Palestine Speaks, page 13
I FELT I WOULD LOSE HIM SOMEDAY
Abdal Aziz was a soccer player, and he was the goalkeeper for the Al-Bireh Institute team in Ramallah. He was also a coach in Kafr Malek for younger boys. In early October 2008, he was twenty years old and getting his passport ready, because his team had an opportunity to go play in Europe.
During that time, Abdal Aziz was still going out every night to be with his friends. On the night of October 16, I went to sleep at around eleven-thirty. Abdal Aziz called at one a.m. He had a habit of asking me when I answered the phone, “How are you, Ma?”
I told him, “I’m going to sleep now. Do you need anything?” He told me, “I’m coming with friends, so please make us some dinner to eat.” I told him, “I don’t sleep very well because of you, and you want me to prepare dinner for you now?” So he asked me to speak with Muhammed, and he told his younger brother to prepare dinner for him, all his favorite things. My room is just beside the kitchen, so when Abdal Aziz came back with his friends, he’d close the door so they wouldn’t bother me, and they’d sit outside to eat dinner.
Still, that night I heard him come in with his friends, so I got up and put on my dress. I looked at him through the door eating dinner with his friends outside. I looked at my watch, and it was around three a.m. I thought, It’s late. Abdal Aziz won’t go out again. His friends will leave, and he’ll go to sleep in his room. And because I was comfortable that Abdal Aziz was at home, I went back to bed.
Not long afterward, I woke up again and opened the window. Although it was October, it was still hot. When I opened the window, I realized my son Muhammed was outside, crying and calling for a car. He told me that there had been a shooting. I went to Abdal Aziz’s room and saw that he wasn’t there. I put on my clothes and started screaming that Abdal Aziz had died. I knew then. I felt it immediately that he was dead. My heart dropped.
I went to our neighbors’ house. I told Abu Adel, our neighbor, that Abdal Aziz died. He told me no, but I insisted that he was the one that had been shot. I told my neighbor’s son to take me to the hospital because he had a car, but he reassured me that it wasn’t Abdal Aziz who was injured. But I insisted. I wanted to be with my son. That was that. My son Fadi showed up at the house, and he and Muhammed tried to comfort me and told me it wasn’t Abdal Aziz. I told them, “No, it is your brother. It is Abdal Aziz.” They told me that Abdal Aziz was with his friends, and I told them that if that was so, to bring him to me. Then some of Abdal Aziz’s friends came and told me that he’d run away with some of the others. I asked if there were any more soldiers in the village, and they told me there was a patrol nearby. And so I asked them, “Why did Abdal Aziz run away? Abdal Aziz doesn’t run away if there’s a soldier in the village, so I don’t believe you.”
When my three daughters heard that someone had been killed, they came running to my house with their husbands, asking, “Where is he?” They too felt that it was Abdal Aziz who had been killed. The women from our neighborhood came to my house for an hour and tried to calm me down, to tell me that it wasn’t Abdal Aziz, or that he was just injured. I told them, “No, it is Abdal Aziz. I know that he is dead.” Then finally someone else from the village came to the house and told me, “The thing that you’ve suspected is true.” She had witnessed the scene.
In a few moments, a huge crowd showed up at the house, and they were all crying because they loved Abdal Aziz, and he was not there anymore. No one would take me to see him at the hospital because they felt it would be a shock for me. Finally, at around ten a.m., the Red Crescent ambulance brought his body back to the house.14
I learned the story from Abdal Aziz’s friends who had been with him that night. They said that after I went to sleep, Abdal Aziz got a phone call from a friend who told him that a patrol of soldiers was coming. Abdal Aziz used to stand on a particular roof and throw stones from there, so that’s where they both went to wait for the soldiers. But on this night, the soldiers were down below in the garden hiding between the trees, waiting for him. He was with his friend on the roof, and when they threw the first stone, the soldiers opened fire on them. His friend was shot in the shoulder, and Abdal Aziz was shot in the leg.
Abdal Aziz’s friend told him, “We’re being ambushed! Let’s hand ourselves over to the soldiers.” Abdal Aziz’s reply was, “I would rather die than hand myself over.” Because Abdal Aziz was injured in his leg, he couldn’t run, but his friend was able to run away. He wanted to help Abdal Aziz, but he couldn’t. According to my son’s friends, when the soldiers came up to the roof and saw that it was Abdal Aziz, they kept him there.
The bullet had entered the back of his left leg and come out the front. They left him to bleed, and they wouldn’t allow a doctor to see him. They surrounded the area, and only after he died did they let the Red Crescent ambulance come and take him. The neighbors all came outside to check on him, to help him, but the soldiers told them, “If you come near us, we will shoot you, too.”
He didn’t die among his family or his friends. That’s what hurts me the most. That’s the most painful thing. The soldiers handed him over to the ambulance with the cuffs on his hands.
The day after Abdal Aziz died, my husband was in a café in Miami, playing cards. A relative had gone there to tell him the news, but before he even said anything, my husband saw the look in his eyes and told him, “Stop. I know Abdal Aziz just died.” He came back to Palestine as soon as he could—he was home within two weeks. For two days after he returned, I couldn’t speak to my husband. He did all the talking. And then he decided to stay in Kafr Malek.
The boy who was with Abdal Aziz survived. He’s married now, and his wife is pregnant. That night he ran away, he was treated for his injury, and he was arrested and put in jail for two years. Many of my son’s other friends have been arrested since. They were brought to trial on some made-up charges and all sentenced to five and a half years. I wish they had arrested Abdal Aziz and not killed him.
It was what God wanted. I always advised my son to stay at home, not to endanger himself. I would tell him that I felt I would lose him someday. Two weeks before his death, Abdal Aziz was with his friends in a car and he was hanging out the window. It was the night of Eid.15 And the guys told him, “Come inside, you don’t want to get killed on a holy night.” He told them, “I won’t be killed. I won’t die like this. I will die a martyr.” He knew.
I’VE DECIDED TO LIVE
If you ask anyone in the village, they can tell you about Abdal Aziz. The day he died, seven satellite channels came to the village here to document what was going on. When they brought him in the hearse, there were hundreds of cars following behind. His funeral was so big. I didn’t expect so many people.
After a death, we have three days for people to come and pay their respects, but for Abdal Aziz it took three weeks. His friends from all over came to the house and called me to go outside. We have a tradition where you kiss a person’s hand and hold it to your own forehead as a sign of respect. One by one, they all kissed my hand, held it to their foreheads, and told me they were my sons now instead of Abdal Aziz. Even now, they always come visit me, and I go visit them. There was also a bus of girls who were friends of Abdal Aziz from the dabka team, and they came crying and searching for Abdal Aziz’s mother.
They even put a tent near the hall in the village center, and thousands of people came. The student senate at Birzeit University suspended classes because of Abdal Aziz’s death.16 Usually they don’t suspend classes if someone dies, not even a student at the university. Even though he wasn’t a student, everyone knew Abdal Aziz, even the teachers, and they put up posters with his photo inside the university. One year after his death, one of his friends had to present his graduation thesis, and he invited me to come. I went to the university and everyone, all the students were saying, “That’s Abdal Aziz’s mother. That’s Abdal Aziz’s mother.” I didn’t know what to do—to cry, or to feel proud, or to smile.
When someone loses a son, what do you expect? I raised him for twenty-one years, and I used to look at him when he went out and think to myself, Is it possible that this is my son? And I lost him overnight. And he was so beautiful, my son. He is now with his God in heaven. Whenever I go outside now, there’s a banner with his photo on it hanging in the place where he died. Whenever I see it, I feel guilty because I couldn’t hold him and hug him during the last minutes before he died.
After he died, life was complicated. For one whole year, I didn’t sleep at night. I drove everyone crazy after his death, especially at two or three a.m. It’s the time when Abdal Aziz died, and I would always be awake then. I’d wake up and feel like I needed to leave the house. I either went to one of my daughters’ houses or even my cousins. I was so tired, and my daughters were so worried about me.
I went to the doctor, and he found my blood pressure to be at very dangerous levels. He told me, “You will have a heart attack if you continue living like this.” It was so scary. For three whole years, they gave me sedative shots, sometimes every day and sometimes twice a week.
Since Abdal Aziz died, I stopped doing embroidery. I used to make traditional dresses, but now I’ve stopped. I don’t see 100 percent, and I need good vision to embroider. I used to sell the dresses to help my husband, as our financial situation now is very hard. My younger son, Mohammad, studies journalism at Birzeit University. He wants to continue and get his master’s, and Birzeit University is more expensive than the other universities. My husband only works as a taxi driver. Even the taxi that he drives belongs to someone else. He only covers the university tuition and Muhammed’s daily expenses. I can’t ask my other son for help because he wants to build his future. My oldest son is a teacher. Now he should start building a new house, but there are no good jobs. He wants to get married, but it all depends on the money.
My second daughter once came and told me that Abdal Aziz is alive. In Islam, in our religion, we consider martyrs to be alive in heaven. She told me, “You are crying every day for Abdal Aziz, and he’s only one person, and he’s alive with God.” She told me that there are fifteen people in our family, including the cousins and the grandchildren. She asked, “Do you want to die and leave us all too?” Since then, I’ve decided to live my life for my daughters and sons who are still alive, and my grief is only in my heart now.
Sometimes one of my daughters comes and sees my eyes are red and asks me if I was crying, and I deny it and say, “No, why would I cry?” I do it to make them feel stronger because they were affected by the death of their brother also. It’s been four years now, and I feel every day that it was like yesterday, and I always see him and always remember him. In Palestine, we often say that problems that start so heavy begin to disappear with time. But this weight stays. It’s not fading. I am honored that my son is a hero who defended his land. He defended his country and his village. But I don’t want my other sons to get killed. Abdal Aziz is enough.
1 Kafr Malek is a village of about 3,000 people located nine miles northeast of Ramallah.
2 The First Intifada was an uprising throughout the West Bank and Gaza against Israeli military occupation. It began in December 1987 and lasted until 1993. Intifada in Arabic means “to shake off.” For more information, see Appendix I, page 295.
3 1967 was the year of the Six-Day War that culminated in Israel occupying the West Bank. For more on the Six-Day War, see the Glossary, page 304.
4 Marriage between cousins was once considered an ideal match in Palestine and throughout the Middle East, especially in rural areas.
5 Ma’amoul are shortbread pastries filled with dates or nuts and pressed in a wooden mold with an intricate design, and are commonly made during Eid Al-Fitr and Eid Al-Adha, the major Muslim holidays. Palestinian Christians also make them for Easter.
6 The protests, clashes with Israeli military, boycotts, and other acts of civil disobedience that marked the beginning of the First Intifada started in December 1987. Most of the organized action began on December 9, two days after Abdal Aziz’s birth. For more information, see Appendix I, page 295.
7 Za’atar is the name of both a spice similar to thyme that grows wild in Palestine and a blend of spices. Za’atar is a staple of local cooking in Palestine and much of the Middle East.
8 Taybeh is a neighboring Christian village of 1,500 people about one mile away from Kafr Malek. It’s locally famous for a brewery that makes Palestine’s only beer.
9 In Palestine, saying someone is “active” is shorthand for saying the person is involved in resisting the Israeli occupation. It can mean anything from organizing, to going to protests, to throwing stones, to more militant activity.
10 Fatah, PFLP, and Hamas are political parties within Palestine. For more information, see the Glossary, page 304.
11 An exit exam for high school. For more on the tawjihi exams, see the Glossary, page 304.
12 Al-Quds Open University is a mixed on-site and distance-learning university system with campuses in the West Bank, Gaza, Saudi Arabia, and the United Arab Emirates. There is also a separate university system in the West Bank called Al-Quds University, which isn’t affiliated with Al-Quds Open University.
13 Dabka is a traditional Palestinian dance.
14 For more on the Red Cross and Red Crescent, see the Glossary, page 304.
15 Eid Al-Fitr is a major feast that marks the end of the month of Ramadan.
16 Birzeit University is one of the most prestigious universities in Palestine. It’s located just outside Ramallah, not far from Kafr Malek.
GHASSAN ANDONI IN BEIT SAHOUR, WEST BANK
GHASSAN ANDONI
Physics professor, 58
Born in Beit Sahour, West Bank
Interviewed in Beit Sahour, West Bank
Despite his slight frame, Ghasssan Andoni has a strong presence, and commands attention whenever he speaks. Ghassan is a physics professor and activist. He lives in the community of Beit Sahour, which is nestled in the hills just east of Bethlehem and one of the few mostly Christian communities in Palestine. In total, Christians make up around 2 percent of the total population of the West Bank. Legend has it that the residents of Beit Sahour are descended from the shepherds who visited Jesus on the night of his birth; Sahouris jokingly claim that it was their notorious talent for gossip that spread the story of Jesus so widely. We visit Ghassan often during the spring and summer of 2014 at the modest but cheerful apartment where he lives with his wife and twenty-four-year-old son. The family has decorated the apartment in purple and white, and Ghassan has used his metalworking skills to build a small elevator to take groceries from the first floor to the third.
Ghassan’s life has taken him from a refugee camp in Jordan, to universities in Iraq and England, to a war in Lebanon. Even when home in Beit Sahour, he has been extremely active. He played a key role in the community’s campaign of civil disobedience during the First Intifada, and he helped found the International Solidarity Movement, an organization that brought thousands of international volunteers to Palestine during the Second Intifada. His activism led to his nomination for the Nobel Peace Prize in 2006. These days he lives a relatively quiet life, commuting to and from Birzeit University where he teaches. Still, he has no doubts he will become active again when the time is right.
DO I BELONG HERE OR DO I BELONG THERE?
My family has been in Beit Sahour for many generations, as far back as we know.1 I was born here in 1956. I have two sisters and three brothers, and I’m the oldest male. I grew up in the home that my father built in the early 1950s. He was a teacher then. My mother worked in the home. When I was a child, if I looked out at the hills from my home, there was nothing there except trees and fields. I grew up in a fairly closed community. It’s a society where if you run into someone in the street, that person is probably a cousin or an aunt or uncle. On the one hand, this made me feel very safe growing up. But on the other hand, I’ve always spent a lot of my time here on social obligations. Every week there are weddings, baptisms, and graduations. Since my family is connected to thousands of others here, we’re expected to be there when others are celebrating or when they’re sad. All of these gatherings can be exhausting.
In 1962, at the age of six, I left Beit Sahour. My father got a job as an accountant in Amman, Jordan, and so he bought a house there and we all went to live with him. In Amman, the paradox was that my family had a home that was on the border between a middle-class neighborhood and the very poor Al-Hussein refugee camp.2 So my home was at the border of two ways of life, and I was always wondering, Do I belong here or do I belong there?
At that time, conditions in the refugee camp were very bad. The houses were made of thin iron sheets with asbestos covering the outsides. There was sewage in the street, which was really just a narrow dirt path. Many of my friends were from the camp, so I spent real time in those slums. Of course, my family wasn’t comfortable with that. In Beit Sahour, I can’t remember having a fight with anyone. But in Jordan, I had to be ready every time I walked to the shop. I’d always meet a couple of people who wanted to bother me. I didn’t like beating people up, but I also fought when I had to. I learned that it was not the size, it was not the muscles, it was the daring heart that won. I learned not to think of the consequences, just jump into a fight. Every time I came home, I had a new scar somewhere.
Three or four of our neighbors were Christian families. That’s why my father bought our home where he did. But my father was very secular, so he didn’t put me in a private Christian school. I was the only Christian kid in the government schools that I went to. The schools were not obliged to provide me with a Christian religion teacher, but I had the right to go out and play during religion class. But it’s boring to play by yourself. So I asked to sit and listen in religion class.
