reSee.it - Tweets Saved By @nadeneghouri

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

I would like to share a few stories if I may? My first memories of Gaza. 2008. By then I was ‘seasoned’ by conflict & fragile states. But nothing could have prepared me.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

I almost didn't get in. Valid media accreditation. British passport. But my name. 'Where are you from?' demanded the soldier. Britain I said. 'NO, where are you from?' I had been warned this might happen. I smiled sweetly. 'I don't understand? I am British.' She laughed.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

We danced this 'where are you from?' 'I'm British' a few more times until she lost patience. 'She' was a beautiful sight, ray bans, maybe 20, 21. A conscript. She pointed her gun. I smiled. Time to deflect. 'What's the issue?' 'Your name'. Where are your family from?

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

Well I can tell you all here my mum is working class British, hewn from steel workers, men who toiled and women who had no choices. My Dad is Afghan/Pakistani. My ancestors are the Ghorids, in the 13th century an empire that stretched half of Asia funded the building of the Buddha's of Bamiyan, early adopters of Islam but with a thirst and curiosity for the new world. We were poets, warriors, literal legends. It didn't seem a good idea to tell her. So I smiled.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

'Ah. You see I don't know where my name is from. My mum had a one night stand. I never knew my father.' Like I say, I was warned this might happen. I asked, 'Why do you ask? Is my name Israeli?' She laughed in my face. 'No no no, not Israeli.'

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

I was allowed to move forward. Okay so imagine. British passport, media accreditation (Al Jazeera English). Time to cross the 'border'. I stood in a series of airport style full body scanners encased in glass, guns pointed at me. Ray bans. Conscripts. Fear in their eyes.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

'PUT YOUR HANDS UP'. I did. 'TAKE OFF YOUR HEADSCARF...' Muffled sounds. Shit, did he say up or down? I can't hear. TAKE ON. HANDS DOWN!! Shit I can't hear. I'm confused. Hands up, hands down? I don't know! Fear. Real fear.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

I am British. Media accreditation. But this is fear, real fear. I have just come from Afghanistan where I lived 6 years. Rocket bombardments, Insurgency. But no, never had a scared teenager in ray bans pointing a gun at me before. Unprecedented feelings. Breatheeee

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

I get through. Drenched in sweat. Surreal. Sci-fi movie reality. Then we walk. We walk, then we walk, we walk more. Through a concrete underpass - like the type in car parks. It goes on & on & on. We are carrying kit and I am soooo tired. I pause. I think I see bullet holes in the walls.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

"Are they?" I ask my cameraman. He nods. We walk. We walk some more. I think this car park underpass is kind of endless. Then...An old lady on a plastic chair sits at a formica table. "Hello. Welcome to Gaza"

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

Sci-fi becomes low fi. We sign out names in her book. She smiles, but sadness overwhelms her pretend receptionist demeanour. She opens a gate. A literal metal gate. We go through it. We walk. Another gate. This is a prison.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

And so it goes, we walk a bit, a new gate, more clanging metal. No guns or sci fi no here. Old skool prison gates. I lose count how many. Eventually a gate opens. And then there is is. Gaza. My breath disappears. I can't take in the scene.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

Concrete. High rises. In your face. Look I love cities. I love Mumbai, I love London, I love New York. I love high rises. I love noise, I love density, I love chaos. But this? This. This is...

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

This is like nothing I have ever encountered. Just concrete. No birds, no grass, no...joy? This is my first few seconds there. My mind is reeling. It's like nothing I know or could have know before. But then? A stored memory flashes. Is this a ghetto? Have I seen this in books?

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

Head rush. Our driver appears. Reza. All smiles but a bit anxious. Ushers us into a battered Toyota. We drive. We pass a market garden, many greenhouses with windows blown out. 'What happened?' Reza shrugs.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

We pass the port. A handful of little fishing boats. Sun streaming across water. Would be idyllic. Should be. Except for the gunships.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

My head hurts. I struggle to comprehend, to adapt, to find focus. This is so different, yet weirdly familiar. My head hurts. We reach our hotel. A bastion of media and politicians, the sort of space I usually feel safe in. Reassured in.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

We order food, wine. I relax. We have a sea view. It's pretty, gunships aside. A man at the next table starts to cough. & cough. & cough. & cough. I know instantly. TB. He looks at me apologetically. He is dying. His sad eyes tell me he knows. TB. He places a hankie over his mouth. He shrugs.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

I see a little blood stain on the hankie over his mouth. His companions pretend not to notice. My head hurts. i go to my room. I do not sleep. I wake up. My head hurts. I don't know why it won't stop hurting. It's like diving compression. My temples throb. I take painkillers but it doesn't go away.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

Dawn. Sun shines on water, fishing boats bob. Gunships line up behind. We eat breakfast - flatbread, feta, olives and black coffee. I am cheered. We begin our day. I'm filming a doco about children in war zones. Reza picks us up. He's rude, agitated. "Are you okay?" He shrugs.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

Reza beginning to piss me off. First call. A family whose Grandmother became Gaza's oldest suicide bomber the week before. A bit mad? I thought so too. Their house is tiny, teeny. So many people. Kids everywhere. Big extended family. Adults weeping, wailing. In the Middle East grief is vocal. This I already know and understand.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

What I don't understand is how or why someone's Granny becomes a suicide bomber. I'm there to ask the kids. An hour later my mind is blown. They describe her last day. Calm, serene. She said a special word to each of them. They had no idea. Were they proud? "Yes she's a martyr. No. Yes. No. Maybe. We miss her mostly." My head throbs. Remember I am seasoned by conflict zones by now. But this? Head f**k.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

For context... Hamas often recruited the vulnerable and desperate to become 'martyrs'. Before Granny was radicalised she had lost 3 sons and was dying of cancer, no way for her to get medical care. I don't condone, I don't know her mind. I cannot judge. I only know what she did. She blew herself up at a checkpoint and killed 2 Israeli soldiers. They too were someone's sons.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

The Grandkids really missed her. Oh boy did they. We leave. Drive to next family. Middle class, highly educated. Their house was in a sort of no mans land. IDF took over half of it. For TWO YEARS. Every day the kids were mocked, humiliated.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

"I was so scared, I urinated myself. I urinated myself a lot". The teenage girl smiled apologetically. Then she shrugged. Shrugs. Shrugs are a Gazan thing I am beginning to realise.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

Dad calls us for lunch. Chicken. We try to refuse. But we know the game, you pretend refuse and then you accept the hospitality. That's the Arab way. It's VERY rude to refuse hospitality. Dad stands over us, his hands on my cameraman's shoulders as we eat. His wife and kids stand watching. None of the family eat. "Are you hungry? Join us please", I say. They shrug. His wife's sad eyes catch mine.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

I've worked it out. They don't have enough food for them and for us. So they've given it to us. I pick at my chicken. My colleague doesn't work it out. He wolfs it down. I literally want to kill him. We leave. In the car Reza is surly. I hate him. I hate my colleague. My head hurts. I look out the window. I see concrete, high rises, no green, no grass, no birds. Why no birds?

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

I ask Reza. He shrugs. I explode. 'What is wrong with you?" He goes silent. "I'm sorry, my mind is not right. I lost my kids last month." "What?? What do you mean? Lost?" (Inside I am laughing at myself because I am praying he says he means he lost them at the mall, or behind the sofa. I realise by now I'm also losing it)

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

Reza tells his story. 6 kids. All dead when an Israeli bulldozer raised his entire street in retribution for one of his neighbours (a cousin) being a suicide bomber. Collective punishment the IDF call it. The idea being that if you punish a community who committed no crime themselves they will drive out the Hamas radicals. The idea being they should have stood up to the radicals. They failed to. Bad them. Their mistake. So by destroying their home and killing their kids we instill and win loyalty. Sound familiar?

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

Back to the hotel. Dinner. The same group at the neighbouring table are there. They smoke, they laugh. The man with the bloodied hankie over his mouth - with the TB - is not there. I'm sad. But I am relieved. At least he's not going to cough over me. I hate myself.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

Next day. Interview a boy driving a donkey cart. He struggles to speak. "I do not have the breath for the words I want to say." His chest heaves, his cheeks are sunken. TB. I smile at him as warmly as I can while holding a hankie over my own face. At least Reza is chilled out with me today. He spoke his truth. It's really hard having a crap day at work and not being able to tell anyone why you feel crap isn't it? I mean, 6 dead kids last week. What kind of an excuse is that to not perform at work?

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

More kids. Too many to share here. Beautiful French speaking middle class girls who give me the most articulate quotes. "I'm a child, I know what death is, I know what war is." An artist. "Even in pain we create." By now I'm back in my groove. It's just conflict. This is my job. Deal with it. And then...Him.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

Resplendent in his school uniform he is proud and beautiful, brown eyes like pools. He is SO smart. He talks of his dreams and his desire to study in the United States. He is a child wonder says his teachers. But I ask too many questions, I go over time. He starts to shake.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

"The bus goes at 8.45. I must catch the bus at 8.45. It is the blue bus. The bus goes at 8.45. The blue bus." He rocks back and forth. His mum shrugs. He has PTSD. School, his routine, his dream of getting out keeps him functioning. I've made him late for school with my stupid questions.

@nadeneghouri - Nadene

This story is from 2008. In 2021 a report by EuroMed (link to come) found 9 out of 10 Gazan kids suffered some form of PTSD. Bed wetting, nightmares, verbal ticks. 2023? 10 out of 10 I guess. Of the ones who are left. 'Shrug'