V’yichazak lev paroh. “And Pharaoh’s heart grew hard.” In the story of Passover, as the people of the land of Mitzrayim suffer through 10 plagues, their leader grows more callous. Over and over he has the opportunity to soften his heart and avert the next calamity, but instead he allows his heart to grow hard and ensures further suffering. In this particular moment of history, I wonder: How have our own hearts grown hard toward the people in Gaza?
Yes, I know it is easy to clench up just at the mention of Gaza; that our minds might go to Hamas and terrorism and repeated wars. But, let me tell you about the time I spent there, of the people I met and the things I saw.
I work for a small Swiss think tank, researching humanitarian needs and measuring the effectiveness of aid and development response, and ran a project in Gaza for three and a half weeks in November and December 2016. I was there to assess the lingering damage to houses from the war of 2014, so that United Nations offices and non-governmental organizations could appropriately direct assistance to those still in need. In my time there, I had the opportunity to regularly interact with a large number of Gazans, including my team of 65 very polite and professional staff, dozens of earnest and hardworking NGO employees, some overworked U.N. employees, a number of families who generously welcomed me for tea and tours of their still-damaged homes, a few excited shopkeepers, and five very funny taxi drivers.
I was nervous: It took hours of questioning by Israeli authorities before they believed my work was not insidious and let me pass; then I had to lie to Hamas authorities about my Jewish heritage and beliefs in order to gain the necessary paperwork for a multi-week stay in Gaza.
Once I made it in, there were other things that tempted me to grow small and afraid: Israeli fighter jets leaving S-shaped steaks in the sky as they practice bombing runs; at night the sound of wedding fireworks at the fancy hotels on the beach being dwarfed by the boom of homemade missiles test-fired out over the Mediterranean; the silhouette of an Israeli surveillance balloon hanging in the sunrise every morning; the walls at the office reverberating automatic gunfire during Hamas war games.
But most of my time inspired softness and connection: talking over mint tea and shisha with young men who want to travel the world and grow their careers and raise families in a land that is safe and prosperous; laughing every morning as my crew of drivers joke and slap each other on the backs; seeing the loving sadness in the eyes of my falafel guy, the one with my favorite pickled turnips, when I tell him I do not have any children; a letter of gratitude from my staff, thanking me for coming to Gaza, for honoring their home with my visit.
Other moments inspired sorrowful compassion: turning on the sink or shower and feeling the salty, untreated seawater tingle against my hands and eyes and lips; walking to work past daily street vigils of older people, wool shawls wrapped tight against the cold ocean breeze, mourning and protesting the imprisonment or death of their children; standing in a rubble-strewn apartment, two years after an airstrike removed a wall and part of the roof, with a family that still lives there and is struggling to afford supplies to rebuild; looking at a photo of a woman’s granddaughter in the spot in the house where an airstrike killed the girl; watching a man from the power utility unlock and flip an enormous switch on an electrical pole, shutting down electricity to the neighborhood for the next 16 hours, a duty he performs every day because the power grid is stretched too thin.
And then still there were moments that gave me hope for Israeli response. I have friends and a large extended family in Israel, including a number of cousins currently serving in the IDF. I was nervous that my work would be judged and scolded by them. But in my visits with them after I left Gaza, I was met primarily with curiosity, as none of them had much of an idea of what was going on there. They just wanted to know what life was like for their neighbors and were a bit shocked to realize how little they knew.
So, now that we are confronted with grave violence on the border between Gaza and Israel, I wonder what are we choosing to focus on, and how that affects our hearts? Do we consider the fear Gazans feel for their children, brothers and wives? Do we acknowledge the frustration they hold as their industries and public services collapse? Do we share the hopes they have for a future when their businesses can prosper and their children can experience the outside world?
Frankly, I’m shocked it has taken so long for Gazans to organize large-scale protests. Their patience with the worsening conditions there has been mighty. Israel’s government holds incredible power over the conditions in Gaza and is using them as a political pawn under the guise of security. Meanwhile, the people of Gaza are suffering as they just try to live their lives. Of course there is blame to be held on all sides. But blame is just another form of callousness, of hearts grown hard. To avert disaster, in the lives of Gazans and in state of our own hearts, we must step out of our fear and excuses and take responsibility for improving the situation.
Max Gibson is a graduate of the HBHA and an Eagle Scout through Troop 61, with degrees from Naropa University and the University of Colorado — Denver. He currently lives and works in East Africa.
