The West needs to be forced to help Gaza - and that's what the aid flotilla is trying
The Global Sumud Flotilla to Gaza moored at the small island of Koufonisi, south of the island of Crete, on September 26, after a reported attack by drones early the day before. Photo: Eleftherios Elis / AFP
Somewhere south of Crete, a flotilla of 45 boats sails east toward Palestine.
On board are activists from across the globe - from Ireland to the Solomon Islands - doctors, lawyers, students, comedians, parliamentarians. They are united by one goal: to break the siege of Gaza and open a humanitarian corridor.
Their journey has already been marked by both ridicule and violence: mocked online as “attention-seeking white saviours,” and attacked in international waters by drones.
“If we ever doubted the difference we might be making, we only need to look at the Israeli response,” says Cork man Tadhg Hickey from aboard the flotilla.
“They’ve accused us of being everything from a ‘selfie-yacht’ to Hamas militants. That’s quite the absurd dichotomy - symptomatic of a regime losing its grip on the narrative.”
Hickey is one of more than 20 Irish citizens who have been at sea for over four weeks. The convoy has endured sabotage attempts and drone strikes.
“We are witnessing these psychological operations first-hand,” the Global Sumud Flotilla (GSF) said in a statement after a night of targeted attacks last week.
“But we will not be intimidated.” Now, just days from Gaza, uncertainty looms.
“We are prepared for interception by Israeli forces, prepared for more drone attacks, but completely focused on getting to Gaza and setting up a humanitarian corridor,” Hickey says.
The attacks have not only hardened the resolve of those on board but also amplified global attention - the opposite of what their assailants likely intended.
“We are all aware of the cynicism around a mission like this,” Hickey adds. “When people online say ‘what did you expect,’ they’re ignoring one honest truth: we are not doing anything wrong.
"We are a humanitarian mission. Suggesting we should expect to be bombed in international waters because we defy an illegal siege imposed by a country on trial for genocide? That’s absurd.”
Despite scepticism, Hickey believes momentum is building.
“I think we’ve already made a difference. We’ve made a dent in global opinion. Look at the street protests in Italy - those workers are risking their livelihoods. I only wish Ireland had led the way.”
For many political leaders, it took the drone strikes for them to even acknowledge the flotilla’s existence. “Western governments won’t act out of the goodness of their hearts,” Hickey says.
“They need to be forced. That was the tipping point in Apartheid South Africa, and it has to be with Palestine as well. That’s the power Irish people have - we need to realise it and use it.”
But with scores of Palestinians still being killed daily, the question lingers: what difference does this flotilla make?
“The biggest difference is that we’ve given the people of Gaza hope,” Hickey says. “That’s not me playing some white saviour - it’s in the messages we’ve received from Palestinians, inside and outside Gaza, urging us to keep going.”
Activism at this scale comes at a personal cost, though Hickey plays it down.
“It hasn’t been easy. I’ve been at sea for a month, and I have a 16-week-old baby at home. I miss my kids terribly. But every day here is a surreal snapshot of what it must be like to be Palestinian.
"One night during drone strikes someone said, ‘I can’t believe nobody’s coming to save us.’ It struck me - that must be the feeling in Gaza every day and night. Abandoned. We are working to change that."
Hard routine helps keep spirits afloat.
“Every day there are chores - toilets to be cleaned, dishes to be washed. The rostering keeps us accountable. If you’re late for your shift, you let your friends down.”
Mental health preparation is just as vital. Drills and training sessions ready the crew for possible violent interception.
“There’s stress in knowing Israeli commandos could soon board us forcibly. We are not military. We’re a humanitarian mission carrying baby formula to a besieged population. Preparing for the consequences of that choice takes work.”
For Hickey, it always comes back to Cork, to his family. He starts each day with a video call home.
“Seeing them is great, but also painful. Still, I want my kids to grow up in a world where no child is seen as more important than another. Maybe they’ll take something from knowing their dad stood up for that ideal. I know it sounds cheesy - but it’s the truth.”
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