Night Fires off Sidi Bou Said: A Flotilla, a Drone, and the Weight of a Blockade
The sea off Sidi Bou Said is usually a picture of Mediterranean calm — whitewashed houses perched on cliffs, bougainvillea spilling over balconies, the smell of mint tea drifting from cafes. Last week that quiet was broken by smoke and the surreal geometry of blue flashing lights reflecting on dark water.
Here, in Tunisian waters just north of the capital, a convoy of small vessels known as the Global Sumud Flotilla — activists and aid workers bound for Gaza — says one of its boats was hit by what they suspect was a drone attack. “Second night, second drone attack,” Melanie Schweizer, one of the flotilla’s coordinators, told reporters, voice raw with fatigue and resolve. The boat, the British-flagged Alma, suffered fire damage to its top deck but, organizers said, no one was hurt.
The scene at sea
It was a strange nocturne: a small ship, a smudge of orange, and the staccato of flashlights. Journalists on the shore saw coastguard vessels ring the burning boat. Security footage shared by the flotilla shows what looks like a burning object falling from the sky and striking the vessel. Francesca Albanese, the UN special rapporteur for the occupied Palestinian territories, posted video of the Alma alight and wrote that “video evidence suggests a drone — with no light so it could not be seen — dropped a device that set the deck of the Alma boat on fire.”
Not everyone saw it the same way. Tunisia’s national guard spokesman, Houcem Eddine Jebabli, said categorically that “no drones have been detected.” Tunisian authorities suggested a discarded cigarette might have started the blaze — a suggestion that drew immediate skepticism from the flotilla and several independent observers.
Voices from the docks
“I live here, I fish these waters,” said Ali, a weathered fisherman who watched the vessels from the shoreline of Sidi Bou Said. “At first I thought it was fireworks. Then we saw smoke. The boat tried to put out the flames. It was terrifying — not just for the people on board, for all of us.”
A volunteer medic on the flotilla, who asked not to be named, described chaos that settled into grim determination. “We pulled people away, we checked burns and inhalation, we rationed water. It could have been worse. But it’s terrifying when your small boat is suddenly vulnerable in open sea.”
A maritime security analyst based in Malta, Dr. Nina Rossi, described how small unmanned aerial vehicles — some capable of carrying incendiary or explosive devices — have become an asymmetrical threat in recent years. “The technology has become more accessible. A UAV can loiter over a ship at night and be almost invisible. That raises difficult questions for coastal states and for organizations undertaking humanitarian missions.”
Why this flotilla matters
This is not merely another activist crossing; it’s a deeply symbolic — and painfully practical — effort to deliver aid amid one of the world’s most acute humanitarian emergencies. The flotilla, calling itself Sumud — an Arabic word meaning resilience — aims to break the naval blockade on Gaza, deliver supplies, and draw global attention to the crisis unfolding on the other side of the Mediterranean.
Last month, the United Nations declared famine in parts of Gaza and warned that roughly 500,000 people faced “catastrophic” conditions. More than two million people live in the territory, and aid agencies have repeatedly warned that crossing borders and seas to deliver life-saving goods has become increasingly fraught.
Among the passengers on board were well-known activists, including Greta Thunberg, whose presence has repeatedly turned such missions into international spectacles. The flotilla insists it is an independent group, unaffiliated with any government or political party, and says that its mission is peaceful.
Two nights, two fires — or a campaign to silence?
The flotilla says this was the second incident in as many nights. For organizers, the suspicious timing — occurring amid intense fighting and a wider campaign of airstrikes that has devastated Gaza — suggested a pattern. “These incidents come during intensified Israeli aggression on Palestinians in Gaza, and are an orchestrated attempt to distract and derail our mission,” the flotilla said in a statement.
Israel’s military did not immediately respond to requests for comment. For observers and analysts, the ambiguity — who did what, and why — is a reminder of how murkily modern conflict plays out across borders, in public view and in dark, technical spaces where attribution is hard.
The larger currents beneath this episode
People on the docks spoke like they were watching a larger drama unfold: humanitarian law, the rights of civilians at sea, national security, and the politics of protest. The flotilla harks back to a painful precedent — the 2010 raid on the Mavi Marmara, when Israeli forces boarded a Gaza-bound vessel and nine activists were killed. That incident reshaped international debate about blockades and humanitarian access.
So when a flotilla sets off, it carries more than boxes and duffel bags. It carries memory and the potential for escalation. It forces simple, urgent questions into the open: How do we ensure aid reaches those who need it when borders are locked? What rules govern the use of force — and increasingly, drones — in waters where neither side fully controls the narrative?
Dr. Rossi urged caution in drawing definitive conclusions from footage alone. “Images are powerful, but they can mislead. Independent verification matters. Still, whether drone or accident, the effect is chilling: crews on small boats feel exposed and vulnerable.”
Local color and human texture
Back in the cafés of Tunis, people spoke about the flotilla in overlapping languages: concern, curiosity, indifference. A tea seller in the medina, Fatma, laughed and shook her head. “They always make dramatic arrivals,” she said. “But when it comes to people on the ground, we know the suffering is real. It is close in the heart, even if far in geography.”
At the harbor, a volunteer wrapped a wet blanket around a shivering passenger and handed out sweet dates. “We play our part,” the volunteer said simply. “We can’t fix everything, but we can be there.”
Questions for readers — and for policymakers
What does it mean when humanitarian missions themselves become targets or suspects in an electronic fog of war? How should coastal states balance security with the urgent need to let aid flow? And perhaps most troubling: in an age where small, remotely controlled machines can escalate conflict at a fingertip’s distance, how do we design rules and accountability that keep civilians safe?
As the Alma was repaired and the flotilla insisted it would continue, there was a clear message in the mix of defiance and weariness: aid, attention, and protest are stubborn forces. “We will press forward with determination and resolve,” the flotilla said, a phrase heavy with the kind of hope that persists even under smoke-streaked skies.
That resolve — anchored in a small word, Sumud — asks a broader question of the international community: when famine and conflict press at the margins of our conscience, how will we act? Will we watch from safe harbors, or will we grapple with the risks, the politics, and the humane duty to keep people alive?
