay.

Lots of men have shoes like Daddy’s.” After five days, Amir asked, “Where is my father?” Amir looked at the body and thought he recognised the shoes on the feet of the dead person. He couldn’t recognise the face, as there wasn’t one. His mother pulled him along saying, “Lots of men have shoes like Daddy’s.” After five days, Amir asked, “Where is my father?” The mother knew she had to tell the truth and said that he was dead and that grandfather had buried him, after the planes and the tanks left, under the big tree. Amir rushed out. He ran to the big tree and dug with his hands to find his father.

Fatima is a beautiful six-year-old Palestinian girl. Her long black hair used to flow to halfway down her back. On January 17, the F-16 planes were flying low, dropping their bombs in her neighbourhood. She, her four siblings and parents all ran to the school 500 yards down the road, the same as another 400 men, women and children around the area. At night they slept on the floor in a classroom, approximately 15 families to a room. At 6 a.m. in the morning, the planes flew low and dropped their deadly cargo of white phosphorous bombs. These crashed through the school roof and hot phosphorous rocks settled on top of the innocent sleeping children and women.

Three rocks hit Fatima, instantly burning her hair and face. Her auntie, who was lying beside her, lost a hand in the explosion. Many people were burned. Fatima’s external scars are now healing but the scars on the inside are still raw. Every time Fatima hears a plane she runs inside. She is too scared to go to school. She is angry at her mother and asks, “Why did you let me get hurt?” Fatima and many children like her will need time and special care for all of the scars to heal.

Saturday, January 31:

Sharif, a nine-year-old sponsored child, was inside his humble home. Outside, sitting on plastic chairs, drinking tea, were Sharif’s father, three brothers and cousin. A small drone hovered overhead. The drones are equipped with cameras and small weapons, weapons that when fired kill within a 5-metre radius. Their target was the men outside. Bullets sprayed the five bodies and the house. Three were killed instantly. Eighteen-year-old Moussa survived. His mother picked him up and cradled him in her arms until the ambulance arrived. Moussa died an hour later. His other young cousin also died.

Sharif is now very quiet. He sits with his head hung low and wonders why his papa and brothers have left. He moves to his grandfather’s knee and just sits.

-ends-