Wandering fools’ modern exodus without the miracles

In the spirit of the biblical Israelites, a small band of well-intentioned, khaki-clad South Africans and assorted internationals recently embarked on a symbolic walk to Gaza. You read that correctly: a walk. To Gaza. On foot. As a means of “breaking the siege”.

If that sentence feels like it belongs in a Monty Python sketch, you’re not alone.

To be fair, the original Israelites also took a desert detour. Forty years wandering for what should have been a two-week trip. But here’s the difference: they had direction. A cloud by day, fire by night. Manna. Leadership. A divine GPS system, if you will.

This group? Not so much.

They began their pilgrimage not with faith, but with hashtags. Instead of tablets of stone, they carried laminated placards. Instead of Moses, they had a yoga instructor from Bryanston who once ran a juice cleanse in support of free-range kale. Their “Red Sea” moment? Being ignored by the N12 highway patrol outside Klerksdorp. (I made that part up.)

What, exactly, was the goal? To arrive in Gaza on foot and … then what? Break the camel blockade with blistered feet and a handwritten letter to Hamas? One wonders if, like the generation of the desert, their children will have to finish what they started, assuming their sunscreen holds out.

And then, the highlight: Nelson Mandela’s grandson, “Mandla” Mandela, was reportedly arrested along the way. Naturally. Because what symbolic walk would be complete without symbolic martyrdom? Except this wasn’t exactly The Long Walk to Freedom. More like “The Short Stroll to the Nearest PR Opportunity”. It wasn’t a 27-year incarceration but 27 lines of performative outrage. One wonders what granddad would have thought of his legacy being lent to a terrorist-sympathising cosplay trek through the Sinai.

And the symbolism! Wrapped in keffiyehs and righteous indignation, they marched like prophets, tweeting every step as all true prophets do, naturally. There was talk of solidarity, liberation, and resistance. But curiously absent was any mention of Hamas. Not a word. Not a whisper. Not even a Google search.

It’s as though the blockade floated down from the heavens like divine punishment, with no architects, no cause. No mention of 7 October. No mention of tunnels, rockets, or child hostages. Just Israel cast as Pharaoh, the Amalekites, and maybe Babylon too, depending on the day.

But this isn’t the exodus.

The Israelites weren’t walking in support of tyranny, they were fleeing it. They weren’t marching toward a regime that executes dissent, jails journalists, and uses its own citizens as shields. They were heading for a land of promise. These modern marchers are walking straight into a public-relations trap, blindfolded, singing freedom songs for those who silence their own people.

It would be funny if it weren’t so tragic. Or maybe it is funny. It’s hard to tell anymore.

So yes, walk, march, or wander. But understand this: just because your sandals are dusty and your cause has a hashtag doesn’t make it holy. And sometimes, walking in circles is just that: circles.

And in the unlikely event that they do reach Gaza, they need to remember to bring snacks. And lots of liquids. Because the manna’s been discontinued, and I can’t imagine they will find almond milk at the border.