A road less travelled

A former tunnel smuggler, Mahmoud is intimately familiar with the landscape. It was he who received me when, after quite a bit of maneuvering through Rafah-under-curfew, I finally made it to the tunnel entrance to cross from Egypt into Gaza. I was brought into a covered space with a depression in the ground lined with stones. They were lifted one-by-one allowing the earth to open. There was Mahmoud, wide-eyed and sweaty, who yelled at me: "I have been waiting an hour for you!"

We were the only women visible, and fear began to creep in...

That was the third of four tunnels I would experience, each progressively less developed than the last, in tandem with conditions above ground.

My first tunnel experience came after the Egyptian authorities had turned away my mother and myself at the border crossing into Gaza in late July 2013.

Mohammad Morsi, who had eased the blockade during his brief tenure as president of Egypt, had been overthrown two weeks before our attempted visit, and despite our relatives in Jordan (whom we were visiting at the time) pleading with us not to go in such tumultuous conditions, we decided to take the chance. We flew from Amman to Cairo, and hired a taxi to Rafah. We were completely unprepared for the harrowing conditions of the journey.

My mother was looking forward to seeing al-Arish, which she grew up hearing of as a beautiful coastal town, and we had both been to the eastern part of the Sinai, with its Red Sea resorts and bustling tourist scene. But once we reached the closed Suez Canal bridge, we became aware of the heavy military presence in response to local insurgencies.

We were the only women visible, and fear began to creep in as we waited several hours to cross the canal by ferry. When we finally reached the border, we were turned away and had no choice but to sleep in al-Arish, which was essentially a ghost town, nothing like the place my mother imagined.

Our trip fell just two weeks after Morsi was overthrown [illustration: Anas Awad]

Our one outing was to the only ATM in the city, which was across from the KFC and had a long line of men all trying to instruct the person withdrawing money about how to work the machine. An argument ensued on whether or not to let my mother and me to the front of the line.

Chivalry won, and so we grabbed some money and rented a small "chalet" on the beach. When I attempted to go out for a walk, however, two plain-clothed heavily armed men appeared outside the building next door. Startled, I asked if they were police and they confirmed they were. Given the number of military checkpoints we had passed, Egyptian authorities were well aware of the movements of US citizens and the potential liabilities we carry.

I tried to convince myself we were perfectly safe, and to enjoy al-Arish's dazzling beach, but I was too spooked to linger. I locked my mother and myself in the chalet, and we ate the little we had for dinner – ma’moul (Eid date cookies) from my aunt in Jordan and mangos we bought along the way.

Our relatives in Amman told us to call my great-uncle in Gaza. I had only met him once before and was quite embarrassed about our situation, but it was the only option we had besides giving up.

"Hi khalo, this is xxxx, daughter of xxx, daughter of your sister xxx…"

He responded with a shower of blessed greetings, so I came out with it.

"We are in al-Arish, and we were turned away at the border…"

He suddenly switched to a more professional tone: "Is this your cell phone? I will call you back."

The authorities were well aware of the movements of Americans in the Sinai [Illustration: Anas Awad]

Click.

Ring.

"I need to confirm: your middle and last names are…? Your mother's middle name is…? And you are staying where? Ok I will call you back."

Click.

Ring.

"Prepare your bags, a car will be there in an hour."

Click.

My mother and I looked at each other in disbelief, but sure enough, a car appeared as promised. We were driven back to the border, through some neighborhood in Rafah, and arrived behind a cluster of buildings where there was a hushed commotion as a few families were being quickly packed into cars to take them back to Cairo.

My mother and I were unpacked from our car, and we met a Palestinian man, maybe in his thirties, who was hesitating at the entrance to an opening in the ground. He introduced himself as a doctor living in the US who was also turned away at the border as he tried to visit his family. When he saw that my mother and I were going for the tunnel straight away, he stopped hesitating and followed us. (I must confess here that my mother was the more fearless and excited one of us). Two other men carried our bags while my mother was bubbling over with wonder, inspecting every inch of the tunnel. "Aren't you scared?" I asked her.

"Scared of what? Look how they built this thing!"

As we descended past the rugged opening, which sloped gently into the ground, she marveled at the sophistication of the tunnel construction: wooden re-enforcements encased the walls, string lights illuminated the way, and there was enough space to stand upright – we walked for about five minutes before the tunnel expanded considerably to the size of a living room.

'Scared of what? Look how they built this thing!' [Illustration: Anas Awad]

A "tuk-tuk," a motorcycle drawn cart appeared, and we climbed on the back with two young men who grabbed our bags for us. They greeted us: "Hi! I'm your cousin xxx, and this is your cousin xxx!"

We were stunned – the tunnels had been the stuff of urban legends for a long time, shrouded in mystique – and here we learned that our own family was working in them. As the tuk-tuk drove us to the surface, our uncle was standing there waiting with two of his sons. The sense of relief was indescribable – we had gone from a tense and desolate Sinai to the lively embrace of Gaza, almost as if landing on a pillow.

This side of the border was buzzing with activity in full view of the Egyptian watchtower on the other side. Dozens – hundreds maybe – of men were labouring away, some pulling goods (and sometimes people) out of the ground and loading them on trucks, others sending construction materials in to those working underground, and the local authorities monitoring movement in and out of the area waived us through as my uncle and cousins drove us out of the area. They were fasting, and despite our protests, my cousins stopped along the way to buy us cookies and juice. "You are traveling, and this is a difficult journey. You should not be fasting!"

We arrived at the camp just as the sun was setting, and we were welcomed by a swarm of relatives who came to see us from all over the Gaza Strip, most for the first time. We stayed up feasting and sharing stories well after the sun resurfaced.

Next time:

When the time came to sadly leave Gaza, it was the second day of Eid and all the tunnel workers were on holiday. Things had become dicey on the Egyptian side; the tunnel we came in through had been destroyed, so my uncle had to pull out all the stops.

Editor’s note: The author is writing under a pseudonym. All names in this article have been changed to protect individuals.