Journey to the Holy Land / 9
In the Gaza Strip, an open-air prison, returns half of locomotion of the past.
it normally is a presence in Gaza and the Strip is one of the donkeys and mules. There are everywhere, is the only system where the price of renting rooms by the day. In some streets of Gaza City on their driving was even banned, not to obstruct traffic, however intense these days ever. The car fell in a bad way, it is incoherent to say the least. It is rare to see a car with the windshield intact: that of our taxi has three bullet holes ... The gas that comes from Egypt is cheap, but it's bad, that Israel is dear, more than in Italy, although its quality is good.
activities in Gaza are very poor and limited, and you just hold on goods coming from the tunnels to Egypt, in Rafah area. The shops seem idle, inevitably there are people sitting outside the gate waiting for hypothetical customers who have little or nothing to spend. In
city tour we approach the border with Israel, south of Erez. The area experiencing, one of the hardest hit by the Israeli offensive in 2008, fell ill. There is no house that does not preserve traces of the attack: the beads of the impacts of the bullets still make an impression. At the end of the quarter, already in the open country - a land green and fertile, but neglected as a few - there is what they call the "graveyard of the martyrs," actually one of the cemeteries in Gaza in which they were buried many of the thousand deaths of the Israeli attack. Then factories and warehouses, donkeys and sheep, neglect and carelessness. Piles of scrap and rubble, cement silos, which are the raw material in their destruction: "We live only with the spirit of God," the taxi driver tells me, trying to overcome a depression in the ground filled with rainwater, yesterday morning fall very profusely.
The desolation of the fields at Erez is frightening: piles of debris or earth, trees left without care, cultivation summary ... carts pulled by donkeys and mules, women bent on some pile of brushwood, homes never finished, in any case never plastered. Then the long tunnel of humiliation. Dust is everywhere, the pen that glides on the pages of my notebook creaks.
0 comments:
Post a Comment