A decade after the Madrid ‘Peace’ Conference in 1991, the promise of freedom for the Palestinians which began at Madrid had faded and died. Gaza, with its many cities and refugee camps, became the target of increasing attacks and isolation by the still-present, still-occupying Israeli Army.
It was in this atmosphere of broken promises and suffocating occupation and violence that two friends, Mohammad Aljakhbir and Abdullah Enshasi, grew up. Born in 1988 and 1989 respectively, they were raised in the Khan Yunis refugee camp a few streets apart. Their families lived there after having been driven out of Majdal and Hamama in 1948, long-settled communities north of Gaza that were erased by what is now the Israeli city of Ashkelon. The only world they knew was one of prejudice, obstacles, forbidden areas, military checkpoints and restricted freedoms.
‘We grew up watching out for the Israeli soldiers who were patrolling our streets when we got out of school every day,’ Mohammad remembers. ‘Sometimes we would throw stones at them and run.’
In 2005 Israeli forces retreated from Gaza, only to impose an ever-tightening blockade, launching surveillance technology and drones to monitor Gazans like mice in a cage. It was around then that I moved to Gaza, making my life there while writing and producing films. That year was also when Abdullah noticed a documentary online called Jump Britain, about freerunning, a type of improvised, acrobatic athleticism that uses running, jumping, flipping, tumbling and rolling to navigate objects and buildings. Freerunning focuses on elegance in movement, while its close cousin, parkour, is more about efficiency in getting from A to B. The film followed freerunners in the UK as they dodged and weaved across natural and built environments. Abdullah showed it to his friend. Mohammad already played basketball and practised gymnastics. Both were physically agile. Freerunning seemed a perfect way to deal with the obstacles that the Israeli occupation presented.
‘We approach each obstacle in a different way. We improvise as we move. We look at our object, figure out in our head how to overcome it and develop a strategy on the spot,’ Mohammad told me. ‘Momentum and focus are key.’
Freerunning became Mohammad and Abdullah’s art of choice to overcome the psychological and physical confines of their lives, jumping from rooftop to balcony to the sandy ground, running up apparently insurmountable vertical walls, tumbling and flipping through the air against Gaza’s blue skies. In 2008 the two friends launched the Gaza PK parkour group.
‘One day we were filming parkour on the beach,’ remembers Mohammad. ‘We posted a photo, and someone from JUMP magazine saw it and asked us for a high-resolution version with the name of the parkour artist – which was me – and the photographer – which was Abdullah. I took advantage of the opportunity and asked that we also be included in the magazine’s list of parkour teams worldwide, with our flag beside our name. I explained that we just wanted to be like any team, recognised and credited. He responded quickly, and added the name of our team, Gaza Parkour, with the flag of Palestine next to it. We were so happy! We felt we accomplished something.’
By 2011, they were producing annual videos of their acrobatic talents across the rooftops and alleys of Akkad and Block G, their respective neighbourhoods in the refugee camp. They had a huge following: parkour was a growing sport and art form among the youth of southern Gaza.
That year, my photojournalist colleague George Azar and I made Free Running Gaza, a documentary that aired globally on Al Jazeera English. For an accompanying article, Gazan psychologist Dr Eyad al-Sarraj told me how ‘sports and the arts are important ways for young people [here] to express themselves and an outlet for their frustrations. Many young people in Gaza are angry because they have very few opportunities and are locked in. A form such as freerunning gives them an important method to express their desire for freedom and allows them to overcome the barriers that society and politics have imposed on them. It literally sets them free.’
In Mohammad’s words: ‘Because we don’t have freedom of movement and so can’t look for work, we are prisoners in our camps, essentially. Wherever we wanted to go – to the sea, to Gaza City – there would be military checkpoints and barriers that stopped us. Getting to know this artistic performance sport gave us a tool to circumvent these obstacles, and even to end the control that the occupiers had over our mental and physical freedom. Sometimes Abdullah and I would get to Rafah, and we would look over into Egypt and think, What’s past this border? How do the people live? What would happen to us if we could cross? One of our dreams was to cross the border, to overcome that obstacle.’
Abdullah, in his quiet way, added: ‘I think it’s important for people to know that in the middle of the blockade and so many wars, a parkour team and community developed and thrived here. I dedicated my life to this form of self-expression.’
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In 2012, an Italian sporting organisation invited Mohammad and Abdullah to participate in an event in Milan. The following year both friends left Gaza for Europe, seeking freedom and opportunity.
Meanwhile, the seeds they had planted continued to grow. In 2021, videos emerged of young Palestinians running and leaping over the ruins of Gaza’s eleven-storey al-Jalaa Tower, the local headquarters for the Associated Press and Al Jazeera media organisations that had been reduced to rubble hours earlier in an Israeli airstrike. Parkour had grown into a spontaneous expression of resistance.
Interviewed by Günseli Yalcinkaya in 2022, Ahmad Matar, another Gaza PK athlete, explained: ‘When people see a destroyed building in Gaza, it’s easy to scroll down and forget about it. But when you see a person flip off that building, [you] understand these people just want their freedom. When I’m in the air, I forget everything. I just enjoy the moment and escape the problems surrounding me.’
At that time, Gaza PK had only four members, who practised together and also taught parkour skills to younger generations. The group’s leader was Abdullah al-Qassab. ‘I stay for my family and friends, but the actual quality of life is shit,’ he said. ‘There’s no other word for it. [Freerunning] is the best way I can cope with the situation around us, it lets us forget about it momentarily. But you land on your feet and you’re still in Gaza.’
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Today, Mohammad lives in Sweden, where he still regularly participates in freerunning workshops and sports events, passing on his skill to his two daughters, Dania and Ranja. He keeps in close touch with his family in Gaza, and with his old friend Abdullah, who is now in Italy. Having suffered a spinal injury during a parkour performance in 2018, Abdullah uses a wheelchair. He works with a local athletics organisation, part of Italy’s Paralympic Federation, and raises funds to support his family back in Gaza.
‘Abdullah is doing well despite his injuries,’ says Mohammad. ‘In Italy people are warm, like us. That is helping him. In Sweden I feel isolated. People are more individualistic and a bit cold. I can’t think about anything except Gaza, to be honest. I want to go home.’
This article is an extract from the book DAYBREAK IN GAZA: Stories of Palestinian Lives & Culture published in 2024 by © Saqi Books. Edited by Mahmoud Muna and Matthew Teller, with Juliette Touma and Jayyab Abusafia.
