Part II: Gijon, Asturia, Spain and Israel
An account of our voyage from the English Chanel to Gaza.
Approaching Gijon, in northern Spain, as the sun was beginning to set and a strong headwind was beginning to back, we were suspended in that last hour of the voyage when we feel as if it’s over, but it hasn’t ended. This is like listening all night to a tedious orchestra performance with a coda that won’t quit. And then the audience demands an encore. “Just let us clap and go home”, you grumble to yourself. That’s when we wonder whether what we’re doing will be any use to anybody.
There are a few compelling arguments for not sailing a boat into a naval blockade. The probability of being grabbed by the Israeli Occupation Forces is close to one. The kind of treatment we’ll receive, though far better than the treatment imposed on Palestinians, is rough.
The world — at least the world as represented by the corporate news producers — seems to be staggering backwards into a 19th century of imperial racism and vast, easy repression to capture the stuff we need to be us — not them.
The twin blimps of corporate media and government seem both to have come loose from their ground tethers and are floating up, up and away as the ill wind kicks them along, leaving the rest of us wondering who they are, what their course really is.
Dark thoughts at the end of a long watch at the end of a long sail.
Gijon seems picturesque. The tide is low and the high stonework quais curve into a harbor full of small yachts. A knot of supporters has appeared at the end of our dock. They’re few and mostly elderly. Quiet. After greetings they direct us to restaurant that seems to be the meeting place of socialists and cider lovers. Gijon cider is apparently an acrobatic art; it’s poured from arm’s height to arm’s depth and you’re supposed to drink it at once. Many times.
We’re now in the company of more eager supporters, but only a half dozen. They all seem familiar. Over cider and octopus, they sketch out the activities for the next couple of days. Meetings with supportive politicians. EU parliament members, local mayors, representatives to the regional parliament. This is more political clout than we’re used to at home, but it’s still fragmentary. We wander back through the dark empty streets to the boat and sleep, stand our security watch, and sleep.
Today is the day of the demo and we walk toward the harbor square. And something changes in the air. The sun is out. We can’t seen the fountain for the crowds gathered around it.
A Palestinian flag, as big ad a squash court, is laid out on the tiles. The bands are warming up. There is a feminist drum corps, a brass marching band, and some tambourine players in folk dress. Everyone from infants in stollers to the elderly on canes is here and there are so many. Strangers approach us and without introduction tell us heart-felt stories of their relatives or neighbors who were from Palestine and died, or married Palestinians who were shot, or escaped through Jordan and moved in next door because their home was torn down by the occupiers. The police are blinking their lights and revving their bikes. There’s a long moment of confusion. What can se do with these stories? We say the few kindly words we know in Spanish or French or Arabic. Or just a hug.
The feminist drum corps begins a rain-storm snare that ends in a thunderclap, and steps into an elaborate quick dance. We fall in behind and head for the harbor with more than a thousand new friends. And many dogs.
Filling the harbor roads and spreading people all through the park isn’t enough for Gijon. We rally again at the harbor and march back to the square and into the city streets, filling the roads and the walkways for several blocks, carrying the massive Palestinian flag past clothing shops and pharmacies, enotecas and bookstores and banks. We wind toward main city plaza and cover it with the flag. Speeches and music follow. Then a long glass of good wine.
The following day we meet with members of the EU Parliament. For North Americans, and some Europeans who come from the News and Political Neverland of the “fragile and righteous Israel versus the rocket throwing hordes”, this is a shock. There’s not a single word tedious cant about Israel’s obvious right to protect itself. No vague lip service to the sad plight Palestinian refugees who are refugees through some fault of their own that must be too delicate to describe. No nonsense about the strength and determination of terrorist Hamas. Just a shovel-full of horseshit about a Two-State Solution that we politely ignore. They’re allies, but politicians after all. We leave the meetings smiling for the press. Yes, the press are in attendance!
The following day, before noon, we learn that the parliament of Asturia has passed new legislation. Inspired by the arrival of the Flotilla boats in their region, and visits to their parliament by the crew, and the murder and maiming of Palestinians by Israeli snipers at the Gaza fence since May 30th, the legislators on both sides of the political spectrum have voted to support Boycott Divestment and Sanctions of Israel, in accordance with UN Security Council resolution 2334, and will demand that the federal government of Spain impose financial pressure on Israel.
This is unheard of. Spain has had a military and financial relationship to Israel for years and despite strong left-wing politics, has never budged on the issue of human rights for Palestinians. And now the sun is peeping over the horizon.
We ready the boat for departure on the tide. The stone quai is lined with flags and the waving citizens of Gijon. We make a show of hoisting the sails before clearing the harbor. The Freedom finds its tack toward the Bay of Biscay and sails away. Palestine feels closer now.
I’ll be writing as often as our sailing schedule allows. The next port is Lisbon. We’ll reach the eastern Mediterranean in late July.
Part I: No Dolphins for Gaza
