Rachel's Dream

"My dream can and will come true if we look into the future and see the light that shines there."

Earlier today, a court in Haifa found that the IDF were not responsible for the death of US peace and justice activist, Rachel Corrie.

The judge in the case, Oded Gershon, stated in his summing up "The deceased put herself into a dangerous situation, she stood in front of a giant bulldozer in a place where the operator could not see her. She did not distance herself as a reasonable person would have done."  He went on to say, "Her death is the result of an accident she bought upon herself." The finding has been greeted with dismay by her parents and outrage by human rights organisations and activists around the world.

On the 16^th March 2003, 23-year-old Rachel’s life was ended when she was run over by a D9R armoured Caterpillar bulldozer being employed by the IDF to demolish Palestinian homes in the Rafah district of Gaza. Since 1967 an estimated 27,000 Palestinian homes and structures have been demolished by Israel.

Corrie’s family subsequently accused Israel of intentionally and unlawfully killing Rachel and have spent almost a decade seeking justice for their daughter, pursuing a civil case after an Israeli military investigation acquitted their forces of any wrongdoing.

Despite eyewitness reports stating that Rachel was deliberately run over and documentary evidence to show that she was wearing a high-visibility jacket, speaking through a loud-haler and standing on a mound of rubble, the Israeli army have continued to maintain it was an accident.

In a press release today, the Palestinian Centre for Human Rights who investigated Rachel’s death at the time, claim that the bulldozer deliberately ran over Rachel. They go on to say:  “Israel’s house demolitions are a violation of Article 147 of the Fourth Geneva Convention, which prohibits the targeting of civilian property.  Rachel Corrie was within her rights protesting this illegal activity and should not have been attacked. As per Article 10 of the Fourth Geneva Convention, Israel, as the Occupying Power, is obligated to facilitate humanitarian workers in the Occupied Territory. As outlined in the Fourth Geneva Convention Commentary on Article 10, this obligation is extended to any impartial humanitarian organization that performs activities, including but not limited to, “representations, interventions, suggestions and practical measures affecting the protection under the Convention.”  Rachel Corrie’s intervention at the house demolition falls under an approved humanitarian activity.  Therefore, in addition to the fact that she was a civilian, a prohibited target under Article 54 of the Fourth Geneva Convention, the killing of Rachel Corrie violated Israel’s obligation as an Occupying Power to facilitate humanitarian work.

Regardless of the court’s findings, Rachel will be remembered by the world as a courageous young woman who stood against injustice. A woman who stood for humanity.

Leaving Gaza

Written over several days between 4th- 8th August 2012

Leaving Gaza part 1.

My time in Gaza is up, for now at least.

It was with a heavy heart that I left, not least because I have a sense of unfinished business. I felt passionate about Palestine before I ever went, and getting acquainted with Gaza and its people has only deepened the passion and commitment. I have faces and names to put to what was once, for me, a nameless, faceless population.

The last week in Gaza was spent wrapping up the work I had been doing, getting sign-off on my report, agreeing what comes next, when and how; business.

And of course the last week meant spending as much time as possible with dear, sweet friends. Iftar loomed large on the social agenda with invitations too numerous to accept given the short amount of time left to me - it seemed everyone in Gaza wanted to feed me. I had started the Ramadan fast with my “Gazan family”, and so it was fitting that I should end my fast (somewhat prematurely) with them, in preparation for my travels home. Another magical night was had, which is now firmly rooted in my memory.

Leaving is always hard. As someone who has left many places and people, it doesn’t get any easier. Thinking of my relationship with Gaza, I am reminded of the academic and writer Norman Finkelstein.  When asked if he ever got tired of working and campaigning on behalf of Palestine, he responded with utter indignation- you don’t give up on your (Palestinian) friends- they have no choice about their circumstances, this is their life and we who know the reality of the injustices they suffer have a duty to stand with them, never giving up.

I will not give up on my friends, on rights for the Palestinian people, or on justice. And of course, I’ll be back.

Leaving Gaza part 2

If you want the tiniest insight into what life is like for a Palestinian, try crossing into or out of Gaza at Rafah.

I arrived on the Gaza side of the Rafah crossing at around 10.30am. Walked passed the security checkpoint manned by Hamas guards, and climbed into a big yellow taxi, a la Joni Mitchell. The taxi had an industrial strength roof rack, and capacity inside for 7 people and the driver- even more with a squash. The driver was waiting for it to fill up with passengers he would then take to the Gazan terminal- the first stage of the labyrinthine crossing into Egypt.  In the taxi I was greeted by two women in niqab who each shook my hand and introduced themselves.  A few minutes after settling into the sweltering cab’s blue leather upholstery, I was asked to get out again by a young Hamas guard who wanted to see my passport and to check my coordination.

The poor taxi driver had to take my enormous bag back down from the roof where he had stowed it.  All that effort for nothing- he was going to miss out on my fare today.

I trundled off behind the guard, back to the checkpoint, that, as it transpired, I had blithely ignored- I was meant to stop and hand in my papers. For my sins I was made to sit like a naughty schoolgirl outside the office while they checked and rechecked my passport and coordination- the Hamas approval to say I could leave. The guard who had summonsed me from the taxi was slightly apologetic and every 10 minutes would smile sheepishly and say to me- “just 5 minutes”. This went on for over half an hour.

There was nothing to do, as I sat in the shade, but be Zen about it- stay in the moment, enjoy watching the scenes unfold around me- the hustle and bustle of people arriving to make the transition to Egypt. 

A while later, having been handed back my papers I made it into a taxi, my good humour intact, and across then to the Palestinian terminal- modern and efficient. I met a friend who had been interning with another Human Rights centre- it’s what she does in her summer holidays from university in Texas. A Palestinian, she is heading back to the US for the start her semester next week. I am in awe at her commitment and diligence.

Eventually, after our papers are processed, we are all put onto coaches along with our luggage. The coach will take us the 300 meters or so, to the Egyptian terminal.

For no apparent reason the coaches were stopped along the route- three of them together. We sat for more than an hour: fretting babies and squabbling children, exhausted parents and their own elderly parents, in 38 degrees of scorching noonday heat, on a bus whose air conditioning had broken. It was like sitting in a tin can that was slowly being heated to boiling point. We were cooking.  Of course all the adults around me were fasting- no food, no water since 4 in the morning. I had water with me but it would have been wrong to drink in front of all these tired and thirsty people. I was parched.

When we eventually made it to the bedlam that is the Egyptian terminal, I realised that no one who had arrived from the Palestinian side that day had yet been processed. Apparently 10 coach loads of people were there- we were the last, herded into a hangar-like room with too few chairs and no proper air conditioning.

The process for giving travellers access into Egypt is obscure to say the least. After 3 hours of anxiously waiting for my name to be called, having handed in my papers, I got talking to a young man whose handsome face and beautiful eyes were marred by weariness that left him gaunt. Thin and stooped he told me he thought he was going to faint. It transpired he had been here earlier in the week- arriving at 7am only to be denied access at 5pm- with no reason for the refusal given. He was back and trying again- travelling with a friend for an operation in Egypt. There was no guarantee they would be successful this time either, but they had to try. A tannoy system called out the names of people who had to go to a counter for deportation back to Gaza. It was like a scene from Orwell’s 1984.

Every now and then an official would come out with a handful of passports and papers- there would be a surge forward to see if ours was amongst them. Names would be called out, and people would battle to the front of the throng to get their passport if they had been successful. However, the officials don’t process families’ papers together, that would be too sensible, so the owner of the passport would have to go and sit back down to wait until all of his/her party was in receipt of their documents. Hours and hours.

The young man I was talking to commented that I had been there a long time, and expressed surprise as he thought that foreigners got preferential treatment. I told him that I was happy that was not the case, and I meant it. I would be deeply, deeply ashamed to be ushered in ahead of all these tired, thirsty people, nursing small babies, trying to keep toddlers under control while watching their luggage and listening for their names in this hell masquerading as a system. This is the only viable route for Gazans to visit family in far-flung places, to travel for education or for work, to have a holiday in Malaysia or Sharm el Sheik, or to get essential hospital treatment in Egypt. They have all done this before and they will do it again. They are Palestinians, they are patient and they know not to expect any better treatment.

I was close to tears of rage when a man was made bring each of his five little children up to the counter, through the heaving crowd, so that the official could see them and give them their papers. Sleepy, bewildered little ones and a panicky dad shepherding his children. The crowd opened in front of them and people helped  as best they could to jostle them forward. The system, if you can call it that is chaotic, inefficient and inhumane. 

5 hours after I arrived, my name was called. I needed the loo 2 hours previously but was afraid to go in case I missed my call. Passport in hand I left my luggage in the main hall and galloped down to what passes for a toilet- dirty, no loo roll and a lady who wants you to give her money to use the facility. In fact it seems that everyone working in the Egyptian terminal wants you to give them money- no inefficiency there.

I grabbed my luggage, had to pay again for the privilege of exiting (I had payed hours previously for an entry visa), out the door, across a tarmacked area and through one final gate. Each step, harassed and jostled by the hustlers who wanted to take my bag for me- la’a sukran, la’a sukran, maa biddis – no thank you, no thank you, I don’t want. I learned the hard, expensive way the last time I crossed.

I passed the border guards, keepers of the gate and was met by my taxi driver who was going to take me the 5-hour journey to Cairo. Il hamdullillah.

Leaving Gaza part 3.

It was Iftar- the sun had set, people were stopping on the side of the dusty 4 lane motorway to sit beside their cars and break their fast. I shared some dates with the driver- we stopped at a service station and he bought us each fruit juice and water. The border was 4 hours behind us and Cairo an hour ahead.

His phone started to ring, and ring and ring. Call after call. It was only when I got to my hotel later that I understood the significance of this. At the time we broke our fast, at the border I had crossed only 4 hours previously, 16 Egyptian border guards had been slaughtered and many others injured in an attack that came as they sat down to break their fast after long hot hours without food or drink. It is hard to explain the significance of this cowardly and sacrilegious act, and hard to believe that Muslims would be the perpetrators.  

After killing the border guards, the attackers took two personnel carriers and tried to crash over the Israeli border. One vehicle blew up and the other was bombed by an Israeli F16. Within hours, militants from Gaza were being blamed, initially by Israel but joined later by Egypt. Netanyahu was not slow in telling the new Prime Minister of Egypt, Mursi , that he needed to tighten up security in the Northern Sinai. Israel had been warning its citizens living in the Sinai days previously to leave the border area as they had prior knowledge of an imminent attack. Since the killings, one by one the various factions in Gaza have come out with condemnation: Hamas, PFLP, Islamic Jihad and most recently the Salafists- all the usual suspects, the ones everyone likes to blame- so if they are condemning the killings, who were the perpetrators?

A tragic train of events was set in motion by the killings: Palestinians were being beaten up on the streets of Rafah and Al Arish in retribution but the major consequence was that Gaza was placed under lock down: the border crossing at Rafah closed, the border at Karm Abu Salem through which the meager allowance of goods is allowed to pass was closed, and Gaza’s lifeline - the tunnels, were to be shut down, destroyed.

Once again the people of Gaza are being collectively punished, for the actions of who?

There is talk of the perpetrators being a mixed bag of Sinawis, renegade Salafists from Gaza and al-Qaeda. The truth is that no one knows- surprising since Israel not only had prior knowledge of the attack but has the bodies of those attackers they killed. The Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt are citing black ops and are holding the Mossad responsible. Irrespective of who the perpetrators are, it is clear that Israel is using the situation to pressurize Egypt to tighten controls in the Northern Sinai and by default, tighten the closure of Gaza.

Gaza’s fragile relationship with Egypt, a relationship that was flourishing with Mursi’s election and holding promise of better times for the people of Gaza, has soured. Mursi is having to appease not only Israel, but his own people who are up in arms over the incident. Egypt is now doing Israel’s dirty work.

And the future for Gaza?  Immediately, food and fuel shortages, energy and water crisis, people with life-threatening illnesses unable to travel for the medical aid they need. Gaza’s siege continues.

Ramadan

The meal at which the Ramadan fast is broken is Iftar. It is a time when families and friends come together to share food and drink after 16 hours without - the length of the day varies depending on where you are in the world and the time of the year. Iftar comes immediately after the Maghrib, the sunset prayer- the fourth of the five that make up the daily prayers or salah.

The call to prayer from the mosques as the evening sets in, the adhan, announces the end of the fast.  On this, the fourth day of Ramadan, I await the call, quietly grateful for the day that is passing.

I have just finished cooking a beautiful chicken tagine with apricots and spices for Iftar - friends are coming over bringing dishes to share. 

It was a pure odyssey getting the ingredients for what was originally supposed to be lamb tagine - an adventure of the type I have come to expect in Gaza. The odyssey involved me being ferried around the city by a complete stranger who happened to be at the butchers when I went to buy the lamb they didn't have. He half volunteered, and half was instructed by the group of men there to take me to a place where I could get chicken instead. 

I got into his car wondering was this sensible, I'd have thought not, except for the fact that the exact same thing happened yesterday at the vegetable shop when a woman in the shop took me and my friend to where we needed to go, just because we'd asked directions. Kindness and generosity, charity and good deeds are all aspects of Ramadan, it is expected that people will take care of one another. Happily this spirit extends beyond Ramadan and is part of everyday life here.

When we got to the designated butchers, there was no shortage of chicken- or rather chickens. They were in a cage outside the shop awaiting their destiny- quite, quite alive and well and enjoying the drowsy afternoon shade. For a few seconds I had a complete crisis of conscience about my role in the demise of these little creatures. In the end I thought about all the chicken that I have remorselessly eaten and decided it was hypocritical of me not to take responsibility for my actions, just because this time I had a more active part in the process. I hope I remember the weight of this decision every time I eat meat in the future.

Having told the butcher I wanted two birds, I couldn't look at them, knowing that they would be gracing the dinner table later. My gallant chauffeur intervened to protect my girly sensibilities, he got me to sit in the car as he negotiated with the butcher on my behalf. The butcher speedily dispatched, plucked and quartered the birds. And then my hero drove me home. He took at least a half an hour out of his day to help a complete stranger on a foodie mission, and then would accept no money for his trouble. I never fail to be touched by the kindness of people here. I love this place!

When I am Afraid.....

When talking with a colleague recently, I confided that I am not  afraid or concerned for my safety here in Gaza. This is neither bravery or recklessness on my part, but more of a calculated risk. As part of the international community I live in one of the safest buildings in one of the safest areas in Gaza City. Undoubtedly the Israelis,  one of the largest military powers in the world, have the coordinates of the international's buildings, helping them to avoid bombing us during their regular airstrikes on Gaza and therefore avoiding international incidents. I would have to be very unlucky to come to some harm here, and as it is possible to be unlucky anywhere, I am not afraid for my safety. At least, that is how I look at it.

What I am afraid of, what bothers me most is that I will be of no use here, unable to change anything, unable to help or make even the smallest difference.  Worse, that I will become overwhelmed by the scale of the devastation inflicted, will crumple in the face of the harrowing stories and images that abound and become a blubbering wreck. Or that the rage that I feel occasionally at what I see and hear will grow, and turn into hatred or cynicism. The story of Gaza is not my story, the suffering is not my suffering,  the pain is not my pain, I'm a visitor who can leave whenever I choose. As such I know that I have no right to indulge in emotions that do not belong to me or to my experience. Since coming here, my mantra has been simply to be the best I can be, do the best job I can do, to play the part that I can play - that is all and that is good enough.

So far I have been fortunate, I am working in an organisation that does incredible work for the people of Gaza, working tirelessly for the rule of law, democracy and human rights.  My assignment fits my organisational development skills well, enabling me to contribute to the overall work, giving me a sense of purpose.

However, there are times when I am unable to maintain this perspective.

The first week I was here I met a farmer and his family whose land in Beit Lahiya flanks the buffer zone. They had a tank permanently overlooking their house for a number of years, there to protect the Israeli settlers, now gone, who had usurped the land next door. The farmer recounted how his beautiful house had been demolished at one stage and after rebuilding it, he was warned to leave by the Israeli Occupying Forces. He stayed, toughed it out, enduring all manner of assaults, until eventually he and his family were forced out by the ground offensive of Cast Lead- their lives in very real danger.

In Beit Lahiya

Sitting outside on a beautiful day, surrounded by his children and grandchildren, his wife picked up the story and told us how they fled under attack, meeting neighbours on the road- all trying to get to Gaza City and to relative safety. A local woman they knew had her three children with her- two of them were killed as they tried to make their way through the night, our hosts witnessed all this. The woman had to be torn away- to leave her children's bodies behind so that she could save herself and her remaining child. When she came back several days later, after the shelling had stopped, she found the remains of her children- recognisable only by the scraps of clothing they had worn- they had been eaten by wild dogs. As I listened to this account, I could not help but cry.

A couple of weeks ago I wrote of the airstrikes on Gaza that were happening at the time- that the world was largely unaware of or indifferent to -and I mentioned the children killed. Last week my colleague went and met the parents of 13 year old Mamoun Aldam, one of those killed in these attacks while picnicking with his family and playing football. His mother Amna recounted the following to my colleague.....

"We were not armed. We are civilians. The trees in the farm were recently planted, so they are still small. Anyone could see from above that we were just civilians so we did not expect to be attacked."


Mamoun made his parents some coffee and then started playing with his football:


"He was playing about 20 meters from where we were resting and I asked him to come back. Suddenly I heard an explosion. I saw dust, smoke and fire where Mamoun had been standing. I heard him scream once and then he went quiet. I kept calling out for him, but he did not answer back."


Amna was desperately calling for her son as she rushed to where he had been playing: " There was dust everywhere and I could not see anything. When I finally saw Mamoun, he was lying on the ground and there was a lot of blood around him. His legs had been torn off. There was shrapnel all over his body. His clothes were burned and he was almost naked. He was dead."


Amna clearly recalls hearing other women screaming from neighbouring farms as she picked up her son's body: "I held him and took him to his father so he could touch his face and say goodbye. I found my husband bleeding heavily from his head. His left hand and right leg were also bleeding. He was touching his forehead and asking me if it was sweat. He is a diabetic and has high blood pressure, so I thought he was going to die from all the bleeding. I was screaming for people  to come and help us."


Two ambulances arrived on the farm shortly afterwards and rushed Mohamed, who is blind,  to hospital. They also took what was left of Mamoun's body. Amna stayed behind:


"There were pieces of my child's body everywhere. I stayed there and started collecting the pieces and putting them in a bag. Other women came to help me."

Mamoun Aldam

What mother can contemplate her children being killed and their bodies eaten by dogs? What mother can contemplate gathering the pieces of her child's body and putting them in a bag? These Palestinian mothers are not lesser beings, they love and cherish their children as much as any other mother. Any thought or suggestion otherwise is racism of the most despicable kind.

These are two of the horror stories that abound here in Gaza. They are not stories of the past but of the present day. This is ongoing. I have more stories, of a child who survived despite the top of her head being burned off with white phosphorous, of  a tiny body torn asunder with flechettes. Israel has an evil arsenal and gets to use it with impunity.

As I write this I am crying- not because I am overwhelmed, but because I am human, and a mother.

Tomorrow when I go to work, I will simply try to be the best I can be, do the best job I can do, play the part that I can play, hoping that it is good enough- it is all I can do.

Hammam al-Samara

On Friday my friend and I, after practicing yoga, decided to go to the Hammam that I had read about. Described by the Lonely Planet as "a gorgeous Mamluk-era bathhouse" whose name means "the bath of the Samaritans", the Hammam is reputed to be over 1000 years old.

We headed off in a battered taxi to the Zeitoun Quarter of the Old City- a characterful place with a gold-market and a warren of lanes off the main road. We found the Hammam tucked down a lane just off the main road with the assistance of two locals who became a little too helpful- perhaps the request for directions has an altogether more suggestive meaning here? When one tried to put his arm around my friend's shoulders I used the magic word "Haram", which translates roughly as forbidden or sinful - it worked a treat and they scarpered.

It soon became clear that the baths weren't open -Friday is holy day here and most places are closed- a bit like Sunday in Ireland 30 years ago. Disappointed, we wandered around a little while and then went for compensatory treats of lemon and mint juice and shisha in Al Deira, which we knew would be open.

The next day, after yoga, we determinedly set off again. The wooden door of what was, from the outside at least, an unremarkable building, stood invitingly open. Descending to 3 meters below street-level we walked down a narrow, dimly-lit passage whose marble-flagged floor was yellowed with age. The passage opened into a stunningly beautiful atrium, its domed roof illuminated by coloured glass insets which threw shafts of diffuse light onto the mosaic floor below. We were greeted by an elderly man sitting sentinal at the door to the baths. He allowed us to take photos of the exquisite atrium but then insistently made us hand over our cameras- no photos in the bathing area- fair enough!

Having been directed through a curtain, we walked down a hall and turned a corner only to be greeted by a row of women in undies wearing face masks and sitting in the gentle warmth of an ante-room.  The women greeted us, introducing themselves and repeating our names as we introduced ourselves- they were curious about these two foreign women in a pleasant, interested way. One woman spoke English well,  fortunate for us as we did not know what the procedure was: what do do and where to go.  I changed into the clothes I had brought for the experience- vest and leggings only to be told that I was wearing too many clothes- this is a first for me in  Gaza.  The inner sanctum, all the space this side of the curtain, was administered by a formidable matriarch who, for a small charge, dispensed massages, facials and hair treatments.

Having purchased a buffer each, my friend and I went into the baths proper, through a heavy door to a cavernous space, marble flagged floor and vaulted ceiling crowned with another light-speckled dome.  The searing heat whacked us in the face the second we stepped through the door, the baths are heated in the traditional way, by wood burning stoves and aqueducts. Having explored the many nooks and crannies off the main area we puzzled as to where to sit. Our English-speaking friend came to the rescue - we were to wash in one of the many deep marble basins that lined the walls, buff ourselves, lie on the floor and then repeat the exercise. The floor was scorching and the room filled with steam, but it was surprisingly relaxing as we surrendered to the experience. When I had as much as I could bear, I filled a small metal basin with deliciously cold water, doused myself and repeated the exercise.

I'm not going to go into all the details as what made the visit so special, in part, was this private, shared women's space. Suffice to say we spent two hours there being pampered, chatting and preening ourselves.

It was like watching the trick of an wonderful illusionist to see the women, when preparing to leave, transform into the public versions of themselves. Two of the young women donned niqabs-  exquisite presents wrapped in the plainest of paper that gave no clue as to what treasure was underneath.

Hammam al-Samara was precious for the sensory experience alone, but experiencing this ancient culture, in this ancient place was a pure privilege. I feel like I have been initiated into a new sisterhood.

Me and My Camera

Lovely days don't come to you,

you should walk to them.

                                     - Rumi

Power to the People Please.

One of the challenges of living in Gaza is adjusting to the randomness of things. There is seldom any certainty about what the day will look like and planning is difficult when power goes down for hours on end each and every day.

Life here is governed by external forces: what the Israelis will allow into the country, what gets through the tunnels, whether or not Egypt will sell diesel to Gaza and at what price.

Yesterday it was announced that fuel supplies to Gaza from Qatar were to be reduced by Egypt and Israel- the two countries through which it transits. Gaza is receiving 100,000 litres per day when it needs five times that amount for its power plant to function. In June, the power plant had to shut down entirely due to a delay in the fuel supply from Qatar, leading to 12 hour per day blackouts. Of course, if there is no power, then other elements of Gaza's fragile infrastructure fail to operate too, such as the water supply.

Up until February,  Hamas organised the importation of fuel through the tunnels with the cooperation of the Egyptian authorities, who then had a change of heart. A political wrangle ensued with each side accusing the other of skulduggery.  No matter what the political intricacies of the immediate situation, the issue of fuel shortage can be directly attributed to the illegal closure of Gaza by Israel with the acquiescence of the international community.

Gaza has been kept ticking over by fuel smuggled in through the tunnels, fuel that feeds thousands of generators that allow everyday activities to continue in a normal(ish) kind of way. Most buildings in Gaza have their own generator but running them is expensive and, as anyone who owns one knows, they are temperamental beasts, prone to breaking down.

Last Friday, I was at home waiting to take part in a web conference on human rights with the US Assistant Secretary of State- I had posted him my questions in advance as requested and was hoping he would address them. 10 minutes before the conference was due to start the power went down- no electricity, no internet.  Desperate, I went down and asked  the building's caretaker to turn on the generator- which he did, but I had to pay ILS100 - around EUR20 for the privilege. This might seem like extortion but we live in an apartment block with 11 floors - so this is probably about right for 1 hour of electricity.

With the generator fired up I got to watch most of the conference- the internet, always slow,  kept buffering. US Assistant Secretary of State Michael Posner answered questions on human rights posed by participants around the world, outlining the US position in general terms and then addressing issues specific to particular countries.

Posner kept tantalising me by zoning in on the Middle East - he answered questions on Syria, Egypt and Iran. I really wanted him to answer just one of my questions: on the US position on the settlements or the closure or making Israel accountable.  In my heart of hearts I knew that he would not address Israel/Palestine, no matter how diplomatically I had phrased the questions. Not with an election coming up and Romney intently courting the US jewish community by rubbishing the Obama regime's relationship with and commitment to Israel. If I was him, I wouldn't have touched this issue with a barge-pole either. Still I was disappointed. By my reckoning Posner owes me 20 quid! I figure this out as I sit in my sweltering office where the air conditioning has cut out- again. 

One of the more serious consequences of the closure and related fuel crisis is for hospitals, already suffering from an acute shortage of medicines. In April the International Committee of the Red Cross stepped in with supplies, warning that the failure to ensure fuel and electricity was potentially putting the lives of thousands of patients in danger. Most vulnerable are hospital operating theatres and specialist units including intensive care, neonatal and haemodialysis.

In PCHR's Occupied Lives: Switching Off Hospitals, (worthy of a read) the Deputy Director of the ICU at Al- Shifa hospital, Dr Kamal Abu Obada says "For me as a doctor, this is all very depressing. All the time I am working to keep the patients alive and when the electricity is cut, they are all at risk. If something happens to them, my efforts are all in vain."

Michael Posner, where are you? I have a few questions I'd like to ask.....