I joined the Global March to Gaza. Egypt’s crackdown was brutal — we were treated like criminals

The Global March to Gaza wasn't just a glimmer of hope; it was a call to act. For nearly two years, the world has watched in horror and silence as Gaza is systematically erased.

The sheer scale of suffering is unimaginable, yet Israel's occupying artillery grinds on, unchecked by the moral conscience of those in power.

As allies to the Palestinian cause, we donate, we protest, we flood social media with evidence, only to watch the leaders of the "civilised" West continue to arm Israel and justify its crimes. The international institutions meant to protect human rights issue hollow condemnations. The United Nations, created to prevent such horrors, remains paralysed. 

As individuals, we scream into the void, demanding action. The frustration is suffocating. Then the Global March to Gaza came: a call for ordinary people from around the world, funding our way, to march to the Rafah border in a mass act of solidarity. 

This wasn’t a symbolic gesture; it was a direct challenge to Israel’s brutal blockade, an attempt to break the siege with blunt presence. Hundreds from 57 countries answered. We planned to walk for three days, then stage a mass protest at the Rafah border for three more, demanding that aid be allowed in. No governments. No politics. Just people power. Flights were booked. Plans set in motion.

Still, we came. But as we landed, the crackdown began. Reports spread of activists detained at the airport, their passports confiscated. Those who made it through arrived to a Cairo that looked and felt like a military zone: armoured vehicles on every corner, soldiers lining the streets. This, we were told, was the 'new norm'. Meeting points were abruptly cancelled. Coordinators went silent. Many had been arrested.

For the first time, I felt like an undercover operative. We adapted like dissidents. In hushed tones, small groups identified one another in hotel lobbies, slipping through the city in twos and threes to avoid detection.

That night, random raids swept through hotels, police storming rooms, dragging activists away. By morning, I locked eyes with Mr. N, who had arranged an Uber to Ismailia, our new, far-flung gathering point. Outside, police cars idled at the hostel entrance, as they did at every hotel.

Mr. N hesitated. I grabbed his hand, "We need to go," I said. Thank you, Uber, for being in the exact right spot at the exact right time. We slipped into the car undetected and pulled away. But Egypt’s security apparatus had other plans.

The first toll booth became a checkpoint. Then the next. Police, some in uniform, others plainclothed, stopped every car, demanded passports, and promised “quick checks.”

They lied. We were naive to the trap. For seven hours under the scorching sun, we were held, over a thousand of us, from every corner of the world, stranded without identification. Nelson Mandela’s grandson stood among us, demanding our release. No answers came. Instead, riot police arrived, encircling us with weapons drawn. When an elderly woman panicked and tried to leave, soldiers shoved her back into the circle.

So we sat. A collective decision: we will not turn back. We will march to Gaza. If we must camp here, so be it. But we will not be silent.

When our passports were finally returned, it was chaos. Officers flung them into the dirt, shouting mangled versions of our names. “Sofia?” “Mohammed, no, Mahmoud?” We scrambled like beggars.

Then came the final indignity. Boxes of water bottles arrived. For a moment, we hoped, maybe the army would relent. But the bottles weren’t for drinking.

They were the ignition. Dozens of Bedouins, some barely teenagers, rushed at us, hurling bottles, swinging camel whips. “Traitors!” they screamed, as undercover officers watched and instructed. We were bloodied, then dragged by our hair onto buses. Some were dumped at the airport. Others left on highways with a warning: "Never return."

What Egypt’s regime failed to grasp is this: the 1,200 of us who reached those highway checkpoints came from six continents. At our own expense, fully aware of the risks, we came bound by a single, existential belief and an unshakable commitment to it: every life deserves to exist in dignity. And that, ladies and gentlemen, cannot be deported.

As I flew over the Sinai, Gaza glowing on my seatback map, I realised the march had failed. The movement? It’s only just begun.

Jida Kamhawi is a journalist and policy analyst with a background in humanitarian response, data reporting, and political economy. She holds a Master’s from ISS – The Hague.

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