The Martyr's Journey Toward Rest
The following is a little unpleasant, but for me, it is better to write than keep it bottled up. Please don't read it if you don't want to.
There are three of us leaning against the old brick wall in front of the hospital: Zeyad, Jesse, and I. Zeyad finishes his cigarette and flips it over the top of the wall, onto the cobbled patio just above our heads. A sizeable crowd has gathered. For now, it's difficult to tell what we are waiting for. The children running around waving flags with excitement suggest some kind of parade. The old men wearing thobs and black and white checkered keffiyehs suggest a solemn, perhaps religious ceremony. The young men with fury in their eyes and guns in their belts suggest something else entirely.
Around the corner of the hospital I can hear the chanting. Faint at first, it grows louder with each repetition. "Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!" (God is Greater! God is Greater! God is Greater!). A surge of energy fills the crowd as the mourners come from around the corner with the body of a13 year-old martyr above them on a stretcher. They are pushing in closer to the stretcher, so they can share the burden of his body. The crowd exits the courtyard and turns right, up the hill, to go past the place where the boy died yesterday afternoon. One man pulls his pistol out of his belt fires three shots into the air. The weapon's report echoes up and down the street, but is drowned out by the chants of the crowd.
As we start to walk toward the location of Mohammad Ali Showria's death, the crowd starts to separate into three groups. The middle aged men and some young boys are in the front. They are walking quickly and deliberately, no chanting or yelling. The older men and a few others are in the back. They also are not chanting, but walking and sometimes talking quietly with those around them. Most of my attention is taken up by the group in the middle. Thirty or forty young men and boys all between the ages of 10 and 30, are carrying the body. It is from them that most of the noise emanates. Clapping, yelling, flag waving, and continual chanting.
We reach Bab Iddair (the parking lot in front of the Church of the Nativity) where the boy had been yesterday afternoon (depending on who you ask, he was either walking with his father or throwing rocks at soldiers who were besieging a house in Bethlehem). We walk past the spot where he last had lived, before the bullet of an IDF soldier passed through his heart and liver, killing him instantly. As we pass this spot, dozens of children unfurl various flags. The Green of Hamas is predominant, but compeiting with it are the Black of Islamic Jihad and the Yellows of Hizbollah and Fatah , with some large Palestinian flags leading the way. Four men unroll two banners with a picture of Muhammad, and carry them next to the body, one banner in front and one behind.
Next, the body is to be carried to the boy's home, a village about 8 kilometers away. One of the banners leads the way. The chanting, somehow, continues as we climb rapidly up the hills in the desert heat. I can tell that the men in the middle (those who are doing all the chanting) are starting to tire, but their grief and anger enable them to continue to shout the entire way. As I drop to the back of the crowd, I see about 100 men and boys walking in front of me, and about that many again waiting at the entrance to the village. I see a smaller group of boys and girls (these are the first girls I have seen all day) who are carrying flags of Hamas and Hizbollah, they are wearing school uniforms and chanting "Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!" Their tinny voices are a distinct contrast to the (now) hoarse and deep chants coming from the men in the procession. Zeyad tells me that these children are classmates of the deceased. Seventh Graders.
Eventually, we gather around his final resting place. People are pushing and shoving, arguing and trying to get close so they can get a glimpse of Muhammad for the last time. I finally see the body clearly. His legs are wrapped in black flag with gold Arabic writing: the flag of Islamic Jihad. The rest of his body is covered in a Palestinian flag. His face, framed in the white section of the flag, is the only part of his body that is visible. The men are still pushing and shoving to get closer to him, and the arguments are growing louder. They are kissing and patting his face as the stretcher is lowered toward the tomb. His father climbs into the 8'x4'x4' cement tomb and arranges the boy's body for the last time, covering him with the flag as if tucking him into bed at night. He emerges from the tomb and is immediately surrounded by a crying, hugging, kissing, shouting mob of people.
I watch in silence as the Imam preaches a sermon in Arabic. The only word I understand is Filistiini (Palestinian). The crowd starts to disassemble. For me, everything is different now. For the family, life will never be the same. For most people, both here and everywhere, nothing has changed.
Basem
There are three of us leaning against the old brick wall in front of the hospital: Zeyad, Jesse, and I. Zeyad finishes his cigarette and flips it over the top of the wall, onto the cobbled patio just above our heads. A sizeable crowd has gathered. For now, it's difficult to tell what we are waiting for. The children running around waving flags with excitement suggest some kind of parade. The old men wearing thobs and black and white checkered keffiyehs suggest a solemn, perhaps religious ceremony. The young men with fury in their eyes and guns in their belts suggest something else entirely.
Around the corner of the hospital I can hear the chanting. Faint at first, it grows louder with each repetition. "Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!" (God is Greater! God is Greater! God is Greater!). A surge of energy fills the crowd as the mourners come from around the corner with the body of a13 year-old martyr above them on a stretcher. They are pushing in closer to the stretcher, so they can share the burden of his body. The crowd exits the courtyard and turns right, up the hill, to go past the place where the boy died yesterday afternoon. One man pulls his pistol out of his belt fires three shots into the air. The weapon's report echoes up and down the street, but is drowned out by the chants of the crowd.
As we start to walk toward the location of Mohammad Ali Showria's death, the crowd starts to separate into three groups. The middle aged men and some young boys are in the front. They are walking quickly and deliberately, no chanting or yelling. The older men and a few others are in the back. They also are not chanting, but walking and sometimes talking quietly with those around them. Most of my attention is taken up by the group in the middle. Thirty or forty young men and boys all between the ages of 10 and 30, are carrying the body. It is from them that most of the noise emanates. Clapping, yelling, flag waving, and continual chanting.
We reach Bab Iddair (the parking lot in front of the Church of the Nativity) where the boy had been yesterday afternoon (depending on who you ask, he was either walking with his father or throwing rocks at soldiers who were besieging a house in Bethlehem). We walk past the spot where he last had lived, before the bullet of an IDF soldier passed through his heart and liver, killing him instantly. As we pass this spot, dozens of children unfurl various flags. The Green of Hamas is predominant, but compeiting with it are the Black of Islamic Jihad and the Yellows of Hizbollah and Fatah , with some large Palestinian flags leading the way. Four men unroll two banners with a picture of Muhammad, and carry them next to the body, one banner in front and one behind.
Next, the body is to be carried to the boy's home, a village about 8 kilometers away. One of the banners leads the way. The chanting, somehow, continues as we climb rapidly up the hills in the desert heat. I can tell that the men in the middle (those who are doing all the chanting) are starting to tire, but their grief and anger enable them to continue to shout the entire way. As I drop to the back of the crowd, I see about 100 men and boys walking in front of me, and about that many again waiting at the entrance to the village. I see a smaller group of boys and girls (these are the first girls I have seen all day) who are carrying flags of Hamas and Hizbollah, they are wearing school uniforms and chanting "Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!" Their tinny voices are a distinct contrast to the (now) hoarse and deep chants coming from the men in the procession. Zeyad tells me that these children are classmates of the deceased. Seventh Graders.
Eventually, we gather around his final resting place. People are pushing and shoving, arguing and trying to get close so they can get a glimpse of Muhammad for the last time. I finally see the body clearly. His legs are wrapped in black flag with gold Arabic writing: the flag of Islamic Jihad. The rest of his body is covered in a Palestinian flag. His face, framed in the white section of the flag, is the only part of his body that is visible. The men are still pushing and shoving to get closer to him, and the arguments are growing louder. They are kissing and patting his face as the stretcher is lowered toward the tomb. His father climbs into the 8'x4'x4' cement tomb and arranges the boy's body for the last time, covering him with the flag as if tucking him into bed at night. He emerges from the tomb and is immediately surrounded by a crying, hugging, kissing, shouting mob of people.
I watch in silence as the Imam preaches a sermon in Arabic. The only word I understand is Filistiini (Palestinian). The crowd starts to disassemble. For me, everything is different now. For the family, life will never be the same. For most people, both here and everywhere, nothing has changed.
Basem
posted by Basem at 11:41 AM
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