-
by Edna Yaghi
- When 12-year-old Palestinian
Mohammed spoke of how he wanted to be a soccer champion, his black
eyes flashed and he would kick an imaginary ball off to a
successful goal. His mother, busy with her six other children
would nod her head and say, "Yes, perhaps one day you when
you are big and stronger, you will go off to the Olympics and win
a gold medal."
-
- "Before that Mom," he
would say enthusiastically, "I just want to be the star of my
school soccer team. Then I will begin to think about growing up
and the Olympics."
-
- On September 30, 2000, Mohammed’s
father said to him, " Come on son. Let’s go and try to sell
that old Fiat. Since I’ve been out of work, we need the money to
buy food and supplies."
-
- It would be good, thought Mohammed.
Good to get out and away from the demonstrations. Good to forget
that the Israelis had closed the schools. Good to forget the
curfews at night. Good to forget the Israeli bullets aimed at kids
like himself during confrontations with them. Good to have the
chance to be alone with his father.
-
- So, he put on his new stripped blue
shirt and faded blue jeans, and ran a comb hurriedly through the
soft curls of his thick dark hair. He dashed out of his three-room
cinder-block home, to join his father whose fingers fidgeted as he
took long deep puffs on the butt of his cigarette. They got in the
used Fiat and drove off in a cloud of red dust to look for a used
car salesmen. As his father drove, Mohammed looked at the sturdy
hands that gripped the steering. Hands that will protect me, he
thought. Slim hands but strong. That his mother would have a nice
lunch ready upon their return let a smile creep across his small
troubled face. He tried to shut scenes of the demonstrators, many
of whom were children his own age or younger, out of his mind.
Instead he tried to picture himself and his soccer team heading to
victory on the field.
-
- The car screeched to a halt. Father
and son jumped out and the boy heard his father say to a salesman,
after some bartering, "OK. It’s a deal then."
-
- He helped his father count the money
before boarding a taxi that would take them back home to the
cheerful face of his mother and the shouts and laughter of his
younger brothers and sisters. Being with them almost made him
forget the fact that they were poor and that his father lost his
job and now had no means to support his family. Looking up, he
noticed his father studying him. Then the parent reached over to
tousle the boy’s dark hair and with his strong protective hand,
patted him on his shoulder. "It will be ok son. Don’t
worry." Then, "Let’s go home and get something to
eat."
-
- Mohammed’s mother never let him
join in any demonstrations. It was because as she said, "I
don’t want them carrying pieces of your body home dead to me.
What will I do without you?"
-
- He would look into gentle her black
eyes, so similar to his own and find peace and security there. She
was the essence of love. She was what mothers were all about. He
was tempted to join in the struggle for freedom but heard his
mother’s voice saying to him every time he went out, "You
are a bright boy. Everyone likes you. Stay out of trouble and your
future will be promising. You can help your people by getting an
education and by winning the gold medal in the Olympics you so
admire."
-
- So he would bury himself in a book,
trying not to hear the screams, the shouts, the bullets that flew
right past his window. He would listen to his mother and use his
energy for something other than throwing stones at armored tanks.
-
- And now, here he was with his
father, waiting for the yellow taxi to take them home. He caught
sight of one not too far from where they stood and stepped out to
flag it down. It stopped and his father told the driver, "to
the camp."
-
- He sat between his father and the
driver. Had it not been for the clashes, the day would have been
beautiful. The relentless heat had given way to an Indian summer.
The smell of the sea was in the air and if the boy listened, he
could hear the cry of seagulls in their search for food.
Unexpectedly, his body shuddered and his father put his arm around
him seeming to sense his son’s apprehension of something
foreboding and evil. Then it came as sure as the day. The sound of
bullets flying everywhere and the shouts of the demonstrators.
-
- "We are surrounded. Come on
son, let’s get out of the taxi."
-
- Mohammed almost fell out. His whole
body shook with fear. He felt paralyzed, not able to move. His
father half dragged him, half carried him next to a small wall.
There, crouching, he threw his son behind him, shielding him with
his own thin body. At first the boy encouragingly told his father,
"Don’t worry Daddy. The ambulance will come and save
us."
-
- But then bullets flew faster and
more ferociously. He tried to be brave, but he did not want to
die. Not now. Not when he was only 12. Not when he had hardly
begun to live. He screamed in fear and huddled closer to his
father who he knew was desperately trying to protect him. A hail
of bullets rained down all around them. One Israeli soldier took
aim at the small frame of the boy. An ambulance rushed to the
scene. The same Israeli soldier, who shot Mohammed in the stomach,
shot the ambulance driver in the head and riddled the boy’s
father with bullets.
-
- Mohammed did not live to go on to
play in the Olympics or even to be a soccer star for his own
elementary team at school. But his mother, left to care for his
pet finches said, "He is now a star in Heaven."
-
- His death has become a symbol of
freedom and the Palestinian struggle against the Israeli
occupation.
-
-
Source:
-
-
- by the same author:
-
-
-
Copyright
© 2000 Media Monitors Network. All rights reserved.
- Reproduction in whole or
in part without permission is prohibited.
-
-
