Sinai After Saddam (1)

April 2003

I couldn’t stand it any more. I had to go back. And this was a perfect opportunity. Of course I was nervous. American soldiers had just entered Baghdad. Notwithstanding the gleeful crowds of Iraqis destroying portraits and statues of Saddam Hussein for all the world to see, there was inevitably a sense of humiliation amongst the greater Arab public, since the U.S. had achieved for them something they hadn’t been able to do for themselves in over a generation. The bad man was gone, but not of their own hands.

Tourism in Egypt’s Sinai peninsula, which had once been a gush, had slowed to barely a trickle over the nearly three years of the Intifada. Israelis love Sinai, and had always represented the crushing majority of tourists there. But unsure of the depth of Egyptian and Bedouin identification with their Palestinian brethren, it was best to err on the side of caution, and simply not risk it. Goa was a better bet, further and more expensive as it was.

The truth is, when I went to Goa, I was thinking of Sinai. Sitting on a perfect beach, doing nothing. Indeed, for me, this is the ideal vacation. However, Goa was out of the question for the five days available during the Passover holiday, and after much cajoling from a large group of friends, I relented, and off we went, after the Seder meal.

Actually, I had wanted to go for the Seder meal itself. Although it was unrealistic to expect Egyptians to prepare us good down-home gefillte fish, the taste I had in mind was the irony of returning to Egypt, to the Sinai dessert, where Moses had wandered with the Israelites for forty years, during the anniversary celebration Jews hold for that very event.

Off we went, a group of ten. The full moon lit our path through the desert, and by six in the morning, we were at the border. Apparently many other Israelis had shared our thoughts, that nearly three years was enough, and come what may, we would enjoy Sinai, once again, as before. 15,000 crossed over for the holidays. The line-ups were pretty heavy, and while it caught everyone by surprise, we were waved through.

I must say now that the Egyptian authorities and public bent over backwards to accommodate the influx. Obviously the dearth of tourists had been a heavy burden, and they were determined to make it up to these brave arrivals. We were shooed through immigration. There was a large presence of police, with roadblocks checking all cars. Only the good guys were going to make it through. I was heartened.

The hour’s drive down the coast from Taba at the border to Tarabin and Nuweba some 70 km away is nothing short of spectacular. Desert with textured mountains catching the shadow of the sun on the right; the blue and turquoise sea on the left: a contrast so beautiful, it’s not difficult to understand why the Israelites might have wanted to linger for forty years. Dotting the coastline were scores of small tourist installations. Many were under construction, but had been abandoned. Many more had simply closed for lack of business. And yet the small percentage of establishments that had survived, were totally unaware and unprepared for such sudden and massive inundation. To their credit, they handled it very well, making us feel most welcome. And I couldn’t help imagining if peace could be like this.

For lack of planning and the unwieldy size of the group, it was impossible to choose common lodgings, so we split into two, with Ariel, two others and I staying in a guest house with showers and air conditioning in Tarabin, and the rest in huts on the beach further down the coast.

Tarabin is not much more than a village, mostly of Bedouins. Its charm of course is overshadowed by the stunning natural beauty of this coastline, where the desert meets the sea. Across the straits, on a day of good visibility, you can see mountains on the other side. The enemy at a not such a distance: Saudi Arabia.

On the second day, I went to the shops and stalls to buy some cool and comfortable “local” clothing, and to strike up some conversations with locals. Systematically, I looked at the wares of each place from a distance, careful not the get engaged in a conversation with the owners. “Looking is free,” is the usual bait they use. You can only imagine how much junk I have accumulated from various places because looking is free. At a certain point I became bored of browsing and my eye caught a pair of thick cotton pants. “What is your name,” a bearded merchant asked in English.

“André,” I answered.

“You are from Israel? But André is not an Israeli name,” he returned. The whole explanation would be too complicated, so I sufficed with the abridged version.

“I am from Brazil, but now I live in Tel Aviv.”

“Why would you want to leave Brazil to come here?” Legitimate as the question was, my thoughts went more in the direction of his real motivation to ask. If Israel is a bone in the throat of the Arab world, then Diaspora Jewry is the whole chicken.

“Tel Aviv is my home,” I answered. “How much for the pants?”

I bargained the price down, in the usual manner. I couldn’t help but notice a newspaper on the ground, bearing a photo of angry Palestinians facing down an IDF tank. I do understand their plight, and even identify with it up to a certain point. I tried to say something conciliatory, while pointing to the picture. “The whole world is angry at us.”

His body language changed and became more aggressive. “You are here as my guest, and as such I give you much respect. But I must ask why Sharon only wants to make war?”

I explained, in as simple English as possible, that while the Israeli government certainly is not innocent, blame for the conflict’s continuation rested squarely on the Palestinian leadership. While many Palestinian citizens and even people in the leadership do want to make compromises for peace, Arafat continues to block their every move. Every tentative withdrawal by the IDF at Sharon’s behest was met with more attacks, until more resolute military action had to be summoned. The Israeli side is guilty of exploiting the conflict to create further facts on the ground that will complicate eventual negotiations. However, such negotiations are a foregone conclusion. There is no doubt in anyone’s mind that there must be a political resolution.

He wasn’t listening. The problem could only be solved by a unilateral Israeli withdrawal. The other side would definitely reciprocate. “Even Hamas, Islamic Jihad and the Hizballah?” I rhetorically asked. Even them.

Wrong as I am certain he was, throughout his tirade, he did however demonstrate an acceptance of Israel as a permanent presence. I wasn’t actually expecting this. OK, so you hate me. But you treat me as a guest in your house and you respect my integrity in my house. And you’re only too happy to take my money. If peace could be like this, then it is certainly worth a try. I was able to conclude the conversation amicably. I paid and left.