New posters had begun to go up in Abu-Dis. It was a picture of a young man with a strong jaw and a half smile, he is the newest shaheed: Mohammed al-Surkhy, 21 years old from neighboring Sawahre.
By the third day I had heard stories about his Mother, “She’s amazing…Allah has blessed her with patience…she was asking for a girl’s hand for Mohammed the night he was martyred….” And so I asked around and finally got a ride to see the Surkhy family.
From the outside the shaheed’s home was indistinguishable. No flags hung from their home, no huge pictures… in fact, other than the many posters of Mohammed that filled all of Sawahre’s streets nothing adorned the honored shaheed’s home. Once inside, the shaheed’s Mother was just as indistinguishable because everyone’s eyes brimmed with dried tears and a newly discovered loneliness. But Mohammed’s family noticed my confusion and pointed out ‘Alia, his Mother. A young-looking woman who clenched her “masbiha” (a beaded chain used for “thikr” or “to remember Allah”; some describe it as the Muslim rosary) and whose exhausted body was willing to sit with yet another visitor. At first we sat alone, but Mohammed’s loved ones filled the room by the second, his aunt on his Mom’s side, his sister, his other sister, his sister’s son, two of his brothers, his aunt on his father’s side, a neighbor, more visitors 230;
As the room filled with loved ones, ‘Alia questioned my credibility—who are you? Why are you here? You want to record Mohammed’s story? Where’s your press card? Not a journalist? You know there was a young woman here last week who said she was Lebanese but turned out to be Israeli…can’t trust everyone you know, especially at a time like this…after a good 30 minutes of grilling, Umm-Mohammed began to unfold Mohammed’s inevitable story of martyrdom…
LIVING WITH A GHOST
“I never felt his compassion—he had so much compassion it scared me but he never let me feel it.”
Unlike other Mothers of shuhada’ (plural of shaheed), Umm-Mohammed did not rave about her son’s loveable appeal or irresistible charm. Mohammed was cold, aloof, and even hostile. To talk to him was to annoy him. If his parents ever tried to induce him to speak he’d snap at them, “Be quiet—don’t ask—why do you keep asking—leave me alone!”
‘Alia laments that unlike other boys, he never sat down to breakfast, never wanted to be surrounded by his affectionate family. He’d pass through the house so quickly and so briefly that his Father, Fawzi, would often plead for Allah’s intervention:
“Oh Allah, all I crave is a simple gift, to sit with my son and hear him speak to me for five minutes.”
But Mohammed wouldn’t even give them that much, he would pass through the house like a shadow—coming home at 3 or 4 in the morning and leaving less than 5 hours later. ‘Alia’s description of her heart-wrenching quest to feel her son’s warmth elicited the images of a woman striving to hold a ghost whose physical presence is no more than that.
But Mohammed wasn’t always like that—he stopped talking at around 12 or 13. That year marked violent and deadly clashes at al-Haram al-Sharif, (what we are currently witnessing is not a new phenomenon of Israeli military aggression). Then like now, the Israeli military prevented ambulances from entering al-Haram to carry out wounded Palestinians. Mohammed had just come out from school and was aware of the situation, so with his school bag still on his back he ran into al-Haram to carry the wounded to the waiting ambulances. As he ran with a wounded man in his arms, an Israeli officer shot the victim with a racing bullet to his head spilling his brain out onto Mohammed’s leg and then to the floor. Mohammed quickly picked up the brain in fear that someone would step on it, placed it in his pocket and kept trekking towards the ambulance.
Who was going to explain to a 13-year old boy,—BOY—who should have been studying or playing soccer or enjoying an after-school TV show, why the man he was trying to save was shot in the head? What did the man do to deserve his brain to be blown out of his head? How come the police and the military were shooting at them instead of protecting them like they were supposed to do?
HIDING HIS PASSPORT
It was impossible to rationally explain to Mohammed what happened to him that day or what continued to happen around him in the land he always knew as “Falasteen.” Is there a rational explanation for bulldozing a home while its inhabitants watch themselves become homeless? Is there a rational explanation why Palestinians have to sacrifice their land so that the Israeli regime can create bypass roads that they never get the privilege to use? Is there a rational explanation why the Palestinian Authority is pressured from the United States and Israel to incarcerate and torture its citizens in order to protect the largest nuclear power in the Middle East, the 17th richest country in the world? Neither Mohammed nor his family could answer these questions so instead of talking, Mohammed decided that the only answer was resistance. And he made the ultimate vow of resistance—he would die a shaheed—he would die standing—die fighting and standing in the face of oppression’s bulldoz ers.
His Aunt says that that’s the reason for his coldness. He knew his destiny and did not want anyone to suffer when he was gone,
“He wouldn’t let anyone get attached to him because he knew what was in his self…we understood that he didn’t want to attach himself to anyone so that no one would attach themselves to him…”
But Mohammed’s plan backfired—instead of detaching themselves from him his family only loved him more; they always wanted more of him but never got enough. His Mother expresses her unfulfilled affection for Mohammed by describing him as a mystery, “I felt that he wasn’t from this planet—he wasn’t even from the same universe that we are from.”
And like the rest of the family, ‘Alia was well aware of her son’s passion for justice. He would declare his plans to go to Chechnya to fight with the Muslims under attack or to Afghanistan, or to India…. “I was so afraid that he’d really go that I would hide his passport.” ‘Alia described her daylong efforts to find the perfect hiding spot for his passport but all to no avail. Almost effortlessly, Mohammed would go through the room and uncover his passport’s hiding place, and without speaking he’d place it in his pocket and walk out the door.
“HIS SISTERS ARE LIKE HIS SOUL”
Despite his aloof character, Mohammed could not deceive his family as he wished. Just because he stopped talking to them did not mean that he stopped caring for them. Mohammed is the eldest son of 9 children, only 23-year old Dalal is older than he is. As a result of the lack of Palestinian economic development (largely due to Israeli occupation), his Father could never make ends meet. ‘Alia imploringly asked us all, “What’s his Father going to be able to accomplish with 9 kids? Feeding, drinking, clothing, educating….?” Mohammed was painfully aware of this and only felt that he himself was a burden. So at 14 he dropped out of school and began working.
‘Alia comments that he never spent any money on himself in his effort to help his Father because he knew that there was “No one else to stand by his Father’s side.” The family lived with Fawzi’s parents for a long time and when he finally bought a piece of land to build a home on, Mohammed gave his Father 12,000 dinars—“Every month he’d give him all he could and hated asking for anything.”
Mohammed sacrificed his educational and professional future to help his family survive but never forgot the importance of an education. So he constantly encouraged his sisters to study hard and he promised that if they did well in school he would pay for their college education. In fact when Shema’, 20 years old, passed her matriculation exams with flying colors and her older sister Dalal failed one subject, Mohammed bought them both gold bracelets. His Mother asked him why he spent money on two bracelets when only one sister had passed and he responded that “I don’t want Dalal to believe that she is a failure.” (Today, Shema’ is enrolled in the Al-Quds University studying Law and Dalal is the proud Mother of 2 taking vocational courses in Abu-Dis). ‘Alia describes his dedication perfectly when she says, “His sisters are like his soul.”
THE UNIRONED SHIRT
Despite her exhaustion, ‘Alia never gave up on Mohammed. She never stopped believing that somehow she could hold him in this world that he so rejected. She decided that if he were engaged to a “good girl,” he would become more grounded, stay around the house more often, share with them the feelings he never showed. Umm-Mohammed asked him what he thought about getting engaged and in his characteristic manner, he answered, “I guess so, whatever.” So ‘Alia searched for the bride herself and says she found the perfect woman for Mohammed. She described her to the non-interested groom-to-be who said he was willing to meet her. That was the most he ever said about his prospective marriage and for 20 days, ‘Alia would talk to the girl’s family about her son because he was never around to do it himself.
Finally she told Mohammed that he should visit the girl for himself and they arranged to do so the next day at 6 PM. Little did ‘Alia know that for the past 4 nights Mohammed had been busy carrying fallen and injured Palestinian youth to the hospital in his car and in his effort he had been shot 7 times with rubber bullets. She noticed his contorted walk but of course Mohammed only pushed her away when she asked, “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”
On the day of their plans Mohammed was no where to be seen. His friend kept answering his Mother’s frantic phone calls asking him to come home and get ready. But his friend only assured her that Mohammed had gone out on a trip and wasn’t going to be back for a while. So in the meantime she decided to iron his clothes for him and for some reason the iron would not press down on his shirt and in frustration she laid it on the bedroom floor and placed the table on top of it in hope that by the time her son came home to get dressed the shirt would be ready.
It was already 6 PM and Mohammed was not home yet, so ‘Alia and Fawzi decided to go to the bride’s home and hoped that Mohammed would be there soon But Umm-Mohammed describes the visit as excruciating,
“Something was juicing my insides and turning my heart over…I’m looking around at the bride, at the people, I could hear them speak but I had no idea what was going on…I kept dialing Mohammed’s phone but no one picked up so I put the phone down, looked up and told the family that I wanted to recite a poem: Do not depend on this world and what is in it, Because death will undoubtedly ruin it and ruin us, And how many brides did they decorate for their husbands, And her soul was stolen on her fateful night, Increase your fear of God because if you go to bed, You don’t know if you’ll live until dawn. A woman who has gone to the home of her son’s fiancé and she says something like that?”
Mohammed had not shown up and at 9 PM, ‘Alia and Fawzi went home. At 12:30 am, ‘Alia was woken up by the phone and it was Mohammed’s friend looking for her brother’s phone number. Like a drunken person she recited it and went back to sleep only to be woken up ten minutes later by another phone call. ‘Alia picked up the phone and before hearing the voice on the other line she asked, “Mohammed is dead isn’t he?” The crying voice on the receiver said that he had just been injured and that his Father should come to the hospital. But ‘Alia didn’t believe him, “I said ‘No, Mohammed is dead’ and hung up the phone, and my eye hit the iron, the turned over table, and the shirt—Allah didn’t permit the iron to work because he knew that the shirt’s owner would never be wearing it again.”
‘Alia and her husband rushed to the hospital but they stopped by at her brother’s home to bring him with them. She woke him at 1 am telling him that he should get dressed quick because they had to attend Mohammed’s wedding at the hospital, don’t waste time, “I swear tonight is his wedding.” Palestinians regard the martyrdom as a young man’s wedding to the land. At the hospital, no one wanted to let ‘Alia in in fear that she would not be able to handle the emotional shock of seeing her lifeless son. But despite their protests she pushed her way in and went straight to see Mohammed for the last time as he lay in his cold blood in a refrigerator drawer. ‘Alia asked to see him and after being assured that the Israeli bullet had not torn apart her son’s face she let out a “zaghrouta” (in Arab tradition, a celebratory cry created by rapidly moving one’s tongue from side to side; it is commonly made during weddings). ‘Alia was celeb rating her son’s marriage to the land and his ascension into Allah’s embrace. And with her steady hands and head she went home to mourn her loss alone, away from the gaze of the comforting public. Her 6-year old son, Taha sees her and urges her not to cry, “Mama, Mohammed is lucky to die a shaheed, I only hope to be so blessed.”
Yep, Barbara Boxer was right on. It’s those Palestinian mothers sending their kids out to die. It has nothing to do with the Israeli military teaching the Palestinian youth to hate them by sending their brothers home draped in cold blood.