Shameless promoting of a camera phone

Did I mention that almost every posting on this blog, including the snapping and uploading of pics, were done entirely by camera phone?
The Nokia N95 8GB phone to be precise.
It's amazing how advanced mobile phone technology is these days. It's also quite sad that I have to return the phone to the company when I go back.
I look forward to getting one of these free of charge from Nokia for the shameless promoting I've done... ;)

Palestinian cuisine

We went to Gaza thinking there would be no food to eat and no place to stay in. So, we prepared accordingly, packing sleeping bags and dry food like bread, bottled water and crackers.
It was quite surprising to see that not only was there a very decent place to stay - much better than the rathole we are bunking at in Egypt (misleadingly named the Concorde), but that the food was very good.
It's mainly Middle Eastern cuisine, which means we got lots of bread, starchy rice, kebabs and vegetable salads.
There was also some excellent coffee, and a superb black pepper liver dish called Kibda which was truly mouthwatering and probably the best meal I had since coming here.
Also, the sheesha (I have no idea how to spell the word!) here is something else altogether. I wonder if there's any contraband in it, because a couple of puffs of the cherry flavoured tobacco was enough to make me, as TV3 journalist Razali put it, "kepala pening'..
Though I'd still take my nasi lemak with telur goreng and sambal kerang anytime, I have to admit the food here was a far cry from the maggoty morsels I had imagined I would get.

Leaving Gaza, part deux.

We were at Palestinian Rafah, having just chased our last story, when the call came in that Israel might be attacking the border within an hour.

We had heard such rumours before, but this one seemed more serious because of several reasons. One was that we had seen an Israeli plane on a reconnaissance flight overhead when visiting an orphanage earlier in the day. Another was that several foreign journalists had left the night before, warning us that there might be further attacks. Most importantly though, was that the ceasefire had ended and all bets were off.

So, we hightailed it out of there and headed for the border crossing immediately instead of leaving later in the day as we had planned to earlier.

All the way to the border checkpoint, things were different than they had been before. The people around us seemed more frenetic, more stressed and more worried than at any point in the past few days. At the border, people were thronging the locked gates and we had to jostle our way to the front to be allowed through. At the end, though the expected attack didn't materialise, it was a stark reminder of the knife edge upon which these people's lives are poised and how, no matter how normal things seem, chaos and mayhem is only one air raid away.

We are now sitting in the most expensive bus in the world (check out my earlier posting if you don't know what i mean), waiting for it to rumble into life and bring us back to Egypt. The group is quiet and pensive. The two girls from TV3 are sitting at the back, their eyes welling up with tears. It goes without saying that this trip has affected all of us profoundly. My eyes are dry but my heart is heavy. Personally and professionally, this place has stolen a little piece of my heart.

Professionally, the pain, the destruction and the suffering I have seen here has made me realise how important the media is as a guardian of liberty. Without the intervention of the international press corps, the world would not have known the truth of what happened here.

There are so many stories still to be told, so many voices still begging to be heard and so many tragedies that need to be recounted. I have not had enough time here and can only hope that I have done a little good with the few stories I have told.

Personally, the rugged beauty of this land, reflected in its noble people, has left an indelible impression on me. I'm still amazed at their tenacious will to live, their refusal to accept defeat and their faith in God which allows them to accept all the trials and tribulations which come their way.

We took the coastal road on our way back to Rafah today. As I watched the beautiful waves, crested with foamy white plumes, of the Mediterranean, I couldn't help thinking how much like the sea these people are.

They are beautiful, majestic and mesmerising, but never to be underestimated because they're fortified with a wellspring of strength, a stubborn implacability and a wild streak which will, I feel, never be truly tamed no matter how many times they are beaten, battered or bloodied.

I pray that God brings peace to this land and the people that inhabit it. I pray that friendship and brotherhood replace the hatred and enmity that envelops this land of milk and honey.

Most of all, i pray that the killing stops.

Leaving Gaza

If I were to pinch the ears of the Israeli leaders and drag them to the hospitals in Gaza, would they feel sorry for what they have done to the Palestinians? If they were to see the bloodied and broken children, if they were to look at the burnt and blackened women, if they were to cast their eyes on the limbless and lifeless men, would they feel a twinge of guilt?

If I were to haul them kicking and screaming through the streets of Gaza and ask them to stare at the ruined city, would they apologize to the people of this land? If they were to gaze at the Parliament building, if they were to watch the husk of what was once the beautiful courthouse, if they were to observe the scorched remains of the Red Cross building, would they promise to never again do what they did over the past month?

I leave for Egypt in a few hours and a small part of me wishes I'd never come to Gaza. The pain, suffering and tragedy that abounds in this beautiful place is almost too heartbreaking to see up close. Gaza is not a ghetto or a slum city, and Palestine is not a third-world backwater. It's a beautiful place. The air is pure and clean, the land green and fertile. The strawberries are the sweetest I've ever eaten and the fresh fish caught from the waters of the Mediterranean are tender and succulent.

The Arabs here aren't extremists or terrorists. In truth, they are a friendly, open, generous, honest and welcoming people who always have a ready smile, a ready greeting and an endearing sense of curiousity. Their fight is one against oppression, and yet it seems that the issue has divided the world into countries that are with them or against them.

All they want is the right to live in freedom and dignity, the basic things for which most independent countries in the past fought long and hard to gain. Is that too much to ask for?

This is not a fight between Muslim and Jews or Arabs and Israelis. It's against oppressors and the oppressed. It's happened many times in the past- the Malaysian freedom fighters who battled the Japanese, the American patriots who fought the British, Scottish hero William Wallace who drove the English out of his homeland. The list is endless and these people are revered as heroes in their homeland.

It's the same with the Hamas fighters here. They may have been painted as terrorists and suicide bombers in the international media, but back in their homeland, they are considered heroes, patriots and martyrs. Women cry for them, men speak of their pride of them and boys aspire to become them. The problem is that the guerilla tactics they use in their fight has brought the might of the wrathful Israeli army down on the whole nation. While people here are unapologetic and even proud of the price they have to pay, it is still a tragic waste of civilian lives.

What disturbs and saddens me the most is that the Jewish race itself has been the victim of great oppression in the past, most recently when millions were killed in Hitler's Holocaust. After all that has happened to them, I can't stomach the fact that their leaders are doing the same thing the Nazis did.

I can't imagine that their people are supporting the war the same way the German nation supported the Nazis (An opinion poll showed the war had a 91 per cent approval rating among Israelis). I've heard stories of mass murders, of how children have been lined up and executed, of how entire families have been annihilated by the Israeli forces. It begs the question of whether Israel has become the monster it once reviled.

Images from a camera phone

It's not just a pretty design on the ground. These marks were made by strafing fire from a Apache helicopter that was hovering 20cm over the ground as it cut down 48 members of Palestine's police force in a matter of minutes.

The walls of the Gaza police headquarters are lined with bullet holes from the helicopter gunships that struck the place. In some places, pieces of human meat and bone are still stuck to the walls.

Fishermen bring in their catch early every morning. Fishes, shrimp and crabs are all brought in and sold on the roads in front of the wharf.

This mosque was lucky to only have the top of its minaret lopped off. 23 other mosques were flattened by F-16 strikes, some when people were praying inside

The International Red Cross Building was brutally blasted by F-16 planes, in an attack that claimed the lives of 13 doctors and medical assistants

The sunrises in Palestine are breathtaking. Nuff said.

Our hotel too, was blasted by Israeli rockets. They kept some of the mortar shards. Only as big as my forearm, the largest piece weighs about 15kg at least.

Attack of The Killer Kiddos

Being the only non-Muslim in the group, it was inevitable that I would be on "jaga beg" duty while the rest of the gang went to perform their Friday prayers.

I wasn't actually all that bothered, because I figured that it would give me a good opportunity to catch up on some of the shut eye I'd been denied since landing in Egypt so long ago (or does it just feel that way to me?).

So, as they trooped to the Mosque (which believe it or not, has a name translated into Masjid Pantai Dalam!). My Harian Metro colleague Jamil, had thoughtfully bought a huge bag of strawberries (the strawberries here are huge, sweet and cheap!) for me to chew while I waited.
So, I settled into the back seat and began munching. I was halfway to la-la-land when there appeared a little pixie face in the window next to me.

It was an angelic little boy, about 5 years old or so, staring hungrily at my fruits. SO, I wound down the window and offered him one. He shied awaybut creeped closer and closer when I smiled as benignly as I could and opened the bag for him to help himself. He timidly stuck his hand out and took one, before galloping away. Thinking I'd done my good deed for the day, I sunk back into my seat once more.

Then, there he was again, with a posse of about four other kids - three boys and a girl - in tow.
They helped themselves to the strawberries with relish and I gave myself a mental pat on the back at the amount of brownie points I was scoring with God.
I opened the doors and let them crawl into the car. Which, upon hindsight, was my first mistake.

They spied my photographer Tun's camera and asked me to take pictures of them,which I did. At this point, it was all still going pretty well. Then, one of the sharp-eyed little darlings spied a bag of chocolates our Datuk astronaut had left on the floor (he'd brought them to distribute to the children at the hospital), grabbed it and gave it to me with imploring eyes.

So, I opened the bag and gave them one each. It apparently wasn't enough. They wanted two. So, I gave them another one each. By this time, the gang had swelled to about ten kids.
They asked for four chocs (amazing how children remember their multiplication tables when it suits them!) and at this point I decided that enough was enough. After all, I didn't come all the way to Gaza to rot its children's teeth.That was their cue to multiply from 10 little angels to an army of about 60 screaming, pushing, shoving, demanding monsters.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I was getting pretty freaked out by this, so I thought I needed to get matters under control. I told them I'd come outside and give them one choc each if they all lined up in an orderly manner. Their hazel eyes stared back uncomprehendingly at me. So, I just got out with the bag in hand.

The Biblical plague of locusts was nothing compared to the swarm that surrounded me. Pushing, shoving, grabbing my t-shirt, pulling my pants, getting a hold on every available hold on my person to get to the pot of gold that was the little bag of chocolates.
It was when my ring, which dangles from a chain on my neck, went flying that I knew if I didn't give up the chocolates, tomorrow's headline would read "Malaysian journalist torn apart by hungry Palestinian children".

Datuk's chocolates went flying in one direction while I dived in another, frantically searching for my lost ring (which though a gift from a particularly un-beloved ex-girlfriend, I still liked too much to give up). Grabbing the piece of metal, I then scrambled into the car, winding up all the windows and trying to lock the doors. I should have known better. The ancient taxi looked like the last time it had a lock on the door was the neolithic period.

Once they had consumed the cursed bag of goodies, they came after me in droves again. Every time one door would open, I would scramble to close it and another would open on another side.
They tried to get everything in the car, from the driver's cigarettes, to the scarves of the passengers, to Tun's camera. I grabbed everything I could and cowered in the back seat, praying for Friday prayers to finish soon.

All the while, the little demons were banging on the windows, jumping up and down on the trunk and screaming fit to wake the dead. They asked for money, cigarettes (can you imagine what it's like to have a 6-year-old try to bum a smoke off you?), more chocolates, strawberries. It was chaos.

And when they saw that they were getting nothing more from me, they showered me with the only English phrase they knew - "F*** you". Over and over again. From a hundred different directions. Until the cavalry, in the form of the returning penitent from the mosque, rode in. Sensing that my backup had arrived, the little angels dispersed like the desert sand.

It was definitely one of the more colourful experiences of my trip to Palestine, but one I do not recommend for the garden variety tourist.

Well, at least I can now say that I was in the middle of battle in Gaza.

The Most Expensive Bus In The World

PICS FROM TOP TO BOTTOM
1) Ambulances idling at the RBC checkpoint, despite Palestinian calls for medical aid
2) Yours truly, in front of the destruction that was once a beautiful courthouse building.
3) Dozens of refugees lining up at the RBC (there were more, but there's only so much you can do with a phone camera!)



Yesterday, I had the dubious honour of riding on what is probably the most expensive bus in the world. We left our hotel in El-Arish bright and early and were at the Rafah Border Crossing (RBC) checkpoint by 9am. With all our papers in order, we thought it would just be a matter of flashing the RBC guards our pearly whites and waltzing through to Palestine.
How wrong we were. By the time we arrived, there were already more than a hundred people waiting there, with bags, boxes and suitcases.
Nearby, trucks with medical supplies were standing by to be allowed in as well.
And so the wait began. As the desert sun creeped across the sky, the night chill began to dissipate and the arid surroundings began to grow baking hot.
Not having had breakfast, we contributed generously to the cottage industry set up by enterprising Egyptians, who were selling hot tea, bottled water, dates, nuts and other tiny bites.
In all, we were made to sweat it out - both literally and figuratively - for more than three hours before the gates were finally opened at 12.30pm, but not before the border officials made us run back to town and make photocopies of our passports and letters from the Egyptian Information Ministry.
You'd think it was smooth sailing after that, but nooooooo. Once inside, we had to pay 2 Egyptian Pounds each to buy stamps for our documents and then made to wait another two hours while Immigration officials dilly-dallied over our exit from the land of the Pharaohs.
Language was a major issue, with only one member of our party speaking Arabic fluently enough to be understood (note to self: take up Arabic lessons when I get back). We also noticed many ambulances idling there and wondered why they were not being used despite the calls for more medical supplies and services.
And then came the most expensive bus in the world.
It was a rackety old thing, worse than the worst Malaysian stage bus you can possibly imagine. Guess how much it cost? 121EP! That's almost RM80. But, what to do? Pay-lah!
And so, the journey began. And stopped 3 minutes later. We had paid the 121EP for a 500m ride lasting all of three minutes to the Palestinian entry point! What a scam!
Ironically, Palestine, a country in chaos, processed our documents in a fraction of the time that the annoying Egyptian bureaucrats took and we were ready to hit the road by 4pm.
We piled into three ancient by roomy yellow Mercedez-Benz taxis and left for Gaza City. (The drivers in this part of the world would give Lewis Hamilton a run for his money! I've lost count of the number of times we all screamed like little girls when staring into the headlights of oncoming trucks.)
The signs of war were almost immediately visible. Bullet holes pockmarked many of the buildings like acne on an awkward teen and bigger holes, probably made by rockets, punctured many of the structures.
That being said, we were struck by how verdant and fertile the land around us was. On our left and right, as we made our way out of Palestinian Rafah, through Khan Younis and into Gaza City, we could see green fields, orange groves and rows upon rows of neatly planted vegetables.
Flocks of dirty sheep lined the roads and donkeys leisurely pulled carts on the roads, heedless of the furious honking behind them.
We were actually in a war zone?
Yes. As we neared the city, the destruction became more apparent. Roads, previously nicely paved with tar, began to get worse and the green fields began to be replaced by mounds of sand and earth.
Apartment blocks sported huge gaping holes and scorch marks.
We passed the Ministry of Education and right beside it saw the massive ruins of a huge building, which we learnt was a courthouse.
The once magnificent edifice (a local showed us a picture of it as it had once been) had been reduced to nothing but a pile of rubble, with only its marble arches, now lying on their side, testament to what was previously an imposing structure.
Destroyed by rockets fired from Israeli vessels at sea, the obliterated courthouse was a poignant reminder of how Israel has been ignoring international pressure and the rule of law in this cruel and one-sided war.
As we resumed our journey, seeking digs for the night, we saw other examples of destruction. Houses, mosques, public buildings all shared the same fate.
The destruction seems almost surgical in its precision. Untouched buildings stand next to those that have been totally annihilated.
If they can be so accurate in their destruction, how is it that the Israelis got their intel so mixed up on so many occasions, as they claim, and killed so many civilians?
We were also told that four fishermen had been injured today by Israeli gunfire out at sea.
We finally reached our hotel in time to witness a brilliant orange Mediterranean sunset. Our hotel room is comfortable, much more so than the place we stayed in at Rafah or Cairo.
But, as I looked around for the source of the odd chill in the room, I found that our windows had been shot out and replaced with plastic sheets.
So much for a semblance of normalcy.