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

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.

Girls to Gaza

There are not many females on this trip. Only two are missing from this shot taken in Veaux en Velan- a suburb of Lyon. The girls hold up tot he trials and tribulationbs of the journey at least as well as the boys, and they are a joy to travel with.

Teams of people have come to join this convoy to Gaza. Two vehicles are manned by people from Malaysia, there are 2 US Americans, 2 vehicles driven from Sweden, 2 fro,m France and 2 from Italy. The Irish have done us proud with three large vans, there are 2 teams from New Zealand, and the rest are from the England withjust me and little van coming from Wales. A convoy is meeting us from Casablanca and another from the Gulf States.

It is a fine international effort, but sadly a poor effort by humanity to help itself. The capitaist society in which we exist has no heart. Capitalism is not there to deal with social problems, or indeed any other type of problem. It exists entirely to feed itself and I have no quarrel with that. The concience of the world can only be found in the hearts of people, and if the people do not step forward and open their hearts to the suffering of others we will be left with only a carcass, a shadow, a nothing.

Leaving Westminster

It is not always possible to put travel blogs in perfect order - particularly when you are working with strange computers and non qwerty keyboards, plus having to contend with serious time issues - ie there is a convoy of 50 motors revving their engines outside the internet cafe and you still haven't managed to get a connection. C'est la vie...

It has to be said that my first encounter with George Galloway could have been more deep and meaningful. In the event he gave me a big smile and said with a twinkle in his eye - "Pippa, you won't look so glamorous by the time you get to Gaza." I smiled back and said knowingly "Want to bet!" There followed a stand off. George was not repared to bet, and I had not yet been to Gaza . After 8 days of late nights, driping plastic tents,smoky motels and noisy sports halls; together with 8 days of convoy driving where everyone gets lost in the first 10 minutes and all hell ensues as you try to find them in a city you have never before visited; of driving at a steady 50 mph over hundreds of kilometres at a stretch deep into the night; I have to admit that George has a point. However, I am not so easily thwarted. The lipstick lives on!

In the picture is Abdul Gharfoor my trusty co-driver, George Galloway and myself plus convoy supporters at our press send-off at the Embankment, Westminster.

I must be said that we were not swamped by the press presence. A notable absentee was the BBC who as usual boycott anything which might put Palestine, and particulsarly Gaza, in a good light. Shame on you Auntie. The real world awaits your attention....but we can carry on without you dear.

From Paris to Milan

At Lyon we were greeted in the main square with a huge feast laid out on tables, television interviews and friendship. The local supporters of Palestine held a big rally and afterwards we were treated with more food and an evening of speeches and questions. All were of the accord that Israeli goods should be boycotted. One MP is due in court on 14th October for suggesting that the boycott be carried out by all France. Lots of love sent us on our way and at nightfall we headed off to Turin.

The Turin police turned out in force - not to stop our convoy, but to escort our cavalcade through the elegant streets of this lovely city. We blasted our way through red lights, flags waving, shouts of 'Viva Palestina!', and found ourselves once again in the main square where food was laid out and fond greetings sent us on our way. The people of Turin waved and greeted us wherever we went. They were well informed and very supportive. Two more vans joined us and late at night we wound our weary way to Milan where we camped around our wagons, threw up our tents and slept.

The next day we gave a press conference in the Centre of Milan. In honesty there were not many cameras, but Al Jazeera was there and, suffering from the anger of so few joining us from France, I gave an impassioned interview. I asked why. Why were there so few? Why were people so poorly informed? Why were people so convinced that by putting a few coppers in the pot there conscience would be cleared. It was strong stuff and I hope they use it.

From now on I am going to get mad - really mad. It really is not good enough that so few are concerned by this man made, political disaster. It is not good enough that they listen to our dumbed-down propaganda which passes to us as news. It is not good enough that our convoy is 40 vehicles long when it should be 40 miles long.

There is so much work to be done. We are a convoy of humanity, caring, sharing, seeking only to share the caring in a land deliberately forgotton.It is called Palestine, always was. Palestinains are entitled to self respect and security in their own homes - and they are perfectly entitled to be allowed to return to the houses and land from which they were driven.

No Peace without Justice

I carry the flag of my country, the flag of peace - except my country does not exist. There is no justice, therefore there is no peace.

75 souls left London on 18th September 2010. They came from New Zealand, from Malasia, from Ireland, from Sweden and Pakistan. They found common ground in the injustice which plagues this world, and focused on Gaza. The world is trying to make us forget, and these few people will not forget. Incarcerated behind a wall, blocked out from the land in which they were born and raised, the Gazaian voices are muffled to a whisper and yet still they can be heard by the few who care enough to listen. Their sin was to hold the only free and fair elections in 50 years and elect a government deemed out of favour by the West.

In Paris they blow us kisses as we drive by, they give us food and shelter, they open their arms to us for the sake of Palestine. The convoy is slow and at times messy. We are always late, going only at the speed of the slowest. The breakdowns and lost ones are scooped up as we go and we are very very tired already. Speeches every day in English and French. The Mayor of Bagnolet gave us a civic reception and the food is the finest. Three hours sleep is good if you make allowances for the 5.00am prayers and you have forgotton to pack the earplugs...

Almost everything has been tried to break the blockade of Gaza, and as a last resort I have employed the services of a fellow travelling Maori who is teaching me the haka!

Monday is a 5.30 am start and we head off to Lille where a welcoming committee awaits.

So many gods, so many creeds, so many paths that wind and wind, While just the art of being kind is all the sad world needs. - Edith Wheeler Wilcox

It was an old, heavy, galvanized bucket. I remember it clearly. The man tried to resist arrest; several Israeli troops handled him roughly. The man was from Gaza and had a small boy with him – his son. As the military van sped quickly away, the child was left behind in the road wailing pitifully. The crime was stealing a bucket of Israeli water.

Water is a resource of nature. Like the land, the air and the seas it belongs to no-one. The water is not Israeli. It is mine and yours to share for the slaking of our thirst and for the enrichment of our communities. Gaza has no rivers, and its underground aquifer has not been adequate since 1967. In a conflict ridden zone such as Palestine, water is just another weapon.

The Israeli and Palestinian position is never presented to us clearly. News riddled with propagandist manipulation, secrets untold, deaths, murders and politics fudge the situation, but one thing is clear: the people living in Gaza are fenced in, denied everything but enough food to keep them just above malnutrition levels, and subject to ever changing sadistic laws which the Jewish population would find intolerable. In short Gazans are kept in a prison by the state of Israel, aided and abetted by the US and Europe.

Gaza holds roughly 2 million people and is 139 square miles in area. That is less than twice the size of Newport (in South Wales)– which has a population of 140,000. In this small scrap of rubble people are expected to live, work, farm, rear children and educate themselves. The children learn hardship and dislike of their neighbours, and each new generation grows to maturity in abject poverty, nursing revenge. The blockade of Gaza is a medieval siege. It prevents imports and exports, it prevents the rebuilding of demolished houses and infrastructure and the freedom of movement of all those living behind the Wall.

It is not about religion, nor about politics. It is about defending basic human rights. The citizens of Gaza deserve the thoughts of all free-thinking people, and my contribution to their plight is to draw attention to the moral decay of those who perpetuate this inhumanity.

Breaking this blockade is an act to support the rights of the human being. Few attempt it, few achieve it, and I, along with those brave fellows of the Viva Palestina Convoy will play my part in highlighting the injustice of the blockade by driving up to the gates of Rafah with my van packed full of medical aid and asking to be let in.

Donations towards humanitarian aid for Gaza can be made here http://southwales2gaza.blogspot.com/2010/08/donate-to-south-wales-to-gaza.html

For details on the convoy to Gaza leaving on 18^th September please visit www.vivapalestina.org

Fat Shops and Thin Rations

On my first day back I had a small attack of anxiety. It was in my local Sainsbury's. I was momentarily overwhelmed by it's size; the lights, the shelves bursting with produce; the blast of signage and the overwhelming colour. Above all I was aghast at the choice.

If you are in Trinidad and you want some fruit - which presupposes that you have some money - you let someone know, anyone will do, and before long fruit will arrive in tell-tale knobbly sacks at your garden gate. I you want soap you go to one of two shops: the local ration-book shop may have some of the yellow soap which burns your skin off ( I know, I tried some and could barely sit for two days afterwards), or if you are ready to spend half a months salary you can go to the peso shop and buy a bar of Lux. There is only Lux.

If you are Cuban you will have access to rice, eggs, beans, tobacco charcoal and sugar, when available, through your ration book or libreta. Distribution is notoriously unreliable and a womans work , for mostly a woman it is, requires balancing precarious food availability with government quotas, a feeble money supply and fluctuating energy availability. If you are a crazy traveller like me and you are not staying at one of the insanely luxurious hotels (which might as well be on the moon for all the relevance they bear to Cuban life), you might be able to buy such basic things if a) there is more than enough for the locals, or b) the shopkeeper likes the cut of your jib. Rossi queued for an hour at the bakers, only to be turned away with nothing. I stepped up with a saucy grin and lo - three loaves of bread....

The bodega shops are dark and Dickensian, with high cement counters fronting miserably populated shelves. Rice and sugar are shoveled out of sacks and measured to the metallic clunk of manually weighted scales. Dogs wander in and out of the open sides and men and women pass a leisurely time of day with each other as the shopkeeper studiusly applies the necessary tick in the appropriate box in the ration book. The shops are bleak and the customers happy. It is a great contrast with our fat confections of supermarkets bursting with produce and customers too busy to be happy.

The monthly quota of rations is not enough to feed you for 4 weeks, but it is heavily subsidised. Rationed provisions are about 20 times cheaper than can be found in what passes for the free market, which is fair enough, except that you are still without enough food to last a month without resorting to some 'exterior' means of making money. I met people who lived mainly on bread. That is - soley bread. No butter, no jam, no nothing. Just dry bread. They were good honest people afraid to move outside the 'party' line. I met people who would like to buy their child a toy... just one.

It is 50 years since that glorious revolution when equality was spread across a most unequal people. Cuba is in a position to trade it's crops of sugar and tobacco for food. The nearest neighbour is a mere 90 km across the Florida Straights. He is the richest nation in the world but he will not trade with you because he does not like the cut of your jib. Hungry? Here, choke on a plateful of ideology. It doesn't matter whose.

A rock and a hard regime

There is always enough food if you have the money, but the average wage here is 7 pounds a MONTH. If you are average you will not starve. There is bread and rice on your ration book. But you will not get enough vitamins unless you have extra money. The tourist currency is vital. Girls will sell whatever they have for 2 cuc, boys are more subtle with the women tourists, but the means and the end are identical.

If you are Cuban you will not be curious. Curiosity is discouraged from an early age. Education is all, but it is all ideology. Jose Marti from the age of five. Lenin, Marx, Guevara. There are no points for asking 'why'. You soon understand that silent shake of the head and eventually you forget to ask yourself. Follow the rules and you will be fine.

The waterfalls at El Nicho are fantastic. They drop and drop through the rocky shell of the planet as if there is no end to its depth. It is rumoured that Jurassic Park was filmed here and the notion is entirely possible, but exploration is not. I tried to persuade my friend to follow the falls but he could not. He shook his head and remained paralysed. I went alone and he sat and waited and worried. Curiosity is not profitable in a controlled society and the prisons are real. Later we climbed to the top of the high hills behind Trinidad. He was triumphant. None of his family had ever been there, nor had any of his friends. They marvelled at the photographs on my mobile. It was 1 kilometre from town.

I gave a dinner party in my Soviet built apartment in Havana. I walked 2 kilometers with 10lbs of potatoes and was triumphant. In the morning there was no water. In the afternoon there was no gas. The electricity had been off all the previous day. 'We are not the third world,' said my friend, 'We are the fourth world. We are intellectually cut off.' The gas came back at 5.00 pm