One Day In Gaza

www.OneDayInGaza.com
Every time we visit Palestine to play concerts, we ask for a permit to visit Gaza. Every time, the
authorities say no.
But this Christmas, they say yes.
Almost no foreigners are granted permission to enter Gaza now, apart from a select group of
visiting diplomats and journalists. Only 100 or so expatriates work there full time, for
nongovernmental organizations. Gaza is essentially a closed zone, so we are extremely surprised
to receive permission to travel. We will be the first performing musicians to visit Gaza in almost
three years.
Entry conditions are strict, and we find ourselves racing to the border as soon as the phone call
comes through, in order to make our allotted time slot. From Jerusalem, a French diplomat
escorts us to the Erez checkpoint, the only entry point from Israel into Gaza.
Arriving at Erez is much like arriving at a big international airport. But instead of signposts and
parking lots, there are only concrete blocks, heavy access gates, and forbiddingly huge security
fences lining the entry road.
In the terminal, there's a distinct lack of human
contact. The initial passport control is like that of any
airport, but there the similarity ends. We are processed
through a series of steel doors marked 'Gaza', and
channelled down a long corridor with 20 foot walls,
security cameras high above scrutinising our every move.
As we pass through the final set of revolving gates, a
concrete slab automatically slides open, and we can see
Gaza on the other side.
A Gazan porter waves, welcomes us through. We've
crossed the border.
The porter loads our cases onto a trolley for the long
walk through no man's land. The caged walkway, about a

mile in length, is mostly deserted; during our walk only a few people pass the other way. First we
see three doctors, their shirts emblazoned with 'Medicins Sans Frontieres', then a few minutes
later, an old man carrying a small case, his face weathered by years of sunlight, a faint smile of
acknowledgement passing his lips as our paths briefly cross.
The bleak no man's land, once a busy industrial area, is now a wild nothingness of deep trenches,
broken concrete blocks, and a few Palestinian flags that some brave or insane soul has risked
death to plant defiantly in front of the wall. Remains of old roads now offer transit only to desert
lizards and birds. How Gazans must wish they had wings...
We finally reach the interim checkpoint, a Fatahmanaged interface between the officials of Israel
and Hamas, who don't communicate directly with each other. There we meet Jean, the Director
of the French Cultural Centre, the only foreign cultural organization left operating in the Gaza
Strip. We load into the convoy, which includes an ominously toughlooking armoured jeep, and
set off on the half hour drive south to Gaza City.
First impressions are powerful; extreme poverty is evident everywhere, donkeys on the roads
signifying a dogged determination to continue with normal life, even though petrol is
unaffordable for most.
The drive along the beachfront is shocking. Shattered remnants of buildings look just as you
would expect, but what is disconcerting is the types of buildings they are: a restaurant and leisure
park on the beach is a burntout wreck; homes and commercial buildings are scarred with
shrapnel wounds; the foundations of an American school, destroyed in the 2009 Israeli offensive
lie empty, the rubble long since cleared away by desperate Gazans recycling blocks of concrete in
their effort to reconstruct the conflictridden region; and a hostel, once one of the biggest in Gaza,
is reduced to a skeletal hulk.
The jeep weaves along unrepaired roads marked by the tracks of Israeli tanks. Jean points out
beautiful homes that were once the residences of choice for successful Gazan businesspeople. But
the people are long since gone, and the houses lie abandoned and forlorn.

We pass a truck playing Beethoven's Fr Elise. Jean explains that, rather than the ice cream we
Westerners might expect, the truck is selling water. Similarly, 'Jingle Bells', which we will play
later in the day, signifies the arrival of a bread truck!

Soon we arrive at the French Cultural Centre. Pizzas are delivered - even in a conflict zone, some
things never change! We're shocked to hear the value of the land, which is close to a million
dollars, but there's a simple explanation. Gazas population density nearly 4,000 persons per
square kilometre is among the highest in the world. Between 1997 and 2007, the population
increased by nearly 40 per cent to an astonishing 1.5 million and it is expected to double in the
next 20 years to nearly 3 million people. I dread to think what this place will be like in years to
come.
The centre is a beautiful oasis; at the moment, they're showing an exhibition by a Gazan artist,
whose pictures feature musicians playing all sorts of instruments. All of the musicians have been
badly injured during the conflict.

We transfer to the Latin Church in central Gaza City for our rehearsal. The Christian community
is very welcoming, and we are immediately made to feel at home. As there are only five of us, it's
a more intimate setup than the larger Baroque Ensemble we've been touring with - only one
instrument on a part means we will have a much thinner texture to our sound.
Gazan musicians have faced difficulties in recent years when Hamas has placed restrictions on
the playing of music. Certain musical events have been banned, the reason given that they are
forbidden by Islam. Traditional Arabic music and Classical music is perhaps less unacceptable,
though still not especially welcomed. But our concert is advertised through specific community
mailing lists and organizations so, on this particular day, we don't need to worry about censure.
It has been years since an event like this has been allowed to take place, and the concert is a big
success. A TV crew covers the event, and the energy in the room is palpable. People clap excitedly
after every movement, and I notice a particularly enthusiastic lady in the front row almost
dancing in her seat. When we play Christmas carols at the end of the concert, she leads a rousing
chorus of voices as the audience follows us out of the church and into the courtyard, where we
continue to play for many minutes.
I finally meet in person the violin and piano teachers from the Gaza Music School. I'd met them
virtually through a fuzzy videoconference call several months before; now, we make the
connection real and I'm overjoyed to see the young violin students who I'd heard perform
impressively on the videolink. We agree to try again soon, and I promise to come back and give a

masterclass next time we visit, assuming we're allowed to visit again.

As coffee is served in the hall next door, there's a party atmosphere. Noone wants to go home. We
play again for ten minutes, then ten minutes more, and before we know it we're playing our way
through almost every piece of classical and folk music we can think of, then more Christmas
songs, then some Arabic music, then Bach. Children are everywhere, scampering around and
clamouring for a chance to try out Drew's viola. People seem happy.

Nearly two whole hours after the concert began, our hosts gently suggest we leave before it gets
too late (the later the night, the more dangerous the streets). We're taken by jeep to a hotel,
where we are astonished by the warmth and generosity of the staff, and the quality of the meal
and hotel. It weighs on my mind that most people in the area never experience the kind of
pleasure we are offered tonight. But we are struck by the pride and gracious spirit with which
hospitality is offered, and accept gladly. With the exception of two journalists, we are the only
foreigners; visitors from outside are truly rare.
In the hotel, one of Gaza's leading musical bands is playing. Expolicemen, we are told, who laid
down their uniforms after Hamas replaced Fatah as custodians of the Gaza Strip, to focus on
their lives as musicians. The violinist welcomes us to the stage during a break, and Drew and I
perform the Passacaglia to young, smartly dressed Gazans on a night out; families with their
young children in wooden cots; and men meeting friends. Every woman wears a hijab, and
there's not an alcoholic drink in sight!
As we are about to head for bed, the hotel manager comes and thanks us for playing. He is
genuinely moved. During these times, it's a big deal to have musicians from abroad staying in the
hotel, let alone performing for his customers. He asks us many questions: our impressions of
Gaza; what our visit means; and how we will describe it to people once we leave. He is thoughtful,
softspoken and reflective. He doesn't offer his own feelings, but he doesn't need to. His sad,
piercing eyes tell us all we need to know. Nevertheless, he and his staff retain a profound sense of
hope for the future. After all, there's not much else they can do.
A day is no time at all; we were very conscious of what we didn't see. No fighter jets today, no
sonic booms, no shooting, no raids by military forces. A quiet day, perhaps. But when you go in
and out like we did, you don't have to worry so much. For those who can't leave, the stress of not
knowing what the next day will bring is immense. People described to us the fear of the unknown,

the stress that eats away at your mind, the possibility that the next day could be your last. I don't
know how I'd cope.
We didn't meet any radicals or politicians, just normal everyday people. Tormented they may be,
but our lasting impression was one of warmth, graciousness, dignity, and indeed a certain pride
at whatever shreds of normality they manage to maintain.

These people were welleducated and hungry for information. Many had studied and lived abroad
in happier times, and spoke beautiful English. There was a deep understanding of the situation in
which they found themselves, but also an astonishing lack of resentment. Many people are so
tired they have no appetite for conflict. They pine for a normal life, a life without lingering fear.
Nobody we spoke to offered any answers to the problems that surrounded them, and nobody
seemed to have any idea about what would happen in the future. But there was one thing that
everyone seemed agreed on: never stop trying to keep love and hope alive. And for just a few
minutes, our shared moment of music making did just that.
We will keep asking to go back.
Simon Hewitt Jones, December 2010
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With thanks to the Consulate General of France in Jerusalem and to Ramzi Aburedwan of Al Kamandjati Center for making
this performance possible.
The concert was part of the Al Kamandjati Baroque Music Festival 2010
(Director: Peter Sulski) - Website: http://www.alkamandjati.com/

Please support the ROAD TO JERICHO project with a donation, and help us
return to bring more live music to the Gaza Strip:

http://www.roadtojericho.com/
Text and images Copyright Simon Hewitt Jones 2011
Edited by Gisela SchmidtMartin | Picture editing by Ian Dingle