A farmer returns to God; his blood still on Gaza streets

This would be the first story that I publish on the blog about my experiences in GAZA.

I met him took pictures of him and was also invited by him to his house for a cup of tea.
Four days later we get the news of his death by a sniper.

Let me warn you. This is not a happy story.

When I met Hajji Mohammed on a January morning, he was standing in front of his hut, keeping his hands on his eyes against the winter sun, mouth opened, as if phrasing a question. Hajji Mohammed lived at Beit Hanoun in the north-east tip of the Gaza strip, located by the Hanoun stream, a few hundred metres away from the Palestine-Israel border.

Ahlan Wassahlan - welcome wholeheartedly - he said as he led me to his hut with the traditional Arabic greeting. His hut smelt of black coffee and lemon. A digital clock cast a faint green light on his table. "My name is Hajji Mohammed. I am 72," he said. "My wife's name is Raigah," he added before bursting into laughter. Raigah is an unusual name, meaning 'relax' in Arabic. "Raigah", he repeated, laughing aloud again, amused by his partner's name.

But the couple had not relaxed much during the last many years. They are part of the 12 per cent of the population of Gaza who suffer due to Israeli security policies along the troubled border. Israel had established "no-go zones" and frequently bulldozed farmlands and stopped farm workers from entering the fields, leading to deaths and loss of jobs for 178,000 people out of the 1.5 million Gazans.

A United Nations report estimates that the restricted land comprises 17 per cent of Gaza's total land mass and 35 per cent of the agricultural land. The study, issued by the Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs, says that Israel has never clearly informed those living in the area where they may and may not live and do agricultural work.

According to the report, Israel under international law must protect civilians and civilian structures. Israel argues that it is only returning fire at Hamas cadre operating from the area, who fire at Israeli military. Caught in the crossfire, many farmers are killed.

The Israeli Air Force often drops leaflets telling farmers they should not venture within 990 feet of the border. According to the report, the actual restricted area varies from 3,300 to 4,950 feet.

"The Israeli military has consistently failed to provide the affected population with accurate information about the main parameters of the access regime being enforced, particularly in the farming areas, and to a lesser degree in the restricted fishing areas," the report said.

"You don't know how far you can go. The no-go zones have restricted our movements," says Mohammed. It estimates that damage done by Israel to border farms and property over the past five years amounts to about $308 million.

Mohammed could see the border from his hut across double rows of citrus fruit trees. The street in front of his home had a bleached exhausted feel. His hut was shivering under heavy wind and stood under the brainscape of fast moving clouds. At night, the sun gives way to the silvery sweep of searchlights.

"We finish our work early by four 4 pm return to our hut. My earning has come down substantially," he said. Last month all he earned was 500 shekels. "It could take care only of my cigarettes," he said. "This is Malboro Ahmar (red),' he reminded. Then he drew on his cigarette, tripped forward to drop ash in the bowl and dipped back, breathing out plumes of smoke in patterns. His bones pushed at the ridges of his body as if the bones, even his muscles, chin and veins had been covered too thinly with his sun-beaten skin.

Gaza, a skinny town that lies like a worn-out running shoe lace along the Mediterranean, was hit by an economic blockade enforced by Egypt and Israel after the Hamas took over the Strip. His son has just lost his job. "He was working as a blacksmith and there is no more work for him," says Mohammed.

Mohammed worked as a driver for a short while and wanted to work as a driver again. "My left eye has gone almost blind. I am not sure whether I can drive properly," he said. Mohammed, a fan of vintage Bollywood movies, remembered two Indian officials visiting his village in the late 80s. "One of them looked like Amitabh Bachchan. At first I thought it was Amitabh," he said.

During the last Israeli attack on Gaza in 2008, the tanks started to move in from the border at 4 am. "When I saw them coming, I left everything and ran towards the town," said Mohammed with a neutral voice, as if it had happened to someone else.

"This is the only job I could do now. There is nowhere else we can go. Now I am back here," he added. Are you afraid of getting shot by Israelis while working at farm? "If I die here of the bullets, bless me saying inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajioon" (We belong to God and to Him we return).

Israel often intrudes into border farms to destroy citrus trees, as tall as men, saying they provide cover for militants. Many farmers have now turned to growing potatoes and onions which has led to a steep drop in their income. "Most citrus trees have been destroyed. I don't know who will go first - me or the farms. In any case, it is end of the story for me," said Mohammed before taking a break to scratch his hands and accessible parts of his legs.

As I prepared to leave, he asked me whether I lived near Amitabh Bachchan's home, as if to pass on some message. "I live in Delhi, he lives in Mumbai," I said.

A week after our meeting, on the night of January 11, he was shot during an Israeli fusillade. The ambulance couldn't reach his hut for long due to the heavy firing. It took him five hours to die.

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajioon. Hajji Mohammed has returned to God. But his blood is still on the streets of Gaza.

Story by: Shafi Rahman (India Today)
Photographs: Swapnil Sonawane