Return from Gaza

The good people of Gaza could not support us for more than 3 days. They had given us their food, but our hotel had run out on the third day. Although I knew that Israel was only allowing the Gazans enough food through this cruel blockade to keep them just above malnutrition level, the truth of how precarious existence is in this place was driven home. My translator was ambivalent about it 'This happens often in Gaza' she said in her matter of fact way.

So, having said goodbye to the trusty Little Van which had been bought with the donations of so many well wishers, and had carried me safely the 3500 miles from Wales, we were loaded onto coaches - mine was for women only, and taken once more to the gates of Rafah where delays and the sad goodbyes eventually saw us herded onto different coaches for the 6 hour journey to Cairo. We had no choice. The Egyptian government were going to see us 'off the premises' so to speak in their own time, in their own way, and so we drove once more past the scarred remains of what one day will be a very fine city resting on the bright golden sand of endless beaches on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea.

Forever etched in my mind will be the face of Alla as we parted. I could leave, and she could not. The Viva Palestina convoy had brought hope, but the warplanes of Israel were already screeching low overhead,17 we counted, to renew the threats and intimidation and terror, even as we were leaving.

Due to the ever present nausea I was suffering, it was only a matter of time before I threw up - in a carrier bag as it happened- and groaned and grogged my way through the journey. At one stage we stopped, but our guards said only men could get off and relieve themselves. I do not take kindly to this sort of attitude, and forced my way off the coach, closely followed by most of the women present, to find a private place in the sand, in the dark.

At Cairo airport they attempted to kettle us. Again I do not take kindly to this sort of attitude and refused to be kettled. The airport police retaliated by seeking us out wherever we were and banging loudly on metal chairs to wake us up every hour or so. It was a fine revelation to hear that the bartender at the airport had been one of the Egyptians demonstrating against his own government in the streets of Cairo for our passage to Gaza. We were on our way home, mission accomplished. All that remained was to plan the next convoy. The siege of Gaza has to be lifted, the governments of the West are starting to listen to the voices of reason, and we cannot give up now.

3 days in Gaza

By the 3rd day on Gaza I was very sick. The food supply was intermittent and was not working in tandem with the drugs I had been given. When Alla, our translater, arrived beaming that she had manged to fix an interview with the Minister for Housing and Public Works, it was all I could do to get into the van. After less than 5 minutes I was so nauseous that we had to stop so that I could get out and lie in the road. Nonethe less I would not forgo the opportunity for another top level interview, and nibbled like amouse at a piece of bread to try and steady myself.

They are desperate to house people in Gaza. The minister of Housing and Public Works, Dr Yousef Mansi looked tired. In the madness of Israeli strikes against Palestinian people in the winter of 2008-9, 5000 houses were completely destroyed, 50,000 partially. Thousands remain homeless and there is a housing shortage of 100,000 units. How can he build when cement is a banned substance? Gaza is a desert. There is no rock to quarry, no clay for brickmaking. The tunnels under the border with Egypt are a vital lifeline, but why should it be like this. The siege of Gaza is illegal - the UN has said so. But the Egyptian government is now owned by America. Egypt has signed a secret pact with Israel and part of the bargain is to maintain the illegal blockade along the small border Gaza shares with Egypt. This is preposterous, and obviously illegal, yet the British, the Americans and Europe all prop up the Israeli terror regime by doing nothing. My own taxes prop up this inhumanity and my compulsory licence fee to the BBC props up the inhumanity through disinformation and lack of truthful reportage.

Despite everything, the Ministry for Housing tries to ensure that construction skills are kept up to date for when the blockade is ended and building materials are allowed in. They work on innovation and reusing the rubble to improve the harbour. They would like to work on sustainability, but there is not a solar cell in Gaza - a land of almost constant sunshine which could generate a constant supply of energy. No money, no building materials, no nothing. Some irreparably damaged buildings cannot even be taken down because they lack the equipment to do so.

Before the hideous 2008-9 Israeli air strikes which followed the democratic election of Hamas, decimated the city and killed 1600 Palestinian men women and children, there had been international aid to build houses, now there is nothing. The UN, who has spoken out against the "medieval" siege is now in fact an active participant by way of its own inaction.

The government in Gaza needs help from someone. The EU, the US and the UK have turned their backs. But Gaza cannot live solely on inadequate food handouts and what can be smuggled in through the tunnels. Therefore the help is accepted from Saudi Arabia and the Islamic Bank in Jeddah. So while the West thinks it is being oh-so-clever in reducing the Palestinians to their knees, a new Islamic society is being formed under their very noses.

3 days in Gaza

They have electricity every 6 - 8 hours and clean water every 3 days. Their clothing is largely limited to that which is given.
Every day an Israeli submarine patrols the horizon. Several times a day an Israeli gunship patrols the shore. I have seen this with my own eyes. The fishing rights awarded to Palestinians are 22 nautical miles from shore, but in reality they have only a few hundred yards. If the boats stray out and a gunship is around they will be shot out of the water. This is terror.

Every day Israeli fighter aircraft patrol the skies. They fly low and loud. I hear this every day with my own ears. 1600 people were killed in this way during the last vicious Israeli raids. It is terror.

I met people who had been targeted with unmanned aircraft on the way to the shops. Two boys had their faces blown away. One man is suffering daily as the shrapnel moves further and further towards his brain. "Life in Gaza is scary and dangerous. We struggle to hope." said the handsome Omar who had not left his house for a month before we came. As he walked away from me he clung almost naturally to the walls of buildings. This man was living in fear. I saw it with my own eyes.

I visited an orphanage. Some children laughed and played as we gave them treats to eat. Others did not laugh or play. They did not want sweets. Their hollow eyes told a different story. They had lost their parents in violence. If a Gazan child is orphaned, and they have family on the West Bank, they cannot go to live with them. There is no freedom of movement for even an orphan. Israel shows zero compassion.

I was fortunate to meet Ismail Haniyah, the Prime Minister of Gaza, his Vice President Mahmoud al Zahar, and Minister of Public Works and Housing Yousef al-Mansi.The Hamas PM sadly did not speak English, so I was unable to form a full picture of his personality and political attitudes. What I do know is that everything I have so far heard or read on the subject has been plain wrong. He came across to me as a quiet and thoughtful man who was eager to meet us. He made a special effort to come and speak with the women - who had largely been pushed aside by the men earlier in the day and had therefore been denied a full chance to speak with him. He is pictured here in a simple white robe and cap.

The VP of Hamas is a fluent English speaker. He was generous enough to give the three fiery ladies of New Zealand (Julie) the US (Rahmah) and the UK (me)a private appointment in his state apartment - which was nice enough but not palatial. At that meeting we discovered that two of his sons had been killed by the Israelis. The troubles he suffered and the questions he asked have been virtually the same for the last 62 years:

Before 1948 the nature of Palestine was Palestinian. What right did the British Government have to give Palestinian land away?

What is the nature of the existence of Israel - a replacement population, or occupation. Is it legal?

Why does the West continually call itself the international community when quite clearly it is not. The Chinese have 1.6 Billion people and India 1.1 Bn. Protestants and Catholics number 850M, Muslims 1.85 Bn, and Jews13M (of which only 5M live in Israel). Is it logical to describe your nation as a religion? Islam is a religion, not a nation.

Why are the British and American press obsessed with the return of 1 Israeli prisoner when Israel holds 11,000 people the majority of whom are on a 99 year jail sentence with barely a fair trial between them.

Why is there a concentration of war in the Middle East and who is searching for Israeli nuclear bombs

The killing of the nine members of the freedom flotilla in May earlier this May - was it an act of self defence - or aggression?

Mahmoud al Zahar was clearly a knowledgeable man, well educated and by the nature of his knowledge, anti Jew. It seemed to me that he no longer separated Zionism from the ordinary Jew, but living under siege as he did with warplanes and warships continually threatening his people, killing his children and destroying his homes one could hardly blame him. The view from Gaza is uncompromising. There is great suffering. Those of us who take our freedoms for granted can have no idea what it means to have them withheld from no fault of your own - except to be born in Gaza.

Breaking the Blockade

The first person to greet me at the gates of Rafah was a small woman in a blue headscarf. "Thank you, thank you for not forgetting us" she whispered over and over again as she cried into my shoulder, and that was what it was all about. It was not the relief of getting into Gaza after so many weeks of frustration, it was not the fact that we were pretty clever to have broken through the blockade with little more than' right' on our side (and absolutely no 'might'), it was the fact that by our presence these besieged unpeople knew that this small band of 360 travellers had not forgotten them.

I cried. I cried because I was cross. I cried because I was angry. I cried because out of the whole damn world only 360 people had bothered to join the convoy and do something for these people. I cried because there are literally millions of people would prefer to sit on their fat arses and dodge the truth whilst so many Palestinians suffer.

This is a world political issue. This is not famine or earthquake. This is you and you by your non-action condoning the spreading of lies and deceit. I cried for shame.

We drove the few miles to Gaza City and it took hours. Every person in Gaza had turned out of their houses. Every man woman and child lined the streets to greet us and cheer us and cry with us. At times we came to a standstill and the good people of Hamas had to clear another way so that we could inch forward a little further. There were no streetlights, just the beam of happy faces wanting to touch our hands as if we were messiahs. I felt humbled and ashamed. How could so few enable the political changes necessary to give these people back their basic human rights - the right to clean water, the right to travel, the right not to be bombed out of existence, the right to peace and security.

Later that night I was admitted to hospital. My stomach problem had got worse and I was put on a drip. It was lucky for me that we had brought medical aid with us because there had not been even a simple sterile saline solution in Gaza for more then 5 weeks previously. The hospital was shabby and ill equipped. The doctors and nurses were pristine, well qualified and spoke English. I had mixed feelings about using the precious resources they had, but was very glad of some help. My ability to carry on through this emotional and physical journey was becoming debatable, but carry on I would.

Wednesday 29th October - Farewell to Lattakia

The heat and the flies. The suffocating humidity of the buses where we sweat and wait like cattle. The smell of bodies. Then the jam packed-plane and the loud prayers. I did not like to say that there was more point to putting our faith in the maintenance engineers and the pilot than him upstairs. Oddly the man sitting next to me did not put on his safely belt, but insisted on singing from the Koran for the whole journey. On the whole I find Islam to be the most noisy religion on the planet. From the amplified morning prayers at 4.00 am which wake me every day, to the maniacal chanting at the drop of any available hat, to the cacophony from the myriad of minarets five times a day when each seemingly jostle for supremacy and possibly deliberately start their calling several minutes apart just to make the whole thing take longer, I feel that as an atheist my rights to a bit of peace and quiet have not been respected at all. Interestingly, the biggest single group on this convoy - other than the Moslem's - are the atheists. We should turn it into a religion....

A safe landing at El Areesh brought us yet more waiting and delay. The yabbering at the arrivals room , visas, the madness of exchange rates and inability of airport staff to understand that the pound is worth more then the dollar (my dollars are in the boat), an empty stomach, general insanity and oppressive heat bring on a sudden visit to the lavatory. I am not amused.

Several hours later the Egyptians find that they cannot properly delay us any longer, and load us onto coaches bound for the 5* El Areesh Hotel for which we have to pay $50 a night and share 3 to a bed.

Rahmah, my bed share, had to undergo a night of constant movement - the movement of my bowels mostly. After having got up almost 40 times - for as soon as I lay down I had to get up again - it is fair to say that I felt bad. But he convoy was unrelentingly on the move and there was no rest for me. The vehicles had arrived at the port and negotiations were complete. I reluctantly downed some Imodium and after yet another long wait in the sun and the heat at the port, I was once again behind the wheel of Little Van and on course for the forbidden gates of Rafah for which we have for so long been waiting to enter.

Adieu to Little Van - for now

Up at 6.00 and ready to leave by 7.00, but the wait which we thought to be over, was not. Negotiations to get us all afloat have stalled because the Greek owned ship has been trying to slide out of taking us. Dark and powerful forces are at work here. A top level meeting between the Greeks and Israelis last August has born fruit. Greek police are currently being trained by Israeli forces to combat civil unrest. We know the Greek economy is in tatters and that the recent internal civil unrest has caused concern. We also know that there is a chilling trend for police and other armed forces to train overseas with a view to policing each others' civil disturbances (the rationale being that foreign troops will be much tougher on someone else's civilians), but we did not bargain on the Greeks being pressured by the Israelis to stop our convoy. It is a great tribute to our negotiators that after 24 hours of further talks a compromise was finally reached and the vehicles full of humanitarian aid can be loaded onto the Strafades 4 with 30 of our number, whilst the rest attempt to fly out of Syria for Egypt. The Egyptian authorities have grudgingly given permission for us to use the small airstrip at Al Arish tomorrow evening. Sadly the arbitary group of 17 people who were denied access to Egypt are not likely to be with us, but discussions are still live on this point.

A delightful refugee family have taken me under their wing, pressing me daily to sleep in their house(which is considerably more comfortable than our little room of 6 iron bedsteads and 2 plastic chairs) but I have resisted out of solidarity for my fellows. I have, however been fed most scrumptiously at their house for 3 nights, and last night relented to a hot shower, the luxurious impact of which can only be felt by one who has been under freezing cold showers for at least the last 17 days.

Tonight I drove my little van, loaded to the roof with humanitarian aid, onto the cargo vessel which is to carry it to Egypt. It was strange to say goodbye to this little friend who has been my constant companion for nearly 5 weeks. Stranger still to hug and kiss goodbye the friends who will be travelling with her, over the waters ridden by the Mavi Marmara and stalked by Israeli warships, 10 of which are reputed to be lurking in the area at this moment. We would much rather be together than apart; face the dangers together; share the strain and the wind and the rain; but our only aim is to get to Gaza, and we will do that by hook or by hook, even though our chief negotiator is on the list of the banned.

Further obstacles are expected. We will attempt to fly out of Syria tomorrow and be reunited with our vehicles the day afterwards, but who knows what the next few days will bring.

Sailing close to Egyptian winds

By now I expected to be on board ship steering for Al Arish, but the Egyptians (aided and abetted by their paymasters in the US and their uneasy allies in Israel) came up with yet another delaying tactic.

We had pretty much resigned ourselves to the fact that George Galloway would not be joining us, but were slightly suprised by the list if the 17 banned people announced late on yesterday. Amongst the list of ordinary people was Sheik Ismail, a dear old 83 year old man who wasn't much of a threat to anyone, a named person who wasn't even on the convoy, and my roommate Amena. Amena seems to have been banned because they think she is married to George Galloway. In fact she has never been married at all, and despite being a tireless campaigner for the Palestinian Solidarity Campaign in the UK, had been on a previous convoy with absolutely no issues. This quiet but determined woman gave a speech this morning which would chill the hearts of her opponents. Among other things, she said that the UN had labeled the seige of Gaza illegal and that it should be ended, but since the countries of the world were too weak to end it themselves, we were going to do it instead.

The wait does take its toll, and tears were shed by men and women this morning.

This group of 17 banned persons represent an arbitary list of people drawn up by Egypt possibly to demoralise the convoy. In fact all we see is the vengeful and cruel incompetence of the Egyptian administration and the type of decisions which only an inept government could make from a position of weakness. We are far from demoralised.

It is my belief that all the banned people will be on the ship which is due to sail tomorrow morning from the Syrian port of Lattakia- with or without the permission of the Egyptian government, but definitely with the permission of the Egyptian people. To whom do we now answer?

Other events of the morning include a speech from Dr Moussabou Marzouk, the Vice President of Hamas, who reiterated that Hamas was always ready to to speak with other groups and always had been. This is, of course, contrary to what we are told by our own media in the UK, and I heard it today straight from the mouth of this mild mannered and quiet gentleman who properly represents the people of Gaza, who is deeply loved by the Palestinians in exile here in Lattakia and who is regularly misrepresented and demonised by all those who would see further disenfranchisement of the original inhabitants of Palestine who quietly stick to their principles and resist all attempts of Zionist-backed governments (including my own) to force them further into the wilderness

Swimming against the tide of oppression

The news is that we board ship on Sunday 17th in the morning. It will be strange to be moving out of the little hovel we have come to call home which I share with 5 other girls in the Palestinian Refugee Camp. It is almost 'our' village now. We brew tea outside under the tiled canopy which runs the length of the compound, sit and chat with our fellow convoy members and take the bus into Lattakia when we need to. We know the drivers, the neighbours and many of the refugees, whose older generations regularly bless our voyage and cry pitiful tears as they recall their homes, their families, their houses and belongings which they thought they would return to in a matter of days. That was 1948. They thought the international community would not tolerate their plight and would rally to restore their rights. Instead they live as prisoners in exile. No right to travel, no right to see their loved ones who stayed behind, no right to vote, no right to that which is theirs - their homes and land.

These are good, polite people, still bewildered that their needs and rights have been forgotten - worse, deliberately ignored. They have brought children into this world, and their children have married and brought them grandchildren and still all the generations of Palestinians still have no freedom, no vote, and cannot go home. They daily provide us with beautiful home made food, ply us with cake and biscuits, tea and wonderful arabic coffee then wave us goodbye as we go on our way to their rightful home which lives only in the mind as a distant memory.

The Palestinian people only ask to live an ordinary life. We bring the hope that they have not quite been forgotten. We on the convoy are their only hope. We few. We unworthy few swimming against the tide of repression and daily trying to persuade our own governments and media to tell the truth about what has happened, for they know the truth but will not tell it.

Humanity versus murder and theft

Some people have no rights - no country, no freedom to travel, no vote. Today I searched myself and realised the meaning of my own words printed on the left hand side of this blog. The various freedoms I have and often take for granted are nothing to me if others cannot share those freedoms. How can I flaunt my right to travel whilst so many - through no fault whatsoever of their own - have those rights forcibly witheld? How can I stand by and allow others to live in a man trap whilst I cavort across the globe? How can I sit back and allow my own government to aid and abet those who would steal and cheat and murder?

It doesn't matter what names we give these people. The past of these people is of little event because what is happening right here in the here and now is the greatest crime of my generation, and my generation are allowing this crime to be purpetuated because they are too damn lazy to do anything about it.

Daily I move among the kindest and most polite people I have ever met. People who are determined with all their hearts to carve the best education their circumstances permit. People not resigned to their fate of a third generation in the slums of exile, but prepared to strengthen their hand through goodwill and consideration for those who try to help them.

There are others who daily harass and torture children, who daily steal land which was never theirs, those who will kill a child without a thought and then kill another. It doesn't matter what their names are, what matters is that they do it - and that we should stop them doing it.

When the western world favours humanity over murder and theft we can be proud. If the western world favours murder and theft over humanity we should be damned. What is your position?

My heart bleeds in Latakia

Something seems to have unblocked the log jam and we have the go ahead from Egypt. Eight days of stand off and the intervention of several different countries has finally got us on the move. The delay has cost the booking with our original ship chartered to take the convoy from Syria to Egypt, so its a mad scramble through the shipping agents to find another ship or two prepared to travel the 'international waters ploughed by the Mavi Marmara last May on which 9 activists just like me were shot dead - some in the head at point blank range let us not forget. It is of great comfort that this case has today been accepted by the International Criminal Court in The Hague for crimes against humanity; of little comfort to the families of those young men who were so cruelly cut down. Crimes against humanity are a daily occurence for all Palestinians. The delightful family with whom I had lunch today in Latakia in Syria, have asked for three years to visit their family in Canada. They will not be allowed to go until the international community finally faces up to its human rights obligations and attends to the situation in Palestine in a fair and equitable way. This will not happen without pressure from people like you and me. People who have taken time to really understand the situation and who will not be fobbed off with disinformation from western media.

We do not know which day we will be leaving Latakia. What we do know is that many obstacles will be put in our way. Over these last few days in the refugee camp I have have come to more fully understood the situation of the polite and patient Palestinian refugees and my heart is bleeding.

Sneaking out to Allepo

Whilst we sit here in Latakia in Syria and wait for Egypt to decide on the meaning of human rights and the part they should play in restoring those rights to the people of Gaza and the many million refugees from Palestine, the danger of cabin fever was avoided by our little splinter group dashing off on a guerilla visit to Aleppo. Sneaking out under the radar of security at 5.30 in the morning we boarded a smart clean train (even the loos had toilet paper and a seat) and made a near silent journey to the ancient city of Aleppo. In a little under three hours we greeted a sunny, but not hot day and made for coffee. The hole in the wall we selected opened into an Arabian delight of marble stairway, fabulous carpets and a roof garden of embroidered canopy and a view over the mosque and citaadel to die for. Here we dined in style on the best hummus the middle east can offer and divine teas and Arabian coffee. The holiday mood was not dashed by the mosque of Omeyyado whose gatekeepers tried to rip us off for an entrance fee. I was not about to pay for that plusa horrendous all covering womans outfit when in fact every inch of me was was properly covered anyway, but I relented with grace and pulled a cotton skirt on over my baggy trousers to avoid bad feeling. This mosque allegedly held the remains of the prophet Zachariah which amused me slightly as I thought he was a Christian prophet. I kept trying to explain that all the stories are basically the same in Islam and Christianity - and for that matter Judaism - but just like the seven sets of steps which go down to the alleged scene of the nativity in Bethlehem so that every church can fool themselves that each has divine right to the entrance, neither Islam nor Christianity nor Judaism will admit that their stories have exactly the same root.
Undaunted we leave the mosque and its resident charlatans and head for the noble citadel - fabulous. Views to die for, and history which many have died for. Then on to the Suq which really was worth writing home for. A laborinth of underground passages which literally breathed its history. A living relic of ancient merchants and medieval shopping sprees. Young boys wheeled the laden barrows of sweets and pastries up and down the narrow arched passages The scent of a thousand spices filled the air, fresh roasted nuts, colourful dresses, scarves and silks from across the orient and engaging traders who did not push you at all. I could have bought everything, but decided on nothing. I will save my money for the economy of Gaza which is in dire straits since the blockade was enforced. Gaza cannot import or export. Its industry and infrastructure has been bombed to obliteration. If I spend money on anything but essentials it will be in Gaza.
On our return we are nabbed by security and have to confess all. The escape committee are already planning the next trip to Damascus.

Morning prayers and sheet lightening

The inevitable tummy bug has struck! In weather alternating between stormy, searing heat and torrential rain it was only a matter of time. The food in the Palestinian camp is basic, but wholesome, and the bug which has jumped from one to another has weakened. Nonetheless it is a blessing that we are not on the high seas at this stage.

Most mornings I am woken by the call to prayer, and it is far too early for me at 5.30am. Lately this group has taken to amplifying the call, and I have taken to open threats to cut the mike cable. The Moslem guys are a great bunch, but I demand a little respect for my atheism. This morning the call was not amplified.

On Friday, I was woken by the sound of heavy thunder amid flashes of sheet lightening. Spectacular! Being properly awake I took the customary cold shower (at speed, accompanied by muffled screams) and crawled back to bed at about 6.00am to warm up. Then the rain started, big heavy drops at first, then the heavens opened. I heard sirens, then Amina, one of the 5 girls I share this small and basic room with, rushed in and said the aid needed moving. By the time we had pulled on some clothes the water was knee deep on the brick walkways outside our rooms. Undaunted we ran through deepening flood and with a huge joint effort moved thousands of boxes to safer ground before they could be damaged. Notably it was mostly the older men and women who ran to the rescue. The young ones slumbered on.

As the negotiations with Egypt continue there is still little word on our departure date. Clearly it is a delicate affair and I will make no comment here today. Many of the older and respected brothers do not want to go through the gates of Rafah without George Galloway, but that may eventually be the case. We 'will' the Egyptian people to influence their government and help it to bring sense to the situation. The people of Palestine, and the people of Gaza in particular, should not be suffering in this way for one minute longer.

Living with the refugees

The next few days are spent in the refugee camp at Lattakia whilst our team negotiates with the Egyptian government. We are (of course) a thorny problem. Blockage busting is not anyones idea of a holiday. Only last May the Israeli government in typical inhuman fashion murdered nine people on the Mavi Marmara. Some had bullets put through their head at point blank range, some were shot 4 and 5 times. I have spoken to people who were on this ship - women like me. The Israelis were trying to put an end to future convoys with sheer brutality, yet they already have failed. We are here and we are growing.

Over the next few days I meet Palestinian families. Those whose grandparents were born within the confines of Gaza still have no passports, no freedom of movement. They have been in limbo since 1948 when they were terrorized into fleeing their homes by Zionist-backed Jewish gangs. Since the fair and democratic election of the Hamas Government 4 years ago the position of Gazan refugees has been even worse than other Palestianian refugees. A great irony is that penalised for the outcome of the elections as they are, not one can cast a vote. How the West hates democracy.

I meet Enez and her family who live in on the of the shambolic concrete blocks in the camp, but looks are deceptive, inside it is little short of palatial. The family are well educated and speak beautiful English. Her grandmother cries to me, her whole life imprisoned in a refugee camp - her crime was to be born on a piece of land which was hers, in Palestine - whilst those with their full quota of human rights prance across the globe pretending to hold peace talks, impervious to the suffering their empty postulations fail to alleviate. I promise to pick up a handful of Palestinian soil, take it to Wales and then mail it to Enez.

We clean up the camp a bit - especially the showers and loos- and settle down to a kind of routine. The Jordanians arrive in a swish convoy, some all girl groups, 125 more people drive in from Algeria. From time to time there is a curfew as our vehicles are now loaded with millions of pounds worth of aid and security has to be stepped up. There are those who would sabotage our efforts and we must be vigilant.

I am invited by local Syrian women out to lunch. The good Syrians have been loyal always to the Palestinians, giving them shelter, food and a home, as they do for us. Our camp of now 400 people is fed three times a day by the generosity of the Syrian government.

The coach is filled and the singing and clapping and swaying takes us all happily out into the green countryside of olive groves and lemon trees for a memoral banquet. We feast on vine leaves and roasted nuts and vast quantities of salad. There is plenty of meat for those so inclined - the Syrians, like the Turks, have very basic carnivorous appetites.

After lunch we are treated to a phone call from the wife of Kaled Meshal, the Hamas leader in exile. On speakerphone her rousing voice travels across the garden, thank us all and each send a greeting, me included. These are days I shall never forget.

Syrian celebrations

Saturday 2nd October brings our mad dash to the Syrian border. Thousands of trucks are lined up ready to pass through the checkpoints, but we have a police escort and jump the queue by several days.

Hardly have our passports been stamped than the welcome begins. We have driven all day and are dusty and tired, but the Syrian government has given our visit state status and the welcoming committee of Arabic marquees, fancy chairs and Turkish delights held high on trays a yard wide begins. The government officials greet us ceremoniously, but I am delayed as usual by the little children and by the time I get to my allotted place in the ceremonial tent I have an entourage clutching at my hands and offering gentle kisses. These are the Philistines, or Palestinians, of modern day, unable to move for more than three generations, grateful beyond my understanding for our willingness to do what they are forbidden by international law to do - to travel to their homes. All around us is the cacophony of rousing speeches, orations of great professionalism, voices alternatively soaring to erupting applause and falling to near silent pathos. A thousand flags high on long poles salute in the gusting breeze, the black, and red and white of Syria, the orange and green and white of the Irish, the rainbow of my peace flag. Music deafens us and we sit politely amid this medieval pageant and wonder.

Then it is photographs and kisses and goodbyes. A few press interviews on the way back to our vans and we speed away as the red carpet is rolled up behind us. The hour is getting late and we are heading for the port town of Lattikia for the night. Currency madness ensues at the filling station as we grapple the new exchange rates in the darkness of yet another country and the decreasing quality of the lavatories.

Our leaders have elected to take us the long way round to Lattakia as the road is rumoured to be better. An extra 200 kilometers brings small groups of us us to town at 2.00 in the morning, spread out, tired and with a few missing. The local refugees have waited all night for us and their numbers are depleted. Nevertheless they try their best to wake up and chant their messages of love and welcome. Bed is an tattered mattress in the old refugee camp and we fall exhausted into oblivion.

Turkish nights

On Thursday 30th September we experienced rain! It has been getting increasingly hotter and more humid, so the rain was a welcome change. In Ankara we were treated to a bed and something resembling sleep. We breakfasted on a selection of cheeses, egg, salad, bread - almost everything was made available to us and we eat heartily. There followed the mayhem of the press conference which by now we are all very used to, the warm hugs and then we got back on the road again.

IHH the Turkish human rights organisation which has arranged and paid for our hospitality in this part of the world, has been remarkable. They have beeen well organised and efficient, generous and supportive. Sadly the Turkish people have been warned off joining this convoy whilst the matter of the Mavi Marmara murders is investigated. Some say that if one more Turk is killed by the Israelis the Turks would be forced to take military action. I am not so sure. Turkey has right on its side. The UN has found Israel wanting in this matter and demands a full investigation. We know that any Israeli investigation will be a whitewash, and we know that it will take too long, but I feel that by not sending Turks on this convoy they are missing a trick. The Israelis are not going to kill one thousand Turks. I feel that instead of retreating, Turkey should allow thousands of people to come on the convoy. Thousands of ordinary people are not terrorists. The objective of the convoy is to break the seige of Gaza through direct action, not to pussyfoot around witht the type of diplomacy which has failed us for years too long to remember.

We drive on to Kayseri where a great treat awaits: we are driven in a coach to a hotel high in the mountain ski resort above the neat town where colourful headscarves rule and the trams run on neatly clipped grass.

In the morning it is another graveside visit and prayers. Furkan Dogar is another young man cut down in his prime on the Mavi Marmara. We met his brother, father and uncle. I would have liked to meet his mother, sisters and aunts. The cultural divide pressed strongly upon me this day and I said so in this interview on Press TV:

Onwards we go to Adana where the high humidity drains us to a standstill. The sports hall where we are staying has kindly put on the air conditioning, but sleeping on a tiled floor in the engine room of the Titanic does not make for rest, and although I meet a well educated and well informed woman who speaks good English, and although we speak of the evils of Monsanto and GM foods, I am glad to move on to the journey we have undertaken and the mountains and great agricultural plains of Turkey where rice and cotton and corn stretch to the far horizon.

Istanbul and the Atheist

In Istanbul I gave 4 'really mad' interviews. This might have been something to do with the solid marble floors I had been sleeping on- accompanied by the now mandatory wakefulness at 5.00 am . George Galloway was there on his global dogleg between Canada, London and the Middle East. He is a very well known man, and greatly loved in these parts. More then once I have heard people say that he should be the leader of all Arab States.

We went to visit the cemetery of one of the victims of the Mavi Marmara. This young, good-looking lad was shot dead - by more than one bullet. He was a little over 20.

Our convoy then did a tour of the city which - without police escort - became a shambles. Red lights are the enemy, and without a police escort we unfortunately had to stop at every one. The minarets of Istanbul put me in mind of Tennysons Dreaming Spires of Oxford (same deal, different packaging) Cars constantly beeped at us, pedestrians waved and cheered, or stood silently clapping our progress.

Near the sports hall where we were staying lived a woman called Aminah. Although we share no language, we became friends. She was very shocked when I told her that I was an atheist, but recovered herself fairy quickly. The Moslem's relation with their Allah is intense and very personal - almost a love affair. They find it difficult to understand the concept of living a life without a god, it is so alien that it is shocking. But Aminah was a true friend, after weighing the predicament she simply said' I love you'.

It is an interesting phenomenon worth reporting that the overwhelming majority - about 99% - of non-moslems on the convoy are atheists.

From Istanbul we drove to Ankara with a reception at Adapazari on the way. Another big fat reception greeted us - and a bed!

LittleToot

Mine is the smallest vehicle in the convoy and has been affectionately christened 'Little Toot'. She has been working very hard for more than 3000 miles and with absolutely no problems. She has even had to lead the convoy at some stages which has made her very proud.

During the cavalcade in Istanbul many vehicles got lost, but not Little Toot. The Italians followed a real ambulance (our convoy is composed of many ambulances as part of the aid package we are bringing) and lead almost half of the convoy miles out of their way. On another occasion one of our vans followed a real police car (we have 3 or 4 ex-police vehicles from Sweden and Italy in the convoy), and had a very hard time explaining why he had followed it to a police station! Somehow everyone finds their way back to where they are supposed to be, but often it takes many hours - or even days!

Little Toot has become so well known that we will be writing a series of children's books in her name. The first of which will be entitled 'Little Toot goes to Gaza'.

A Handful of Land

Yesterday was amazing! We were joined by 125 people from the North African convoy. They are buying their vehicles from here in Latakia, which probably means that we will stay in our somewhat basic refugee camp for a few more days.

A few hours later the convoy from Jordan drove triumphantly through the gates of our camp. We clapped and cheered them as so many others have clapped and cheered us. It was a wondrous sight, seeing vehicle after vehicle swing round from the dusty road outside and under the arch of the camp. There were at least 40 vehicles - some women only. They were a fantastic sight, driving in their full burkers, sporting snazzy glasses and brilliant English. I have lost count of the full convoy size, but estimate that we are in the region of 175 vehicles right now.

News from Egypt has been concerning. They have said they don't want the convoy to proceed through the gates of Rafah (on the Egyptian border) , so late last night we sent a delegation to Damascus to conduct negotiations with the several sovereign states involved, including the Egyptians. These negotiations are delicate, and I would not want to speculate on the outcome for fear of jeopardising our quest.

Last night, as we entertained the Palestinians in exile- as we do every night - I promised one old lady that I would scoop up a handful of Palestinian soil, take it back to Wales and then post it to her in Syria. This is a dispute over land, so I shall relocate some of it. It is the least I can do.

Arrival of the Mujahadeen

We leave Greece for the Turkish border and the light of Istanbul are all around us. We cross the Bospherous and the great bridge carries us painlessly from Europe to Asia.

A large welcome greets us. We get out of our vehicles and the chant of 500 voices in melodic symphony swells to a resounding crescendo as the booming bass voices drown the trebles and our ears ring. "Salaam Alycum; Salaam Alycum; Salaam Alycum".(Peace be with you) It is the greatest and most heartmelting welcome I have ever encountered. Women wrapped in burkas and headscarves hug me close and kiss me to death, the men smile and shake my hands, children kiss me and hold my hands. Placards wish us 1000 greetings in several languages. I am told we are Mujahadeen - volunteers for justice - yet I do not feel worthy. Several large men break into tears. The loud speakers burst forth their messages. There are fireworks, flags and photographs. We cannot stay long and fight our way back through the throng back to the vans - it takes time. Homemade cakes and treats, luscious apples and pears are forced through our open windows are we take our noisy leave. Horns blaring, flags waving and shouts of Viva Palestina!

Istanbul is vast. It sprawls over hours of driving. It is modern and clean. The investment in infrastructure is impressive, but the traffic pollution is not. There is no underground system and it seems that everyone takes the car everywhere. Our cavalcade is not police escorted and we have to follow the rules of the road. Irritatingly we must stop at red lights and the journey is frustratingly long. If I want to see the Blue Mosque, or any other sight of Istanbul, then I must come again.

Who will help us if we do not help others

At Thessaloniki we have time to stop and think. The drive has been long and we camp up at a prearranged site. Unfortunately the mayor- a right winger - hears of our intentions and tries to stop us staying. I am pleased to say that our arrival was pre-arranged by a higher power, and although there was a bit of hanging around whilst the stand-off ensued, we were finally given leave to camp on the soft green grass around a modern sports pavilion complete with showers and what was probably one of our last sit-on loos. We set about doing our washing and relaxing for a while. I have chance to do some yoga and there is talk of a daily class. However, no two days are the same, and as we have to split into more and more groups due to the growing size of the convoy, old friends are rarely seen, whilst new ones filter into our circle and we learn so much more about other lives and living.

Are we a band of assorted souls in search of a community? I ponder this thought. For sure we are searching for humanity, for sure we bring with us a sense of humanity. We are like minded, questioning, curious and exploratory. Every one of us has taken the voyage away from the mainstream of media pap and in our own way sought out the truth of what is happening around us. Although we have common purpose to relieve the oppression of Gaza, we also share similar views on economics, politics and institutional reform. In short we have all thought it through and come to the same conclusion: our world is run by the elite few, mostly bankers, and their money buys the politics. It is my greatest sadness that we are so few.

It is not about religion, the Gazan people are being squeezed because of land. The Palestianians in the West Bank suffer similarly; the Uighurs of north west China and the Tibetans are being systematically cleansed - not particularly by death (although that is too often the case) but by economic deprivation and ethnic dilution. It could be our turn next and who will help us if we do not help others?

Thessaloniki cost me my underwear. Whilst I was our at a press conference in town, the changing rooms at the stadium were locked. Unfortunately my washing was left drying inside, never to be seen again.

On Sunday 26th September we make an early start and get everyone back on the road to Alexandroupolis via Kabala. The convoy is now 50 vehicles and over 100 people, as two more vans joined us last night from Italy. The lovely young people of Italy are a joy. Only from Italy do we have real representation of the planet's youth. All of them bar one are in their 20's Trying to keep the whole convoy together is madness even at a steady 50 mph. Every 5 minute stop takes more than an hour and the round up of our motley crew is like herding demented cats.

Lipstick and Madness

Nights under dripping plastic tents, days on the road. From public rally to public rally we travel across Italy and I thank heaven for lipstick. Having to jump out of a van after several hours on the road and turn up to a civic reception at the drop of a hat does have its aesthetic challenges, and I am definitely up for it. I can now whip up a hairstyle and change into an exotic caftan in just a few minutes from the somewhat restricted confines of the front of my little Suzuki van (I can't use the back because it is ful of humanitarian aid). The trick is to do it so quickly that no-one notices what is happening. Boots No 7 Stay Perfect is the lipstick for me - oh yes. Thank you Mr Boots I love you.

Bologna is beautiful and the welcome a torrent of support. Great hearty meals of rice, fresh salad and luscious pizza are laid out in the main square to greet us. Police escorts, television interviews and speeches seem to pop out from every town we visit, and I have now decided not to tell the press what they want to hear any more. I have decided to tell it like it is. Thus I find myself in an excerpt from 'Network' (Peter Finch, 1970's, watch it please do) and get just a little mad. - why are so many people afraid to join us on the convoy? Why are so many governments shielding their populace from the truth? Why do people like me have to take such a dire position just to draw attention to what is happening in Gaza? We interview ourselves silly in every town as awareness in Italy about the real situation in Gaza is restricted to the informed few.

The incredible city of Turin takes us all by surprise. We whizz through red lights as our police escort literally flies us through this imposing classical city of high arches and sophisticated boulevards. We want to stay, but after more speeches and interviews are whisked away amidst a sea of waving flags to the next rendevous point. But we lose half the convoy and end up having to camp out in a lorry park in the motorway services on the road to Ancona. A nifty move (through a no entry sign) in the petrol station gets us in trouble with the police, but as I explain our predicament to one English speaking man in uniform, we find that not only are we let off, but we have a Palestinian sympathizer to boot!

The convoy grows a little almost every day. From Ancona in Italy we wait almost 4 hours for the rest of the convoy to catch up, then travel on the Hellenic Spirit and enjoy the luxury of a berth, a private shower and a civilized meal. But a 5.00 am start gets us up and moving for the next leg of the journey which will take us through Greece