With wicked irony, it was the convoy members who ended up playing the role of war victim as they finally entered the Gaza Strip. Still reeling from the Egyptian police attack that left 60 injured the night before, the thousands who braved the night cold to greet us provided the perfect tonic for the cracked heads and stitched faces. What seemed like a sea of a thousand motorcycles, with two, sometimes three people on each, raced alongside us, colliding in their eagerness to keep up as we drove from Rafah to Gaza City. This was a welcome that not even King’s receive. We were allowed only 30 hours in the Strip, an Egyptian imposed time-limit that meant that we could only really catch a glimpse of Gaza.
One of my first glimpses is a youth on a motorcycle who throws me his red kiffiyeh. “Remember me!” he shouts, before disappearing in a sea of flags.
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