I spent the remainder of the long, slow journey to, as we guessed, Israel, in my original seat, surrounded by Turkish speakers. I should do my homework before I come again. The boy soldiers ( one, perhaps two were girls, I guessed by looking at their eyes above the balaclavas) worked in shifts, changing twice and finally being replaced by others in black uniforms. We got to dock at about 8pm, and following a long wait very slowly queued to go down to the loading bay through which we had entered a major experience ago. At about 11pm I was stumbling up a gangway to dry land and a walk to a maze of tents containing interrogation desks. Sitting down at the first, just inside the entrance to the big tent,after my cuffs were cut off, I was asked who I was and where I had come from. The boy also demanded to know my reason for doing this. I said I wanted to connect with fellow artists in Gaza. "Do you realise you have broken the law?"
"What law?"
"Israeli law! There is a blockade."
"A blockade is not what I would call a law."
Next, I was passed farther inside to a girl, who while a goon-with-gun looked on, removed everything from my pockets, chucked my pen contemptuously into the dirt and put everything back. I can't believe they haven't stolen my money. Yet. Again I had to explain the contents of my medicine bag.
The girl passed me on to the next stage, chirping "Enjoy."
Now, a guy asked me why I was travelling to Gaza. I said to meet artists, especially one I had already made contact with , who works on computer.
"Are you an artist?"
"Yes."
"Do you work on computer?"
"Sometimes, but mostly paint on canvas."
"Do you speak Arabic?"
"A little, but its difficult to learn, as they all speak such good english. I know some Yiddish, too. Schlepp, schtupp, schmuck..." - They weren't listening...
"What law?"
"Israeli law! There is a blockade."
"A blockade is not what I would call a law."
Next, I was passed farther inside to a girl, who while a goon-with-gun looked on, removed everything from my pockets, chucked my pen contemptuously into the dirt and put everything back. I can't believe they haven't stolen my money. Yet. Again I had to explain the contents of my medicine bag.
The girl passed me on to the next stage, chirping "Enjoy."
Now, a guy asked me why I was travelling to Gaza. I said to meet artists, especially one I had already made contact with , who works on computer.
"Are you an artist?"
"Yes."
"Do you work on computer?"
"Sometimes, but mostly paint on canvas."
"Do you speak Arabic?"
"A little, but its difficult to learn, as they all speak such good english. I know some Yiddish, too. Schlepp, schtupp, schmuck..." - They weren't listening...
They took a particular interest in my passport, scrutinising it verry closely. They were amazed that I had been to Gaza before, and wanted to know the precise details of the journey taken to get there; the reason for most of the exotic visa stamps in my book. The next interrogator handed me a form which he asked me to sign. It stated that I had entered Israel illegally, and that I left freely and of my own will. He said that if I signed I would get a plane ticket home immediately, but that if I did not sign, I might be jailed for up to a month. I replied that I would gladly sign if he first put the ticket in my hand. I held out my hand. I had called his bluff. "You must realise that the longer you stay here, the more you cost the State of Israel?" -" I am sorry to have caused you such inconvenience, " I replied as I stood up to move on.
At the time this meant nothing to me, but later I would realise that with the interest in my passport I was a marked man from then on. I was parked in a chair in front of a tiny camera high up on a stand. On its table there was also a little printer capable of knocking out my likeness four times although my face in the passport-sized photos was really too small for any passport. This, the unsigned paper and my passport were then kept in an A4 plastic dossier bag. Taken to a portable ID machine, a laptop fixed on top of a large black box, I had to press each digit finger on a little glass panel twice.
Finally, the last tent within the tent: A final search. All my money and bank/travel cards removed from my wallet and money belt and carefully laid on a chair. A girl was exclusively employed to rip open all my little boxes of pills in foil and reassemble them, replacing them in my plastic shopping/medicine bag. Then a really dirty fuck carried out a more thorough search, fluttering his hands all over me from top to toe. Not quite thrusting his fingers into any orifices. I could hardly believe that with all this obsessive searching they had repeatedly missed the expensive, shiny little mini microphone in my Levi jacket pocket. Of course it was no longer much use to me without a recorder to plug it into. I was allowed to retrieve all my money, again. Then we were ushered out to a van. Three of us in the tiny front compartment with more in the one behind. As ever with the Israelis, nothing happened for a good while. I had thought that Egypt was the world leader in inefficiency. Our friends in the back seats called out for the air conditioning to be turned down. We explained that it was only us chickens on board, and that we were locked up too. When the drivers at last got in and we pulled out, the lights went off. I expected the next thing to be carbon monoxide filling our tiny, blacked-out tin box. But after a two-hour journey, (doubtless feeling like twice that for one of my fellow travellers whose bladder was full and whose panicked entreaties to the driver to stop were of course ignored), we stopped at Beer Sheva Jail, way out in the desert.
Two aimiable blokes took charge of our entry. By now it was approaching 5am. We were given a little food: bread, peppers, apples, water. And mattress covers, underpants, socks, T-shirts, towels, food trays, toothbrushes, toothpaste. This part of the prison had obviously been a building site a couple of weeks before: a fine layer of cement dust covered every surface. The floor of the hall was painted pale grey to match the cell doors and the chunky railings on the stairs and the balcony leading to the upper rooms. In all the look of the place was like a 'post-modernist' set for Jailhouse Rock. As the cells were opened we grabbed places and with sunrise we got to sleep. I, in cell 2019, was joined by Pakistani TV presenter Serge, AKA Syed Talat Hussain, whose business card had gone into the mud with my own cards on the boat; Sukir, a gentle and kind professor also from Pakistan, and big, 'all-American' Serbian Stojinjkovic. They all spoke english, as mixed foreigners nearly always do. So my verbal exile was ended. Just in time for bed, as we removed the plastic foam mattresses from their store-bought bags and crashed out.
1June
We all get acquainted. We didn't all talk to everyone on the boat, but now we get the chance to really pal-up. The noisy and hugely entertaining Ken O'Keefe, renounced US citizen/ now citizen of the world especially Palestine, the kid from East London who looks like Yusuf Islams' young brother, the Spaniard, the white-haired teacher from Sweden, Dimitiris the Greek.
The promise that we could call home and/or our consuls turned out to be more bullshit. There was a long bank of phones on the wall by the showers but only one functioned, and only with a phonecard. Most of the time our block seemed to be in the charge of 'the Kid', a skinny lad who tried to marshal us into our cells after feeding time, on time but who we defeated by spinning out our long-winded discussions about the meaning of life. This wasn't being run like a conventional jail - only a holding centre until we could be got rid of. Occasionally we were visited by a group of officers from other parts of the jail, including a neatly uniformed woman, big bum and sculpted hair, glamorous enough to pass as Lebanese, and whom I could only regard with lustful eyes. Some men are put off by powerful women, but not me.
Regardless of the empty promises, late in the afternoon our consuls appeared, the two-man team from the UK consulate in Jerusalem coming round last. (I heard that at one block they had had to conduct their interview with the British inmates by crouching down and shouting through the glass door) I told Roger, second in command, that the first guy I spoke to at Interrogation tried to get me to sign the statement 'admitting' that I had entered Israel illegally and that I was leaving freely and of my own will.
Finally, the last tent within the tent: A final search. All my money and bank/travel cards removed from my wallet and money belt and carefully laid on a chair. A girl was exclusively employed to rip open all my little boxes of pills in foil and reassemble them, replacing them in my plastic shopping/medicine bag. Then a really dirty fuck carried out a more thorough search, fluttering his hands all over me from top to toe. Not quite thrusting his fingers into any orifices. I could hardly believe that with all this obsessive searching they had repeatedly missed the expensive, shiny little mini microphone in my Levi jacket pocket. Of course it was no longer much use to me without a recorder to plug it into. I was allowed to retrieve all my money, again. Then we were ushered out to a van. Three of us in the tiny front compartment with more in the one behind. As ever with the Israelis, nothing happened for a good while. I had thought that Egypt was the world leader in inefficiency. Our friends in the back seats called out for the air conditioning to be turned down. We explained that it was only us chickens on board, and that we were locked up too. When the drivers at last got in and we pulled out, the lights went off. I expected the next thing to be carbon monoxide filling our tiny, blacked-out tin box. But after a two-hour journey, (doubtless feeling like twice that for one of my fellow travellers whose bladder was full and whose panicked entreaties to the driver to stop were of course ignored), we stopped at Beer Sheva Jail, way out in the desert.
Two aimiable blokes took charge of our entry. By now it was approaching 5am. We were given a little food: bread, peppers, apples, water. And mattress covers, underpants, socks, T-shirts, towels, food trays, toothbrushes, toothpaste. This part of the prison had obviously been a building site a couple of weeks before: a fine layer of cement dust covered every surface. The floor of the hall was painted pale grey to match the cell doors and the chunky railings on the stairs and the balcony leading to the upper rooms. In all the look of the place was like a 'post-modernist' set for Jailhouse Rock. As the cells were opened we grabbed places and with sunrise we got to sleep. I, in cell 2019, was joined by Pakistani TV presenter Serge, AKA Syed Talat Hussain, whose business card had gone into the mud with my own cards on the boat; Sukir, a gentle and kind professor also from Pakistan, and big, 'all-American' Serbian Stojinjkovic. They all spoke english, as mixed foreigners nearly always do. So my verbal exile was ended. Just in time for bed, as we removed the plastic foam mattresses from their store-bought bags and crashed out.
1June
We all get acquainted. We didn't all talk to everyone on the boat, but now we get the chance to really pal-up. The noisy and hugely entertaining Ken O'Keefe, renounced US citizen/ now citizen of the world especially Palestine, the kid from East London who looks like Yusuf Islams' young brother, the Spaniard, the white-haired teacher from Sweden, Dimitiris the Greek.
The promise that we could call home and/or our consuls turned out to be more bullshit. There was a long bank of phones on the wall by the showers but only one functioned, and only with a phonecard. Most of the time our block seemed to be in the charge of 'the Kid', a skinny lad who tried to marshal us into our cells after feeding time, on time but who we defeated by spinning out our long-winded discussions about the meaning of life. This wasn't being run like a conventional jail - only a holding centre until we could be got rid of. Occasionally we were visited by a group of officers from other parts of the jail, including a neatly uniformed woman, big bum and sculpted hair, glamorous enough to pass as Lebanese, and whom I could only regard with lustful eyes. Some men are put off by powerful women, but not me.
Regardless of the empty promises, late in the afternoon our consuls appeared, the two-man team from the UK consulate in Jerusalem coming round last. (I heard that at one block they had had to conduct their interview with the British inmates by crouching down and shouting through the glass door) I told Roger, second in command, that the first guy I spoke to at Interrogation tried to get me to sign the statement 'admitting' that I had entered Israel illegally and that I was leaving freely and of my own will.
I had seen that one or two who signed got sent to jail regardless. Roger politely asked me if I could possibly find him a glass of water. Two of us Brits leapt into action getting a bottle and washing out a plastic glass. I said, "You must think we're terrible hosts."
He said that he would send me a list of legal representatives in a couple of days, in case I needed them, and visit again soon if it looked like a long haul, also taking away my message of reassurance to my concerned sister Jane and pal Ed who had to pose as a relative to get past the red tapirs at the Foreign Office. If he or his colleague made any representations about setting a date for freeing us we were not aware of it, although I was confident that the Israelis wanted us out of the country as soon as possible.
2June
4am: two guys with boxes of passports wanted to know how many of them matched with us. Only a very few. The lucky winners packed up and left. At 7am we were woken again to meet a guy with a smaller pile of passports, one for each of us. Mine was in its plastic bag with the unsigned document (I think - it may have been by that time an A4 photocopy of my passport, and I didn't get a close look), and the bad passport photo. 'The Kid' told us we were going to another centre. I saw fellow-Bristolian Sakir for the first time in a while. We had to wait in a tiny, if high-ceilinged, room for ages, made worse by a couple of us being intent on a smoke, burning up the oxygen. Two buses were to take us to Ben Gurion Airport; a one-hour journey. After sitting in the buses for a further hour as they circled about then slowly ground through the exit. We were promised that inside the airport would be our missing luggage.
In a large waiting area, surrounded by rifle-toting guards we had to wait for hours while nothing but lots of paper-shuffling took place at the long 'desk'(three or four tables) before us. Although one of the 'officers' passed round giant rolls containing cheese, tomato, spam, the wait and occasional insulting threats got too much for one of us who angrily pointed his finger at a senior officer- who stepped forward and slapped the pointing hand away. Sparking off a jump-up scrummage - soldier/cops ran in, jumping on top and dragging a boy away, flattening him to the floor, handcuffing him and taking him to a room. While other goons sprung forward to threaten us, many of whom were still chewing on our hero sandwiches, with guns.
My turn at last. Israeli public servants/beaurocrats do make the Egyptians look like models of efficiency. Memories of long days sitting in UK benefit offices awaiting our turn to be insulted are stirred.
I was given the file plastic envelope containing the bad photo taken at the port, a photocopy of my passport and, I think, my actual passport. Directed to a glass-fronted booth where a woman did something below her desk for a while, painstaking and mysterious before handing me back the envelope. A hovering man directed me through a barrier past another boy soldier with rifle. Faced with an airport-style electronic gate and roller-scanner for my nonexistent baggage, I had to got through the usual emptying of pockets. A new one for me: this time I had to take off my shoes. When I had reassembled myself a kid said,"Sit!"
Suddenly my calm snapped. I lent forward. "Do you think I am a little dog, that you can tell me to sit?!"
A besuited kid stepped foward and quietly said, "You must sit.
"No, I must not sit!"
I sat.
I asked the suited 'usher' that question again, as he politely asked me to move on if I was ready, "Where is my luggage?"
" In the hall."
I walked forward. Into the hall. Completely empty! Only a desk away at the far side. I can see there's no turning back: right behind me the kid with the gun.
At the desk a smoothly coiffured guy took my envelope and asked me where my passport was. I said I didn't know - you've got it. The girl said "Now you can go down there", gesturing at the stairs behind leading down to the glass frontage.
"To whaat?"
"To the bus."
"Wait a minute! I'm here for my luggage."
Permawave said it was all sent to Turkey. "I have to say, I don't believe you. (He shrugged, half-smilingly) And my passport?"
"Sent to the consulate in Turkey."
I was quite tired, and a little confused. Combined with the smooth man's bland and well-rehearsed (empty) assurances this led to my descending the stairs going out of the door and into the bus - with no passport. I got out again. The boy soldiers at the door leapt forward.
"I must have my passport."
"Wait on the bus!"
"No, I will wait here." -I turned to the girl soldier: "Will you get my passport? It really is important."
"Yes, I will get it. Later." - she looked away
"No! You really must get it now."(smile) "Look, I'll come with you."
The two brats jumped at me, shoving me with their rifle and their arms. I yelled at the girl as we struggled, "You stole my passport, you fucking crooks - What are you going to do with it? Commit another crime?"
I couldn't fight back properly as my priority has always been to keep hold of my bag of medicine - it's like lugging an extra person around. I had left it on the bus anyway. Slam! So I was back on board for good.
The filled bus set off for the plane; a crowd already inside gave a huge round of applause as we boarded. Several other crowds joined us, always accompanied by overwhelming cries of victory and love. Our flight was delayed by several hours as Bulent Yildirim, leader of I.H.H., was still being held by the airport/army/police. When he eventually climbed on I gave him a manly punch on the shoulder as a welcome. Not as invasive as it sounds - the first time I came close to him, in Istanbul, he gave my four-pack a really good feel in passing.
Turkish Airlines/the Government kindly put many of us up in hair-raisingly expensive hotels back in Istanbul, a stay which had been planned for about one night, but when Sakir and I, and Peter who had booked our flight together, said we wanted to stay till Sunday they said, Fine. So we were able to combine a little more sightseeing with attendance at two funerals of the brothers who had been killed, plus a huge protest march through the Fatih district. And most of that luggage did turn up. Even some cameras were there, most of them relatively undamaged but without their media.
When the entire British contingent arrived at Heathrow, 10pm local time Sunday 6th June, the enormous crowd gathered to welcome us alerted us for the first time to the fact that the attack on our Flotilla was Big News. And from the Zionist point of view,one of the biggest PR disasters in history.
He said that he would send me a list of legal representatives in a couple of days, in case I needed them, and visit again soon if it looked like a long haul, also taking away my message of reassurance to my concerned sister Jane and pal Ed who had to pose as a relative to get past the red tapirs at the Foreign Office. If he or his colleague made any representations about setting a date for freeing us we were not aware of it, although I was confident that the Israelis wanted us out of the country as soon as possible.
2June
4am: two guys with boxes of passports wanted to know how many of them matched with us. Only a very few. The lucky winners packed up and left. At 7am we were woken again to meet a guy with a smaller pile of passports, one for each of us. Mine was in its plastic bag with the unsigned document (I think - it may have been by that time an A4 photocopy of my passport, and I didn't get a close look), and the bad passport photo. 'The Kid' told us we were going to another centre. I saw fellow-Bristolian Sakir for the first time in a while. We had to wait in a tiny, if high-ceilinged, room for ages, made worse by a couple of us being intent on a smoke, burning up the oxygen. Two buses were to take us to Ben Gurion Airport; a one-hour journey. After sitting in the buses for a further hour as they circled about then slowly ground through the exit. We were promised that inside the airport would be our missing luggage.
In a large waiting area, surrounded by rifle-toting guards we had to wait for hours while nothing but lots of paper-shuffling took place at the long 'desk'(three or four tables) before us. Although one of the 'officers' passed round giant rolls containing cheese, tomato, spam, the wait and occasional insulting threats got too much for one of us who angrily pointed his finger at a senior officer- who stepped forward and slapped the pointing hand away. Sparking off a jump-up scrummage - soldier/cops ran in, jumping on top and dragging a boy away, flattening him to the floor, handcuffing him and taking him to a room. While other goons sprung forward to threaten us, many of whom were still chewing on our hero sandwiches, with guns.
My turn at last. Israeli public servants/beaurocrats do make the Egyptians look like models of efficiency. Memories of long days sitting in UK benefit offices awaiting our turn to be insulted are stirred.
I was given the file plastic envelope containing the bad photo taken at the port, a photocopy of my passport and, I think, my actual passport. Directed to a glass-fronted booth where a woman did something below her desk for a while, painstaking and mysterious before handing me back the envelope. A hovering man directed me through a barrier past another boy soldier with rifle. Faced with an airport-style electronic gate and roller-scanner for my nonexistent baggage, I had to got through the usual emptying of pockets. A new one for me: this time I had to take off my shoes. When I had reassembled myself a kid said,"Sit!"
Suddenly my calm snapped. I lent forward. "Do you think I am a little dog, that you can tell me to sit?!"
A besuited kid stepped foward and quietly said, "You must sit.
"No, I must not sit!"
I sat.
I asked the suited 'usher' that question again, as he politely asked me to move on if I was ready, "Where is my luggage?"
" In the hall."
I walked forward. Into the hall. Completely empty! Only a desk away at the far side. I can see there's no turning back: right behind me the kid with the gun.
At the desk a smoothly coiffured guy took my envelope and asked me where my passport was. I said I didn't know - you've got it. The girl said "Now you can go down there", gesturing at the stairs behind leading down to the glass frontage.
"To whaat?"
"To the bus."
"Wait a minute! I'm here for my luggage."
Permawave said it was all sent to Turkey. "I have to say, I don't believe you. (He shrugged, half-smilingly) And my passport?"
"Sent to the consulate in Turkey."
I was quite tired, and a little confused. Combined with the smooth man's bland and well-rehearsed (empty) assurances this led to my descending the stairs going out of the door and into the bus - with no passport. I got out again. The boy soldiers at the door leapt forward.
"I must have my passport."
"Wait on the bus!"
"No, I will wait here." -I turned to the girl soldier: "Will you get my passport? It really is important."
"Yes, I will get it. Later." - she looked away
"No! You really must get it now."(smile) "Look, I'll come with you."
The two brats jumped at me, shoving me with their rifle and their arms. I yelled at the girl as we struggled, "You stole my passport, you fucking crooks - What are you going to do with it? Commit another crime?"
I couldn't fight back properly as my priority has always been to keep hold of my bag of medicine - it's like lugging an extra person around. I had left it on the bus anyway. Slam! So I was back on board for good.
The filled bus set off for the plane; a crowd already inside gave a huge round of applause as we boarded. Several other crowds joined us, always accompanied by overwhelming cries of victory and love. Our flight was delayed by several hours as Bulent Yildirim, leader of I.H.H., was still being held by the airport/army/police. When he eventually climbed on I gave him a manly punch on the shoulder as a welcome. Not as invasive as it sounds - the first time I came close to him, in Istanbul, he gave my four-pack a really good feel in passing.
Turkish Airlines/the Government kindly put many of us up in hair-raisingly expensive hotels back in Istanbul, a stay which had been planned for about one night, but when Sakir and I, and Peter who had booked our flight together, said we wanted to stay till Sunday they said, Fine. So we were able to combine a little more sightseeing with attendance at two funerals of the brothers who had been killed, plus a huge protest march through the Fatih district. And most of that luggage did turn up. Even some cameras were there, most of them relatively undamaged but without their media.
When the entire British contingent arrived at Heathrow, 10pm local time Sunday 6th June, the enormous crowd gathered to welcome us alerted us for the first time to the fact that the attack on our Flotilla was Big News. And from the Zionist point of view,one of the biggest PR disasters in history.
Update: 1st December 2010 - Very useful in many ways we might not have guessed at, YouTube: While idly looking through the Tube, I discovered that Aljazeera knew the Iraelis were setting up an interrogation tent city and preparing the port at Ashdod for our arrival (which arrival was not of course on our schedule) as far back as the 27th May. If anyone on the Flotilla knew about this they managed to keep it quiet...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zeKtcHIbMjY&feature=related
In this interview with DemocracyNow, President Obama presents himself as extremely shifty, unable to be honest in any way as he attempts to balance the interests of Zionism with the military/industrial complex while weaseling out of condemning the attack: http://www.democracynow.org/2010/6/4as_obama_refuses_to_condemn_flotilla
Excellent posts, Cliff. Its so important that these stories are told and told in full.
ReplyDeleteAll the best, Rob