The New Yorker Radio Hour - A Harrowing Detention in Gaza

Episode Date: December 15, 2023

Growing up in Gaza, Mosab Abu Toha wasn’t used to seeing Israeli soldiers in person. “You are bombed from the sky. You are bombed by tanks. You do not see the people, the soldiers who are killing you and your family,” he tells David Remnick. Abu Toha is a poet educated in the United States, who has contributed to The New Yorker from Gaza since Israel launched its bombardment after the October 7th Hamas attack. As Abu Toha and his family tried to flee Gaza, he was stopped by Israeli forces, and accused of being a Hamas activist.  He describes being stripped naked and beaten in detention. “I kept saying, ‘Someone please talk to me,’ ” Abu Toha recalls. After an interrogation, he was released, but with a more pessimistic view of the possibility for peace. “In Gaza, even a child who is six or three or four years old, is no longer a child. They are not living their childhood. They are not children. They are not learning how to speak English, how to draw; they’re just learning how to survive,” he tells Remnick. “This future cannot be built on a land that is covered with blood and bones.”An earlier version of this article misstated the location where Abu Toha was stopped by Israeli forces. It was also updated to clarify what is known about the circumstances surrounding his detention. New Yorker Radio Hour listeners, we want to hear from you.  We have a few questions about the show and how you listen to it. The survey takes about twenty minutes, and your feedback will help us make our podcast better.  Take the survey here.

This is The New Yorker Radio Hour, a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker. Welcome to The New Yorker Radio Hour. I'm David Remnick. In the days following the October 7th, Hamas attack, and then Israel's bombing and ground defense of in Gaza, I've been in close contact with a young Palestinian poet named Mossab Abutoa. We've published a couple of essays and a poem by Mossab, and there's more to come. Recently on the radio hour, he described his family's plight, first leaving his neighborhood in Gaza City for a nearby refugee camp. I remember that two days before the escalation, we bought some Peter.

It is sitting in my fridge in Beit Lahia. I decide to return home, but not to tell my wife or mother, because they would tell me not to go. The only people in the street are walking. in the opposite direction, carrying clothes and blankets and food. It is frightening not to see any local children playing marbles or football. Since the war began, almost two million Gazans have been forced from their homes, nearly 85% of the population. The Gaza Strip is about the size of Las Vegas, but much more densely packed and most Gazans have no way of

escape. Mossab's youngest child was born while Mossab was studying in the United States, and the boy has an American passport. The U.S. State Department has been working to secure the exit of American citizens and their families in Gaza through the border with Egypt. We will continue to work at the highest levels to secure the release of every hostage held by Hamas and the safe passage of those American citizens in Gaza who want to leave. We had a number of diplomatic... So about a month ago, Mossab Abu Toa and his family, headed to the border crossing. I went outside and I was just looking for a taxi,

but I didn't find any. So I found a boy, maybe 15 or 16 years old, on a donkey car. And I called out to him and said, hey, can you take us to the checkpoint? So there are two streets. One is close to the sea on the western part of Gaza. And then there is the Salahaddin Street on the eastern part.

We were told that this is a safe passage. So we went on the donkey cart and we started moving. And then there was another guy with his mother on a wheelchair. They joined us. So we split the fair. There were just hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of people walking. And a few people were just riding in a car or a donkey car. I mean, it's very hard.

I mean, for you to just hold your child and just walk. And many of them were holding a white flag. There was an Israeli soldier with a megaphone talking to us in Arabic. And there were some Israeli soldiers pointing their guns at us while we are walking. So I'm 31 years old. And November 19th, it was the first time in my life, I see an Israeli soldier. I see an Israeli tank. I see an Israeli rifle

which is, I think, very strange. You have been under bombardment, you have been living under siege and occupation, and you haven't seen any soldier in your life, but you are bombed from the sky. You are bombed by tanks. You do not see the people, the soldiers who are killing you and your family

and who bomb your houses, who kill you at the beaches. And I was myself, I was wounded when I was 16 years old in 2009. and I didn't see the soldier who fired at me and the people around me. And the Israeli soldier with the megaphone started to call out for people not by their names.

He said, look, don't show me your ID, just look my way. So I kept holding my American passport. So for me, in my case, he said, the young man with a black backpack, he said, and who is holding a... a red-haired boy. Put the boy down and throw your bags

and come. I didn't believe my eyes. I was looking at myself and my wife who was in just a few feet in front of me and my children. And then I kept walking in their direction with my boy.

But then he said, no, just put the boy down and come. And then I dropped my son because there were just Israeli soldiers pointing their guns at us. So I dropped the, the boy and he started crying, he tried to follow me, but my wife ran his way to pick him up.

So I joined the line of about, I think, 80 people or so. I remained on my knees, and they continued calling out for people. And then all of a sudden, maybe half an hour after that, I heard my name, my full name. Musaub, Mustafa, Hassan, Abutoha. I just looked, I mean, I looked around, I mean, how did they know my name? I mean, I didn't show them my Palestinian ID. And then there was another Israeli jeep. And the three soldiers.

Two were pointing their guns at us, and one in the middle with the megaphone. And they started talking about your name, your ID number. And then they said, undress. I mean, it was rainy that day. It was windy. It was very cold. So I took off my clothes, except for my boxer shorts.

I stopped at that. And then he said, take off your boxer shorts. And then he shouted, now, do it. And then I took off my boxer shorts, and I became naked for the first time in my life outside my house. More humiliating when they ordered us to turn around. So they wanted to see every inch of our bodies. The soldiers said, oh, how many ideas do you have?

there was my credit card, my debit card, my Honorua employee card. UN Refugee Agency card, yes. Yes. So when the soldiers saw my Honorua card, he said in Arabic, he said, Onra, I said in Arabic, yes, I am a teacher. He said, shut the fuck up, you son of a bitch. And you're scared, you're terrified or you're calm? No, I was scared

I told him I just came back from America 10 days before what happened I have a master's degree from Syracuse he said oh Syracuse and then I told him about my time at Harvard about my teaching at Syracuse and also at honor of school

and he said telling his other colleagues oh he speaks English very well and he said Musa, you are a Hamas activist. I said what? I mean, I've been living in America during the past four years. And he said, no,

we have some Hamas members telling us that you are a Hamas member. I said, I think they are lying. I asked him, do you have any proof? Do you have any

photograph, any satellite photograph? showing me involved with Hamas or maybe showing me at the border or carrying a gun or whatever. Just show me in any sign. I'm not involved with any political party

at all. So when I told him can you show me any proof? And he then slapped me in the face. He said I give you a proof, you give me a proof. So that's when I started to feel more terrorized. I mean, how can I give you a proof that I'm not Hamas?

On the contrary, you should show me a proof that I am Hamas. I started hearing female soldiers' voices and I felt some comfort, oh, maybe these soldiers, these female soldiers would be maybe sympathetic to us, et cetera. That's what I thought, okay? And then all of a sudden, someone kicked me in my stomach. And I threw myself away. And I went out of breath for about three seconds. And I was in pain. As I raised my face, I got another kick from maybe the same soldier or another one in my face.

And I kept saying, someone please talk to me. Someone, please talk to me. But no one gave me any attention. So I lied on a bed. for about half an hour then a soldier came and he checked my I didn't tell you about me and every other

detainee given a number so I still I think I still remember the number it was 10, 10 67 150 and there was also another number

on my pant and I mean written by a marker in blue and then he took me inside the facility, the interrogation facility. And I was brought to a room, a very small room. There was a chair. They took off, they removed the blindfold. And then they sat me on the chair.

And then someone entered the room. And he said, Marhaba, hi. So he started to talk to me in Arabic. Hi, how are you? I said, I'm very sad. That's what I said. I'm extremely sad. Yeah, extremely.

I'm a zalani, in Arabic. I'm extremely sad. I'm speaking with Mossab Abu Toa, a contributor to the New Yorker. More in a moment. The soldiers interrogated Mossab Abu Toa for hours. Eventually, one of them admitted they'd made a mistake. The next morning, Mossab was dropped back at the checkpoint,

after more than 48 hours in detention. Now, it's not clear why the border forces detained him, whether somebody made a false accusation or if some surveillance system gave the Israelis bad information. Even Mossab doesn't know. Mosab made it with his family into Egypt and he was staying with friends in Cairo when I reached him last. Do you think that Sinwar, the head of Hamas,

made a terrible mistake? by planning and executing what took place on October 7th? I mean, what I hear from the beginning of this is that the Hamas' goal was to execute the Gaza command who were at the border with Gaza. So that was the only target for them. But then they just saw that it was an easy task And then they continued to go More and more into Israel and kill other

Soldiers and civilians So that's what I think was the entire In a sense you think they succeeded in a dark way Beyond their wildest expectations Yes, yes That's what I hear Well look that's what I hear from regular people And some people maybe

Who are maybe fans of Hamas Who hear things from other people people. I can't imagine and tell me if I'm wrong. I can't imagine that this war, this cycle of violence which is so much greater than anything we've seen in years and years is going to lead us to a good place anytime soon. What do you think is possible for these two people to live together side by side in animosity? What is the future here that you see? for all the people you love and know in Gaza and for the people in Israel right over the wall.

Well, I think Gazans are facing a lot of issues. I mean, if you ask a young Gazan my age or younger or older, they wouldn't be talking about the greater issues. They would just talk about, you know, about getting a job, getting married, building their own flat. Feeding their children. Faving their children, traveling abroad, etc. I mean, they wouldn't think about Palestine or the Nakhba right now,

the catastrophe of 1948. They are not right now thinking about returning to Yaffa or Haifa or Aqa. I mean, they are just thinking about the moment. But I think in Gaza, even a child who is six or three or four years old is no longer a child. They are not living their childhood. They are not children. They are not learning how to speak English, how to draw.

They are just learning how to survive. Many of my friends, many of my friends who are now 32 or 33, who have never left Gaza. Unfortunately, Israel continues to devastate us, to deprive us of basic things. I mean, we don't have an airport or a seaport. And in one of my dreams, I still have dreams of seeing the refugee camp. from above when I am on a plane. Even the ID cards that we have is issued by the Israelis.

So my name, my birth, my place of birth is written in Arabic and Hebrew. And many people do not know that. So we are linked to Israel in many ways. And Palestinians have been trying to build their own state. But Israel, as we know, has been refusing to grant

the Palestinian, a state of their own. They continue to build settlements in the West Bank and build their own roads for security reasons, they say. But I mean, no one cares about our own security as Palestinians. Of course, there is a lot of things to blame on the Palestinian side. We are divided. We don't have a leadership, you know, to communicate on our behalf. So there is a lot of corruption in Palestine, in Gaza, some people are extremists.

Just like in Israel, there are some other people who are extremists, etc. I think the Israelis need to see us as equivalent, as victims, as people who need to live on their own land. They need to build their future. But this future cannot be built on a land that is covered with blood. and bones. So I hope that Palestinians would live

in Palestine, in peace. That's maybe the start. Finally, Mosab, you're known as a poet. You're also known as a librarian. You put together the Edward Said Library in Gaza. What's been the fate

of that library and of those books? Unfortunately, I have not the slightest knowledge of the reality on the ground about the two branches of the Edward Saeed Library that I founded. The first one I opened in 2017, the second in 2019. I think they do not exist right now. And there is a third library that I would like to mention, which is my own home library. Our house was bombed by the Israeli warplains. And I really miss some of the books that were signed by my fellow poets and novelists in America. There is a big, big loss, but this cannot be compared to the loss of my friends and fellow poets.

And there's something that I need to say. which is I've been in Egypt for five days and I don't have any news about my parents my brother Hamza who has three children and whose wife is

pregnant and this month is hair month and I don't know about I don't know anything about my other three sisters two of them are with my parents and my brother in North Gaza each one has three

children. So I don't have if they are alive or not. Do you want me to close by reading a poem to my mother? I do. Nothing would please me more except knowing that they are safe and I hope you know soon. So I wrote this poem to my mother. To my mother, do you still lie on your mattress reading from the Holy Quran to calm you down? Do you still use your reading glasses or have the F-16? and the smoke of their bombs, blinded your small eyes. Do you still drink your morning coffee with Dad, or have you run out of cooking gas? Do you still know how to make my favorite cake?

Last month was my 31st birthday. You promised to make my birthday cake on the rubble of our bombed house. I tell you many times, it is no longer a house. You glare at me, and I leave our room at the Honorua School shelter in the Jabilia camp. I need you, Mother. You are my shelter when I am scared. When I feel I'm about to die. Are you still alive?

Mossab Abotourtoa, reading the poem to my mother. You can read more of his work at New Yorker. He wanted us to play this song by Marcel Khalifa called My Mother. It's one of his favorites. You can read all of our coverage about the war in Gaza and the October 7th attacks in Israel at New Yorker.com. That's the New Yorker Radio Hour for today. Thanks for listening. See you next time. The New Yorker Radio Hour is a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker.

Our theme music was composed and performed by Merrill Garbess of Tune Yards, with additional music by Louis Mitchell. This episode was produced by Max Walton, Adam Howard, Kalalia, David Krasnow, Jeffrey Masters, and Louis Mitchell, with guidance from Emily Boutin and assistance from Michael May, David Gable, and Alejandra Decker. The New Yorker Radio Hour is supported in part by the Cherina Endowment Fund.