If you ever drive southwards towards the Negev, remember to look just ahead of you, because there, flying very low, you may see a spectacular sight of buzzards; they might have even been eagles. Hooked beaks, so clear in view, and wings spread wide as they glide in unison; a surreal embodiment of the primordial.
And further down the road, an encounter with a low-flying flock of pelicans must be one of the most breathtaking sights I have seen in my life: white bodies with wings waving gracefully through the air. They seem to swoop you up and carry you with them heavenward.
Otef Aza (The Gaza Envelope) is a region that rouses the majesty of the land. It’s vast farmlands and magnificent views are a lush Garden of Eden. The not-so-far distance reveals buildings shaded in deep grey, above which hovers a thick haze of soot and pollution that rises to the sky and stretches across the horizon.
I find myself confronted with a barricade of barbed wire that has been laid across the ground. Once pulled open to create a gap wide enough to drive through, I am surrounded by rich brown mud that extends to the perimeters of the base, and then beyond, fields of emerald green. I wonder how my tyres are faring as I slowly make my way on the makeshift, muddy road. As I step out of the car, I discover that the mud is somewhat dry. Or, who has come to meet me, says, “There might be shooting, so don’t get a fright.”
“Me? Nah,” I say. “I don’t get too alarmed by shooting. But thank you.”
Now, what I omitted to say, was that I am the one who calls the shots 
