the terrible city

In December 2008 the Israeli military launched Operation Cast Lead. It destroyed approximately four thousand buildings in the Gaza Strip, and around twenty thousand were damaged. I traveled to the region in early May 2009, five weeks after the end of the war. I had been in contact with the Israeli embassy in Berlin before departure, but I only received my entry permit later, in Jerusalem, after many telephone calls. It was my first time photographing in a war zone. I wanted to find out how war-torn buildings change the definition of a city and whether the inhabitants relate to their city differently as a result.

Two kinds of destruction are apparent in Gaza. In the inner city the houses of leading Hamas and Fatah figures were carefully targeted and fired upon. When one stands in front of them, one almost has a sense of awe at the surgical precision with which a single building was hit. And then there are areas that were penetrated by tank brigades. At first glance everything looks like a huge construction site. This is because the tanks simply bulldozed the topsoil, so that nothing would be able to grow there anytime soon. Many houses lack corners or entire walls, but the people continue to live there. They have no choice. From the street you can now look into their living rooms through holes in the walls, which some people have simply covered up with shelves. In one neighborhood the point is missing on every minaret because the Israeli tanks used them for target practice. And in the schools, the walls have been sprayed with sayings in Hebrew. At one point someone took me to the Berlin Pharmacy, where a huge photo of the Brandenburg Gate hangs on the wall. The pharmacist had studied in Potsdam; we spoke German. He took me to his mosque. It was situated on a square bordered by four-story houses, collapsed on the ground like a pack of cards. Now the children play on top of it. Prayers are held in a tent. I took photos there during Friday prayer. Suddenly there was a thunderous noise in the sky. Israeli jets flew low overhead, performing pirouettes. A threatening gesture: they wanted to show that they were still there. I was indeed afraid. Fear makes you careful. You constantly check the news. But life goes on. Taxis drive; the people pray and shop; school children have their lessons, although in shifts because the aid tent is too small to hold them all. Adaptation plays a certain role. Many said, “They tear it down, we build it up, they tear it down, we build it up.” On the street, people constantly stopped to talk to me. A traveler is a source of information. Everyone wants to hear your opinion. But you have to be careful. Once when I wanted to take a picture of a boy, he suddenly started to cry, as if at the push of a button. His family had told him that he should cry, so the world can see how the Palestinians are suffering. Of course, that was not my aim. You quickly start to sympathize with the people you meet. But I tried to avoid the pathetic “wide-eyed” photos common to war-torn areas. I wanted to be more matter-of-fact. A destroyed city has something fascinating. The architecture of ruins has its own horribly beautiful aesthetic. Naturally, you cannot say this to the Palestinians. When you talk with them about the war, everyone grows serious. But in daily life there is a lot of laughter. And the people are incredibly hospitable. Even when I knocked on strangers’ doors and asked to photograph their destroyed houses, they immediately asked me: “Coffee or tea?” Civilization had not been destroyed; that was a good lesson for me. What makes a city a city has nothing to do with how many buildings are actually standing but with the vitality of the society that keeps the urban structures alive. The ruins are only a transitional phase, an intermediary stage prior to rebuilding. A city is not necessarily broken, even if it has been destroyed.