I spent the summer of 2000 in Gaza City, far from my air conditioned privileges back home in Chicago. I was only nine-years-old at the time and although I didn’t know what humidity was all about, I wasn’t immune to the heat, the sweat, or the mosquitos. I sat on my hands whenever I could to keep from scratching puffy mosquito bites and I knew better than to walk barefoot on the blisteringly hot sands of the beach.

My immediate concerns were weather-related but the more time I spent in Gaza the more I became attuned to the militarized reality of my immediate surroundings. I think my parents, specifically my mother, made a good decision in letting me think for myself on this one. Growing up, she had instilled in me a very cultural pride in Palestine. She’d talk politics to me, sure, but not in a way that confined me to a specific set of political beliefs. I was fortunate enough to develop my opinions on my own, and part of the reason I was spending my summer vacation in the occupied Gaza Strip was to give me direct access to the tools and the proof I’d need to make a conclusion.

At the time, I was allowed to travel to Gaza via Tel Aviv’s Ben Gurion Airpot even though it meant dealing with long and unfriendly stares, something I clearly remember complaining about to mama. I was processed through the Erez Crossing and made to maneuver between foreign soldiers monitoring my every move. Tanks blocked passage through roads which, I assume, led to Israeli settlements. The cab driver who drove my family to our destination was made to flash an identification card at checkpoint stops. There were watchtowers and guards sitting on chairs and green jeeps driving to and fro. [Read more...]