It's seven years since I left my home and family in Gaza; I wonder if they know what I look like now. Do they miss me at mealtimes? Or are there no mealtimes now my mum has had a cancer operation that nearly killed her? Will
I be able to see her before it is too late?
The Rafah border between Egypt and Gaza has been sealed for the past three years, but I am desperate to see my family, whatever the cost. I plan to take a solidarity boat from Cyprus, organised by the Free Gaza Movement. It is part of the Hope Fleet sailing from Larnaca to Gaza
in an attempt to break Israel's siege.
When I arrive at Larnaca airport, everything looks the same as when I was first here, seven years ago, after being trapped in Cairo airport for five days. (I had left Gaza with five days to spare, to be sure not to miss my flight, and like all Palestinians was not allowed to leave the airport. I found myself leaving one prison and entering another.)
Next day, I set off to find some colostomy bags for my mother; because of the siege, she is not able to find enough. The Cypriot hospital gives me just one bag. With their little English, the nurses try to tell me that all hospitals across the world have such things. I want to say that Gaza is not part of the world - well, not the world we live in, anyway.
Next morning, we are briefed on the possible outcomes of the trip: the best is being stopped by Israeli gunboats; the others are being arrested or attacked by missile. We are asked to sign a paper saying that we understand the risks involved. It also asks what we would want to happen in case of death. "Please make sure I am buried in Gaza . . ." Signed: Ahmed Masoud.
The next day, we are still waiting for the boat to leave. Someone mentions that the Rafah border might open for a short period of three days. I spend about two hours deciding whether to wait for the boat to leave or to fly to Cairo. If I don't leave for the border today, I will lose precious time with my family.
The moment I reach Cairo airport, my passport is taken away and I am asked to wait in a separate room. I am then sent to a different small room, where I wait with lots of other people for six hours. A four-year-old girl travelling with her dad can't stop crying; she hasn't had any water for ten hours, and is not allowed to get any. A bus comes to take us away, with a policeman who holds our passports. After nine hours, we get to the border. The little girl is still crying.
On the Egyptian side, the border is filthy and full of people. It takes us all day to reach the Palestinian side, where we are finally given bottles of water. I spot the father of the little girl telling her not to drink too quickly. Finally, we are on the bus to Rafah in southern Gaza.
I look everywhere for my brothers, who have been waiting for me on the other side. I keep staring out of the window to see how much Gaza has changed. There are lots of destroyed buildings as a result of the Israeli attack in January, but I feel I still know everything.
I hurry off the bus, but am stopped by a tall guy with a beard, who asks me where I am going and grabs my bags. I start shouting at him that
I don't need a taxi, but he is no taxi driver. He is my own little brother - though not so little any more. When we get home, my dad is the first
to open the door. I walk through afraid, as if saying sorry for my long absence, like a naughty teenager who has stayed out late, but he rushes to me and hugs me. I feel his tears on my shirt, making it wet. My mum is at the top of the stairs. I am so happy to see her on her feet. I feared I would find her lying in bed, unable to speak, but she is wailing and the kids are jumping around dancing dabke. I realise how long I have been away.
After a week of enjoying the food, weather and company, the question of how to leave hits me. I am anxious about not being able to return to my pregnant wife in London, and to rehearsals of my play, which we are taking to Edinburgh. I was supposed to leave with the Free Gaza boat, but it never reached its destination. The Israeli navy intercepted it two days after I arrived in Gaza. So I am stuck here. Will I wait for the border to open, God knows when? Or find an escape route?
The author's play "Go to Gaza: Drink the Sea" is at the Assembly Hall, Edinburgh, 6-30 August (0131 623 3030; www.assemblyfestival.com)