Cyrill Delvin - The Gaza Project

Wasn’t it rather the school that was to blame? Hadn’t his father claimed that the Islamic extremists‘ schools were no good. Instead of learning something useful and being instructed to work, the adolescents were being prepared for death – but for what? »What’s the use if my children are going to paradise when I just waste away here getting old and infirm?« his father had always maintained. Father would never have sent him to this Madrasa.

All he had learned so far was that hatred didn’t breed justice, but death, ruin and destruction. He could read and write now. But that was all. Perhaps he would also die in his attempt to get the shell. At least, everything would be over then. Or not, because his family would remain unavenged and he wouldn’t walk through the gates of paradise. He kept weighing up his options, but couldn’t decide.

He crawled between two walls under a dilapidated cement ceiling and waited. The teachers and pupils were definitely not looking for him. He had no idea where he was. The only route he had become familiar with during his two years in this town led to the Ibn-Marwān mosque. So he crouched on the ground and began to shiver.

His huddled position and the creeping cold reminded him of the times Amir had taken him out on his fishing boat. They would set off in the middle of the night to cast their nets at dawn far away from the coast. During the long journey, Abdoul had snuggled into his cover on top of the rolled-up nets at the bow of the boat and watched the sea ahead. Despite mother’s blanket he would eventually feel cold. Shivering here under the cement ceiling felt different though without the taste of salt water in his mouth.

His stomach hurt even worse than earlier. He now realised what he had missed the most in the last two years: The view from the boat to the silver lining on the horizon announcing the new day. Sometimes dolphins would swim beside the boat, frolicking mischievously. Half lulled by the monotonous chugging of the two-stroke engine, he’d always thought he could spot something else between the fish. A mermaid graciously waving at him. But every time he was subsequently wide awake and took a closer look, she had already vanished. How long ago it now seemed since he’d been on the ocean.

If he wanted to get his shell, he had to do it this very night. He didn’t know what time it was. Gaza city was asleep by now. He got up with a moan and arduously made his way back to the school. His abdomen ached with every step. The boy cautiously pushed the entrance gate slightly open. He waited for a while to make sure that nobody had heard the squeaking of the hinges. Just as he wanted to slip through the gap, he was overpowered by his imagination. What if Qadim is still lying in the yard like all the others back then on the beach? In his imagination he saw terrible images. Scenes he thought he’d erased from his memory long ago made him feel nauseous.

He heard steps coming from the lane and had no choice but to quickly slide into the yard. In the deep black shadows he huddled against the wall. Two men entered the yard and closed the gate behind them. Fortunately they didn’t carry torches and they swiftly disappeared inside the building.

Abdoul crept along the wall to where his brother should be lying on the ground. But there was no sign of him. Unsure if he should be relieved, he moved on into the entrance hall. The kitchen was on his left. It was empty. Only the sickly sweet scent of the water pipes still lingered in the air. He stopped and listened. Deadly silence. With immense effort, he managed to push back the bolt of the heavy larder door.

It was pitch black inside and smelled of spices, rotting meat and vegetables. The brick concealing the shell was in the back wall roughly at knee level. He had to inch his way forward, brick by brick, until he found the right one. It took him a small eternity. Carefully he pulled out the loose brick and reached into the hole. The shell was still there, wrapped in a piece of old newspaper. His relief was accompanied by exhaustion.

It took a long time to get back to the alleyway, but he made it without any unwelcome incidents. The night was nearly over. Between the houses he could already surmise the first light of the new day. Abdoul turned his back to it and ran in the direction of the suburbs. With a bit of luck he might be able to get to the shore before the first morning prayers and then…

The pain in his stomach was nearly unbearable by now. It will pass if I just lie down for a while. The early morning risers looked at the boy in his blood-stained shirt with disconcertment. He didn’t notice them. Just have to lie down.

A few blocks further on he found shelter under a pile of rubble and rubbish, the waste from a bordering refugee camp; one of the many which had sprung up around Gaza lately. Sand-dune-like the rubbish meandered ever closer to the centre of the city. Groaning, Abdoul persevered, but the pain in his stomach didn’t subside. He started to faint; sensed salt on his lips, fresh air streaming through his hair.

Granddad?

The Muezzin’s call to the Fajr, the first morning prayer, merged with the surging noises of the metropolis. Dawn.

Lost in thought, Françoise sat in the helicopter and gazed to the East. The sun announced itself with a pale strip on the skyline. The ocean was calm and smooth. On the seat beside her, Cheng had fallen asleep. They were on their way from the IWAC research station in Cyprus to the command vessel Malta III anchored five nautical miles off the Gaza coast. They were scheduled to meet Ted to discuss the status of development work and the preparations for the training initiative on the Gaza strip.

Suddenly there was a loud bang. For a moment the helicopter hovered in the air before taking a violent plunge downwards. Cheng, who had hit his head against the backrest, looked at Françoise in confusion. All colour had drained from her face. In broken English, the pilot reported through the crackling earphones: »Sorry, main engine misfired. No need panic, everything under control. We land on Malta III in half hour.«

Just then the sun kissed the horizon and began radiating its warm light while the colour returned to the attractive French woman’s features.

»That gave me quite a scare.«

Cheng nodded and looked out of the window. »That’s what you can expect when you fly in a decommissioned Russian military aircraft.«

»Talking about the Russians, did you get the samples from Nowaja Semljaschon?«

»I did. The plaques are in place and the recombination is under preparation.«

»I wonder how the Arctic algae will do in the warm Mediterranean waters. It would be great if the new hybrids developed the desired catalytic effect.«

»Sounds great in theory, but practically? I don’t trust the biotope in the Polis vicinity. Despite all the water analysis results, something doesn’t quite fit.«

»But Cyprus still has the cleanest water in the Mediterranean.«

»Perhaps it’s still not clean enough?«

»Or too clean? Considering the conditions on the Gaza Strip…«

»Of course the lab setup is too sterile, but if we have to adjust each facility to the local water conditions, we’ll never reach the necessary quantum leap for desalination.«

»True. Far too complex.«

»I keep wondering if we erred in our judgement,« Cheng continued.

»It’s my belief that to improve desalination through mechanical solar and biological catalysts is still the right choice.«

»I’m not so sure. Wouldn’t it be advisable to consider an additional biochemical process?«

»We’ve discussed that often enough. Every project analysis showed that an approach like that will never lead to a low-tech facility. It always remains biotechnology on a high-tech level.«