Free Meet Me in Gaza by Louisa B. Waugh Page A

lives with her plump teenage son, Fadil, who comes into the kitchen, says
marhaba
and promptly disappears straight back into his bedroom.
    Niveen has invited three other people for dinner. She introduces me to a woman called Sousi and two men, Muhammad and Wissam. We all stand around the large kitchen-cum-dining-room, watching as Niveen scoops fried fish from a pan and lashes it with fresh lemon juice. When she called to invite me over, Niveen warned me she was a lousy cook. But soon we sit down to the fresh crispy fish, accompanied by bowls of clear broth with barley, rice inlaid with baked root vegetables, sultanas and almonds, various salads, and
baba ghanoush
– smoked aubergines mashed with onions, tomatoes, garlic and tahini. With all these hearty dinners, I’m starting to look very well fed myself! Niveen’s son doesn’t join us at the table. He’s hanging out on the roof terrace, smoking narghile.
    I sit opposite Muhammad. He’s a class act, this guy – with his black winkle-pickers and his shiny, two-tone purple shirt. A real smoothie. His dark hair is shiny too, slicked back, gleaming with oil. He looks me up, then down, taking his time. Sousi, on the other hand, is pale-skinned, modestly dressed and seems quiet as a dove. It is Wissam – who works as a TV news director for a foreign broadcasting company – who completely dominates the dinner-table conversation.
    ‘We will be having more armed clashes soon – and I love clashes!’ He beams around the table. ‘I do not care if it is the Israelis, or Hamas and Fatah – if there’s a clash, I’m
always
the first on the scene! We’re lucky – we can see everything from my studio because it’s on the fifteenth floor of the media tower, downtown. Louisa,
habibti
– come on up with Niveen and see the view! I’ll send a driver over to collect you.’
    As we savour the feast in front of us, Wissam rolls out stories of weaving through Gaza’s refugee camps and border buffer zones, shooting clashes. I watch him, gesturing like a ringmaster whipping up the crowd, gleefully complaining about the lack of clashes at the southern border last week, when the Egyptians were re-sealing the blown-apart fence. We all know he’s performing, and he knows that we know. But we are enjoying these tall stories because he does it so well, mocking the mainstream media, war voyeurs and Gaza’s livid streak of self-destruction. All in the same take.
    After dinner Wissam swans back to his studio to work late, Sousi and Muhammad the Smoothie sit discussing something like the old friends they obviously are, and I finally get a chance to talk to Niveen. She tells me about her work as a gender researcher, specialising in the social and economic conditions facing women and girls in Gaza. She prefixes many of her sentences with the words: ‘Speaking as a Gazan woman …’ And she laughs a lot – a great dirty laugh, full of smoke and mischief, a cigarette constantly clasped between her fingers. She strikes me as an unusual woman here – economically independent, free-spirited and alone. She does not wear the
hijab
because she doesn’t feel the need, and insists on exercising her free choice. I’ve seen other women out in the streets without a
hijab
, but not many. Niveen must sense my curiosity about her seeming alone-ness, because at one point she looks straight at me and says, ‘I’m a widow,
habibti
. My husband, he died five years ago.’
    ‘Ah – I see. I’m really sorry.’
    ‘Gaza is the city of death!’ She enjoys a dark chuckle. ‘Most welcome to our seaside prison camp!’
    I start laughing, and so do Sousi and the Smoothie. It’s different for me, I can leave the Strip but they can’t, and this gallows humour is something like local medicine, to relieve the anxiety that constantly charges the air, like low-level static.
    Sousi stands up. She has to go now, though it’s still early. She reaches for the black
hijab
lying on the shoulder of the couch and