“Parkour makes me feel like I have freedom despite the fact that I’m living under occupation. When I’m practicing, I feel like I’m flying, and there’s nothing that can stop me—like there are no borders in front of my face.”
Those are the words of Mohamed Zaqout, a 23-year-old from the Gaza Strip, as he tries to explain why he risked his life and almost lost it—and why he will do it again.
I first “met” Mohamed in the intensive care unit of Naser Hospital, Khan Younis—a conservative town in the southern region of the Strip when I visited for a mental health conference in April. (Little did I know it would be my last trip to Gaza; in August, I was deported by Israel and banned for 10 years.) I had been chatting online with the leader of his parkour team for several weeks before arriving in Gaza, and was looking forward to attending one of their shows on my last Friday there.
What exactly is parkour, you ask? It is basically a non-combative martial art in which participants are challenged with getting from one point to another in an urban environment in the fastest and most efficient way possible—without assistive equipment. That may be by running, climbing, swinging, vaulting, jumping, rolling, etc.—whatever works. But really, it is so much more than that. Many of the youth who “feed” the team are from the two refugee camps in Khan Younis—up to 20 people crowded into one home, relying on UN handouts to survive. As Abdallah Inshasi, one of the team’s two founders (now in Italy), told Al-Jazeera: “It’s more than a sport; it’s a life philosophy: It’s the art of overcoming obstacles in any way you can, accomplishing something few others can do. It empowers us to be strong in the face of all of the barriers in our lives.”
Gaza Parkour and Free Running formed in 2005, shortly after the Israeli government pulled out its 8,000 settlers—also leaving behind large tracts of now isolated land, coincidentally perfect for practice. Several youths who had been venting their frustrations and energies in basketball, football and some acrobatics discovered the sport of parkour on YouTube. They trained themselves from there, and recruited others. Today, there are about a dozen team members inside Gaza (a few others have managed to immigrate to Europe, where they keep in close touch).
Ahmad Mattar, who was leading the team at the time of my last trip into Gaza (after three refusals, he finally made it out several months ago to join a Swedish parkour group for a competition and training) is very open about the fact that injuries are common—and expected. Professional trainers can’t get into Gaza, and they don’t have a gym and mats like teams in other countries do. So they practice outside, on the soft sand of beaches but also in the streets and cemeteries.
“It’s dangerous because we are in Gaza and we don’t have equipment,” Ahmad said. “But it’s in our blood—this need for a feeling of freedom and adventure. We hope someday someone will sponsor us so we can have a safe place to practice and to teach others. But we will continue no matter what.”
I was eager to see such passion in action. However, the show I was so anticipating was abruptly cancelled when tragedy struck.
Two days prior to the show, the Palestinian Maan TV network sent a crew to Khan Younis to shoot footage for a special on the Gaza Parkour team. They asked Mohamed and another team member, Nidal Abu Khair, to demonstrate their skills by scaling a tower. That was no big deal to them; they’d done it before. But there was a difference this time: Several times, the TV crew asked the young men to stop and hold in the midst of their climb while they repositioned the camera, and each time, Mohamed and Nidal became more fatigued. When Mohamed was at the fifth floor (about 15 meters, or 49 feet, up), he fell.
When I saw him two days later in the intensive care unit, Mohamed was in a coma, with more than 50 broken bones, his face pale, swollen and bruised. I met with the team, as well as Mohamed’s father, in the courtyard outside the hospital. They were understandably tense, angry—and very worried.
“All the TV people cared about was their camera and getting good shots,” said Nidal. “And after Mohamed fell, they ran, even before the ambulance came. Yeah, they called later and asked if he was ok, but they’ve made no offer to help.”
No hospital in Gaza was equipped to offer the multiple surgeries Mohamed would need, and fortunately, permission was secured to send him to a hospital in Tel Aviv. Five surgeries and three months later, he returned—first in a wheelchair, then on crutches and now finally walking. He has even begun training a little with the team and their current crop of young students—20 kids, age 9-14, eager to build self-confidence and find a sense of purpose. It is no less than a miracle, his friends and family say.
But there is one last stage in his recovery. Mohamed lost most of his teeth in the fall, affecting the appearance of his face—particularly significant at his age—and his ability to eat and even talk clearly. The cost to fix that is $2,000, and Mohamed’s family of eight cannot afford it.
“We are a family living on the simplest of things, with non-existent income,” Mohamed explains. “I thank God every day, though, for taking me this far, and letting me be back with my family and my team.”
