I moved to Gaza and lied to my mother

The Madness. How else to describe the thing that takes hold of reporters' lives when they begin covering the Middle East?

When I moved to Gaza, just after the start of the intifadah, in 2001, I lied and told my mother (in country Australia) that in fact I was living in Jerusalem. I thought this might avoid unnecessarily upsetting her.

After about six months, she telephoned and asked how many parked cars I walked by, on my way to the bureau. I realised she'd become concerned at the risk of car bombings in downtown Jerusalem. To avoid the lie getting any bigger, I caved, and admitted that in fact, I lived in Gaza City.

Her reaction? Thank God for that. I was really worried.

Even if there is a logic to the way you start out in that part of the world, soon enough it's turned on its head.

I moved three times while I lived in Gaza. My first apartment was an otherwise completely empty high rise building. The family who owned the building lived downstairs, and I was their only tenant.

I became an ex-tenant when it materialised that Arafat had installed a cadre of his special protection force just down the road. They became a favourite target for early morning Israeli air strikes, and when my windows blew out, it was time to move.

I then found another high rise, complete with other occupants, that had extraordinary views of the Mediterranean. I realise not everyone would move to Gaza for Mediterranean views, but sometimes you have to seize the opportunities life presents you.

I was so happy in my little flat. I had friends over. We watched night time naval bombardments. Sometimes the Apache helicopters would launch their rockets, hovering outside our windows.

This apartment had USPs few estate agents imagine.

Then, one day, as I stepped into the lift, a man inside said 'Good morning, Kylie,' in a cheery neighbourly way. I answered, and smiled, and then realised this cheery neighbour was in fact Dr Rantissi, a Hamas leader.

A Hamas leader most definitely on the Israeli wanted list, which meant hanging around with him just about guaranteed targetted rockets or an air strike coming to a place near you soon. And what was he doing in my building?

When I asked whether he'd moved in, he smiled wryly and said not really, and then I realised this was one of his safe houses, and it suddenly became a much less safe place for me.

Gaza these days is a much less safe place for everyone. My friends there tell me once clearly defined affiliations can no longer be taken for granted.

That where families were once Hamas or Fatah or Islamic Jihad, now the groups split the clans, and turn brother against brother.

The economic situation is desperate. With power cuts, and food and fuel shortages. The violence has shut up the universities and schools, and families sit with their children inside, waiting for the bouts of gunfire to abate. There's no escaping it.

My favourite Gazan expression sounds like 'boukra fil mish mish'. It means '...and tomorrow there'll be apricots'. Because there are very rarely apricots in Gaza, it's the standard fatalistic reply to every naïve or even optimistic observation anyone might dare make.

Anything like 'Condoleeza Rice is coming this weekend. Maybe that will stop the bombing' would guarantee you a 'boukra fil mish mish'.

I'd like to go back to Gaza again soon. I'd like to see my friends there. And I'd like to take one friend and fellow reporter, Alan Johnston, out for chicken fattah. Or order Sultan Ibrahim on the beach - the sweetest small fish you'll ever taste.

And I'd like to take an apricot tree.

Kylie Morris's 'Podcasts from the edge' feature on the Morning Report. Kylie takes over from Sarah Smith as presenter of More4 News on Monday 18 June.

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