Thursday, 23 September 2010

A storybook mistaken for History

We have just crossed into Croatian mobile space. Odd that in a large ship, bound for Greece, the one thing which tells us whose waters we inhabit is the ubiquitous mobile phone. I think of those who died on the Mavi Marmara. Did their mobile phones tell them whose mobile phone space they were in shortly before they were shot?
International waters, we are told, are spaces free from attack from all but pirates. The UN seem to agree. As we get nearer to Turkey I think often of those lost people whose only crime was to feel love and care for their fellow human beings, and to try and improve the lot of others. 9 died that night, a tenth is brain dead. Nikky and Kevin, who are on this convoy with me, cradled some of the injured in their laps. Nikky held one man as he died. It was a bad night for humanity, and the US citizens did not hear a word of it. I suspect that the vast majority do not even know that Gaza has been under siege for the past 2 years.
The weather continues fine and hot by day, cold and clammy by night. It is erfect unless yo happen to to have to spend the odd night in a plastic tent inside which condensation drips over your clothes and sleeping bag, soaking your pillow and frizzing your hair.
We disembark at 6.00 am in a chorus of confusion. Stop, start - like the badly named middle east peace process, except we are going somewhere in a mindset free from hyprocracy. We are a torch sent to light up the dark corners of Gaza so that the world might pull aside the veils of rhetoric and propaganda to discover the honest struggle of a people whose single curse is to live in the promised land of a storybook mistaken for history.

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