..Jenin -A suicide bomber,
the aftermath.
By Ewa ,November 20,2002
ISM ,... Rapprochment Centre.
Early morning at 2.30am, Israeli
Occupation Forces destroyed the home of the Bushkar
family - the family I have been living with for the past
three months, and the home of their cousins next door -
the Abu Amer family. Adel Bushkar - father of the family
was the only person who remained in the house at the
time, having explicitly stated that he wanted to be alone
following his divorce from the rest of the family.
All that had remained, materially, in the house, was a
sink full of dirty dishes, an old polystyrene tray of
congealed knaffee, a mattress for Adel Bushkar (father)
to sleep on, changes of clothes, unclaimed junk, and
martyr posters of Osama on the walls: 3 versions: 1)
Osama's floating face, in colour, a conciliatory look on
it, humble eyes, mouth half smiling, half conceding, with
the face of his uncle, killed fighting the Israelis,
hovering behind him in black and white.2) The full-on
PFLP version, red and white checked backprint, scarf
style, with three stills of Osama from his
why-and-goodbye video, gun aloft in all, and in the
foreground, him, training his gun on an unseen target,
wearing a stylish black jumper, hair spiked back with
gel. And version three, with three shaheed faces behind
his: his uncle, a close friend killed in the April apache
attack, and Abu Ali Mustafa, PFLP chief.
The fridge, TV, cabinets, sofa, tables, mattresses,
clothes, and my rucksack, had all been hauled to the new
home - an echo-y, cold and light-less flat, sandwiched
between a bunch of other similar homes in a narrow
back-camp ally. The girls - Sijoud (13), Ayat (she'd had
her birthday 2 days before, she's 14), Hannan (16), and
Iman, plus the boys, Salah (13 - birthday yesterday),
Hamoody (15) and Habash (Ahmad) 22, were all with Im
Ahmad and myself in their new home when we received the
call from former neighbour Rami. 'Eva Eva! Fi Yehood al
dar (the soldiers/the Jews - people rarely make the
political distinction here between Israelis, soldiers and
Jewish people as a whole - are at our house)!!' I
was told by Hannan-munkus' excitedly, her eyes wide-open
and thrilled. Munkus is a Bushkar family word for monkey
and our pet name for one another. All the girls started
hopping about excitedly and the whole family was smiling,
oddly, acceptingly, because it was finally finally
happening. I left immediately to get to the scene, unsure
at first which way to go because I'm not used to the
streets in the back of Askar camp, knowing only that they
feed left into the rubbish dump, a peaked range of
mangled cars and mystery metals, and right, deeper into
the camp, the shops, the pool halls and the soldiers.
I began weaving quickly between the concrete tenements,
down shoulder width alleys, cats squalling in my path. It
was 1am and people were still up and eating. The day's
Ramadan fasting gives way to unbridled noshing and tea
quaffing far into the wee hours. I could hear tap water
gushing, the clunky sound of heavy pots being hauled onto
stoves and the chink of china cups set out for thick
Arabic coffee. Occasional lights turning on splashed in
my path, illuminating my steps and knotted plastic bags
of unsavables. The camp, like every refugee camp, is the
physical history of destitution and ghettoisation, a
story of survival and aspiration given shape with every
house that dragged itself out of the dirt, out of the
original green-grey uniform tents which huddled the earth
in their hundreds, back in 1948 when villages were razed,
and populations exploded and expelled. They're a knot of
family expansion, entrenchment and cement. Warren-alleys
stream from every backstreet and mainroad; a community
circuit board of crammed connections and shortcuts.
I wore my decoy white UPMRC vest (Union of Palestinian
Medical Relief Committees)- just because its bright white
and visible, meaning soldiers will hopefully see me and
Not shoot. It also serves to justify my presence in a
closed military zone. I say: 'Im a medical volunteer and
I've received a call from a family in this
neighbourhood....' and the negotiations start.
The alley I'm in gradually widens out to meet a side
street. I can hear the gargling hum of a jeep engine. I
step carefully, watching my shadow so it doesn't fall
forward and give me away. Edging to the side, leaning
into the alley-wall, I gradually shuffle up to take a
peek round the corner. Result. I see the hood of an army
jeep, headlights beaming ahead, particles of
end-of-summer dust hovering in their fall. The rising
roar of a tank engine veers up close by. I am not afraid.
Myself and Queeva tried to reach families on the other
side of Ballata camp a few nights ago during a military
op, similarly weaving and creeping through back streets.
But Ballata is about three times the size of New Askar
and still has fighters, despite the April invasion. New
Askar, everyone keeps telling me, has no more fighters,
all were killed or arrested in April. But I swear I heard
the ping of kalishnikov bullets a couple of weeks ago
from the old Bushkar house roof. Maybe I just
confused by the sound of ricocheting M16 ones. Who knows.
But I swear it was counter fire, I swear they got
fightback. Because of the continuing presence of fighters
in Ballata, operations are often reinforced by a
satellite plane which drones above, tracking all movement
in the streets and then communicating its location back
to soldiers on the ground. The transmitted coordinates
don't distinguish between fighters, medical staff or
foreign volunteers. Movement is danger.
I walk out into the side street and get my bearings
instantly. It's a street that leads to the main camp way,
which if crossed leads to the alley leading straight to
the Bushkar, Abu Rami and Abu Amer homes, plus a gated
graveyard where 5 men dismembered by an apache missile in
April lie.
'HELLO?', I say, loudly, as I slowly approach the jeep
and the light. 'Hello-o?'. I get no answer. I carry on
ahead, gradually coming to stand in sight of the jeep. It
turns its lights and engine off. 'Hello', I say, again.
To the left of me there's a white jeep - a Mohabarat
(Israeli intelligence) jeep, white means heads of the op.
There's a bored looking young soldier sitting inside. He
sees me but ignores me. 25 metres down is a tank,
stationary, blocking the street, guarding the operation.
Straight ahead, clogging the Bushkar family alley,
renamed 'Osama street' after their son's 'amelia' or
operation in Netanya, is a large wide green army truck,
it's back end facing me. It's the type of vehicle that
transports men, weapons, supplies, dynamite. I decide to
play the 'I'm just on my way home' tip rather than the
I'm-going-check-out-an-injured-child plea. 'Hello
soldiers', I say, 'Im am on my way home, I am a medical
volunteer and I live in this house', I point down the
alley. The shadows break to yield a soldier, a
commander, and from behind him I can see at least 5
soldiers moving outside the door of the Abu Rami house.
'You cannot be here, this is very dangerous, please move
away'. I walk straight up to him. More soldiers
materialize out of alleys and slide down from behind the
other jeep, all guns pointing in different directions,
nibs high and low, eyes scaling the sides of the
buildings, the mosque, the shops, convinced of the threat
of an impending attack. 'There's no fighters here', I
say, looking at them slightly mockingly. Although their
fear is genuine. As I wonder to what extent they've had
their brains pumped full of
mad-black-terrorists-are-hiding-round-every-corner to
sabotage you Istart to wonder whether there actually
might be some action tonight and whether there are
fighters up there, somewhere. The cousin of the knaffee
(cheese/custard puff pastry sweet) shop man was a fighter
and was killed by soldiers just a few weeks ago in Nablus
but he wasn't living in Askar, and maybe maybe the
kalishnikov response sounds I heard were for real.
Thinking and thinking I start to wonder whether I'm
actually in the way and they want to mount an attack, but
cant because I keep moving around. The double-edged
musing is interrupted by the soldier telling me to leave
again, 'Go Home' he orders me. Im pretty sure it's going
to be the demolition but then I also get to thinking that
maybe they'll be searching the surrounding houses and
possibly beating or arresting the shebab inside - all
friends of mine and of suspicious age, 18-26, strong and
solid. The Abu Rami brothers would be targets. They're
all beautiful and into karate and pets, cultivating a
vast cage of flitting colourful birds on their roof and a
gigantic cat-size rabbit, docile in a hutch beside
them. 'This is my home! I live here!', I say,
'look, I know what you're doing here, you're going to
demolish this house, and searches right? I know these
families, I'd really like to sit with them whilst you
conduct your operation', 'Im afraid you cant do that, now
please go, this is a very unsafe area, if you come any
further you will be shot'. He physically forces me back.
I try again, moving forward. Round the other side of the
truck. He intercepts me and comes stalking towards me,
'Get Back' he barks, 'Or I'll arrest you'. 'I don't care
if you arrest me, I want to sit with the families here'.
I try again and he shoves me away. More soldiers come
out, one tells me to leave the area At Once. 'But your
commander, that's your commander right? He told me I
could stay here', I say, moving back to beside the white
jeep. Play them off, play them off. 'How do you know
where we're going to be? Who are you talking to you,
whose telling you these things?' he says, his face stony.
'Noone, I'm just, I'm lucky'. I say, shrugging. And it's
part true, part the fact that you don't have to be rocket
scientist to work out when they're up to something,
dragging along tanks and, APCs wherever they go, shutting
down roads, dispatching tens of soldiers, growling around
in jeeps, exploding shop and house doors. But I'd been
making the right moves and that's half luck.
Just two nights ago I managed to slip into a military
search operation behind Askar. Initially I was prevented
at gunpoint from walking down a street, which runs,
between New Askar and Ballata. Soldiers in an APC told me
I'd be shot if I tried 'because there was a lot of
soldiers in the area' and forced me into retreat. So I
found another way, down a ghost-town silent street,
nothing but the sound of my steps and breath taking me
closer and closer to what I kept thinking was my mind
just playing tricks on me - the long dark barrel of a
tank turret gun, jutting out across the street, is it, is
it, is it? It was. But it was so silent, so still, I
thought it had been left empty as a dummy-guard.
Approaching it cautiously, 'Hello-os? all the way, I
stopped beside it, a bag in each hand, box of biscuits in
one, bags of chocolates in the other. 'Hello? Hello,
soldier?' I began, ' I'm just on my way home, I live down
this road. Hello?'. Silence, just the static hum of the
endless electricity pylons above, 'Hello? Hello? nothing,
just It. Solid and capable of anything. The tank's turret
then switched on into life and slowly slowly, as slow as
was possible, turned, the movement making a sheer whining
sound, turning around until it's barrel was facing dead
across me. Crickets chirped, the pylon hum held out and I
just stood there facing the tank. 'I know you can hear
me.and I'll take your silence as a yes', I announced, and
walked out across, ducking and curling up inside as I
passed the black hole of the barrel, head down just
thinking 'you absolute Fucker, that's so so
scary!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!' But I made it into their op.
And then me and Queeva had been in Ballata the night
before and spoken to them. They could be the same
soldiers. It felt good
to be making them feel that they might have a traitor in
their midst.
When the commander disappears from view I try again, I'm
edging along the side of the truck when he sees me and
this time he comes marching out towards me like he's
going to nab me. I don't want to anger him too much, as I
want to stick around, so I back off. I look around for
another way round. I chose the other side street,
parallel to the Bushkar street, to the right. As I make
my way towards it a group of soldiers begins to approach
it. They all stop in the opening and stare at me, guns
up. Getting past them just isn't going to happen. I move
back and get my mobile out, I need to switch the sim
cards inside so that I can call Cellcom - Jawwal, the
Palestinian mobile server I'm with can't call Cellcom
which serves Israeli and Orange networks. Everyone I know
in new Askar has a sodding Cellcom phone. I'm just
standing there 'in my place' close enough to still see
everything but not too close so as to warrant a pushing
out, fiddling about with the batteries when the Commander
is suddenly up in front of me, grabbing my hand, and
trying to wrench the mobile out of it. . 'OI' I yell. He
twists my hand and we struggle for about 5 seconds but
he's bigger, stronger and surprised me (the story of
virtually every IOF operation) and manages to prise it
from me. 'OK I won't make any calls OK!!, Give back my
fucking phone, That's my fucking Phone!', I yell, making
failing swipes to wrest it back, 'I wont make another
call OK?'. 'Don't make any calls' he orders, shoving it
back at me and marching off. I stand there for a sec,
fuming, and then move down to the white jeep. I knock on
the window, 'Hello? Hello? Are you another commander?'.
Silence, vacancy. 'Hello, can I speak to you for one
minute?', I say, sweetly.. The soldier slowly turns to
grant me a withering look before going back to staring
straight ahead. Moving away from the jeep, I see the
other soldier, harsher than the first commander is
standing in the commander's place. I try to casually go
down a side-alley, parallel to the Bushkar's 'Shaheed
street' about 20 feet from where he's standing. But he
starts to follow me so I swerve back into the main road.
'Where are you going?' he intones. I ignore him and just
stand back and rack my brains for a way to get closer to
the Abu Rami house and the Bushkar house, to see if the
father is okay, see they're not roughing him up. I try to
make a move forward again, this time the commander I
thought had receded into the shadows clocks me as well
and marches up to the army truck, grabs something out of
it and hands it to the other commander. My eyes strain to
make it out, the light from the jeep headlights, the
streetlights, is smarting my eyes. It looks like its
white and plastic - arrest cord, a plastic loop which
wrists are shoved into and constricted together. He puts
it in his combat trouser pocket, not taking his eyes off
me for a second, ready. I return a
I-don't-give-a-fuck-what-you-do stare and then avert it,
thinking, scoping out the joint; To my left down the
street is the tank, waiting, in front, the side streets,
narrow, dark and too hard to get down; behind me the
jeeps, the mosque, the chemist, in front again, the
knaffee shop, and dead-ahead Bushkar street, with
soldiers moving, back and forth at the bottom, lit up. It
looks like the commanders have moved back again into the
darkness, I just think what-the-hell and make a march for
it straight down the Bushkar street, I slow up and I'm
almost slipping amongst and past them when they see me,
bark out even more interdictions, and 2 grab me by the
arms and shoulders and march/drag me up the main Askar
street, past the stationary jeep and up towards a police
car above it. One, a real son of a settler, tells me to
'get the fuck home you stupid fucking bitch' on the way.
'YOU get the fuck home', I throw back, naffly. Instead of
shoving me inside the police jeep, which was my initial
fear, they just push me behind it and I find myself
standing amongst the neighbours from the surrounding
streets, all congregated together at a 'safe distance'
from the impending explosion. Little kids come trundling
up wearing grey blankets like little cloaks, parents
alongside, looking disturbed and cold. We all stay
together, and the group swells to include the Abu Amer
family, all of the Abu Rami household and the family of
The Wahsz! (stripes of a tiger) aka as Ibrahim - Ibrahim
Mr Bean, they call him. He's another Bushkar neighbour
and the funniest man in Askar. I never understood his
stories but he had the street in stitches when we used to
sit outside in the alley, everybody perched on their
respective doorsteps, drinking tea, talking, joking,
sharing stories - the shebab on the gate-steps of the
shaheed grotto, Im Rami - a large, exaggerated woman,
always referring to all things-of-shame - including
western women on television wearing vests as 'AAAAyyyib',
head cocked and nose wrinkled would sit, legs apart,
swathed in skirts, on her doorstep, eating sesame seeds
with her beautiful sons. And the mallow sweets and peanut
wotsit woman, sporting one, long, yellow tooth, kohled
eyes and a voice like granite, would give Ibrahim a run
for his money, jokes-wise; Im Bushkar, would be in the
middle of it all, beaming away at everybody, cracking up
at Ibrahim's sketches and calling me in her miss piggy
style voice: 'Habibti'; and, intermittedly grabbing
everyone's attention would be Dina! - the imp child of
Ahlam Bushkar, aged 1 and a half, getting passed from
shoulder to arm of all the shebab in the street, made to
grip-dangle off of window ledges and hoisted up and over
everybody, squeeling and beaming away. The street
laughed with life, and all of it played out against the
white washed grit wall of the Bushkar house, adorned with
the word 'Hero' (Ba'tal) written in Arabic script and in
English 'Herow' with a 'w'. It echoed a similar painted
tribute to Osama, up on the roof - a side-wall with
'Osama - Stronge' strong with an 'e' written on it. The
'Stronge' looking a little too much like 'Strange'.
Osama Bushkar
On May 19 2002 Osama Bushkar, son of an ex fighter and
construction worker, kissed his parents goodbye, went out
to work - a door-making workshop, he made doors for a
living - walked out of New Askar and made his way to
Netanya, a coastal fishing town inside '48 (pre Israeli
occupation Palestinian territory). On his way he met his
contacts - one PLFP, and one Aqsa (Al Aqsa Martyrs
Brigade), the group he was a fighter with, and picked up
his bomb belt and Israeli soldier's uniform. It would be
the perfect costume to die in, the ideal decoy for
self-detonation against the occupying force. Witnesses
say he stepped out of a taxi - into the bustling market,
alive with stalls of fresh fish and vegetables and fruit.
People shouting and moving and shopping - squeezing
bright fruits, checking for the sweetest and softest,
making plans on mobiles, chatter, laughter, concentration
on buying gifts, wondering about budgets, giving children
in prams something to nibble on, life life life. Osama
Bushkar ended his life and that of three Israelis. He
injured 58 people - 4 seriously.
Everyone says he was looking for a good future. He wanted
to work and just wished to be a good person. He was
a carpenter. His dream was to build the family house
better and help his brother Habash find love and marry.
He slept beside Habash in their room, marble-floored with
a strip-light and two sofas it was the livingroom where
the shebab would come and smoke and drink coffee late
into the night. We'd hang in their too, us gals, on our
own of course. Me and Hanan would have big karate fights
infront of all Im Ahmad's friends and neighbours. They
lined the room in chairs, large women, often cloistered,
always composed, but loosened up and revved up because of
our fighting. They'd sit clapping and cooing and cheering
us on. I'd find myself sparring and hopping around with
my 'Aaand-Again!' Sprite-eyed munkus sister, laughing and
yelping and pushing me into corners. At night Osama and
Habash would talk over the world, daily life, their daily
dreams, on the floor, on their mattresses, falling asleep
face to face. Osama was radicalised after he witnessed
the explosive death of five friends in April, shot to
pieces by an Apache, in broad daylight, yards from his
home. He became active in the Intifada after the attack,
but then quickly went back to his work. Osama had been a
fighter. He had gone up into the mountains with the older
fighters from the camps to participate in operations
against tanks and troops in April. The other fighters
told him he was little, that he should go home, but he
proved himself a talented marksman and committed soldier.
He was the youngest man to fight, with arms in the April
invasion. The martyr posters of him taking aim with an
Automatic Kalishnikov, complete with sniper's sight, are
not the result of a photoshop cut and paste empowerment
job. He knew how to handle a gun. Whether he owned one
personally is unknown.
What happened with Osama was a surprise to his parents.
He was the same as many of the young men involved in the
Intifada. He was not a complete member in any
political party - so his parents did not expect him to
make an attack.
The night before Osama made his attack, he got a phone
call. Osama said it was a friend who was in
hospital and that he wanted to go and visit him.
His father had asked, "What about work?"
Osama said he would just go in the morning and not be
late for work. When he left that morning and at
11:30 am did not return as he was supposed to, his
parents called a friend of his at work. The friend said
Osama was there but with another group of workers and
that he would actually see Osama at 2pm when the groups
were brought together. But at 2 o'clock, the groups
were brought together and Osama was absent. His
parents became very concerned and, after being encouraged
by friends, attempted to open the drawer where he kept
his things. It was locked. They broke the lock open
and inside found a note written by their son stating that
said he was going to make an attack and wished
everlasting love upon his family and friends. It said he
made the attack for the people who had been killed in his
camp. He said to Sharon that he is leaving hundreds of
people behind who will make attacks and destroy the land
under his feet. To his community, he asked them not
to forget to look to God and stay with God. He told
them not to forget to chase after the Israelis. He
sent his wishes to his family and friends, to remember
God and to forgive him any mistakes he ever made in his
life.
When they found the note they did not know what they
could do. They weren't even sure when he would make
the attack - there were 2 different attacks that
day. His did not know which political group Osama
was with. They tried to reach a person who they
thought could stop Osama's attack. He was the only
friend of Osama's that they knew was involved in militant
activity. But this person was with a different
party, not with the PFLP and he could not stop the
attack. When they came home from talking with this
person, they heard the news of the attack in Netanya.
In the morning of the second day, the news said the
attacker had been someone named Hosam Bushkar - they were
not sure whether it was Osama. In the night of the second
day, a video of Osama reading his wishes was broadcast on
the news. It was at this point that the whole family knew
what had happened. Habash had raged at the TV, yelling
that if he had only known, if he had only known, then he
would Never had let him go out and do it. Osama
left 2 wishes (notes) - one in his drawer at home, and
one with the PFLP, for which he made the attack for and
which he read for the video.
On TV, he said: 'I am making my attack because for Abu
Ali Mustafa, Chief of the PFLP who was killed, and for
the people slaughtered in Jenin, and in the old city of
Nablus'. His voice was composed, his manner assured. The
footage of his family, crowded into a corner on their
sofa by gangs of photographers shows the Adel reading out
a statement on the bombing, defiant. Salah sits beside
him, a rosier boy then, fatter, fresher faced but
emotionally sunk at that point. He is a different boy
now. Angrier, thinner, violent, more tearful, given to
more tantrums. His face is lined. His mother sits
motionless with a picture of Osama in her hands, held in
front of her chest, face downcast, a waxwork of grief. I
came to recognise the look on the father's face as
artificial, as not actually his face as it was before his
son died. I realised over time, the bright open clarity
of his eyes was symptomatic of a man still caught on the
crest of the shockwave of grief. Shock sticks, its effect
settles on the face, recurs behind the eyes. From the
faces of the Hamas men I picked up in my taxi once,
straight out from 6 months in prison, eyes glazed and
prised wide by shock, to the stunned drown of B'ha's
father eyes, shaking our hands in the grieving room, a
day after his son was shot dead before us, telling us
over and over 'Al Hamdullilah!', and the not-quite-seeing
eyes of Tha'er in Jenin, who watched his mother and
brother bleed slowly to death, over two days, while an
entire neighbourhood was gauged out by bulldozers. I know
how trauma lasts on a person's face now, how the
shockwave of grief just keeps rising and falling until
maybe, maybe it finally subsides, finally pools down into
calm. But I never saw it drop in Adel's eyes. They never
lost that open, almost hysterical glare.
Osama's mother kept going. Not the breadwinner, not the
head of the household, she did not sink into isolation
and fear of how to provide as her husband did. She did
not find refuge in constant visits to the mosque, prayer,
sleep, prayer sleep. She did not sit and read the Q'aran
by herself in a closed room, singing succinctly every
verse, in disciplined song. She did not listen, alone
again, to 'Ya Ooladi Rai' - 'Oh my son went out.' by Sawt
Hurya (Voice of Freedom), a song written about Osama,
sung by a 13 year-old girl, voice clear as crystal, and
an older man with sour tones and tears in his.
Palestinian fighter music. Im Ahmad carried on. The
shockwave of Osama's passing away only washing over her
again when her daughter Alham gave birth to Osama the
second. A tiny, swaddled, full-head-of-hair black boy who
looked just like Hamoody. It couldn't do anything but
bring back the memories of Her baby Osama. Her
motherhood, his life. One night as we lay together, side
by side, in a room bedded down with mattresses for me,
her, Alham, Dina, Iman, Sijood and Osama, we all said
goodnight to each other. I dwelled on Osama the baby. I
smiled merrily and said his name again fondly, 'Osama',
and touched her shoulder. He was only 4 days old. She
smiled back and I watched her seemingly turn his name
over in her mind, 'Osama' she repeated, slightly stuck.
Her eyes were fixed in a dawned new shock, 'Osama', she
said again and unblinkingly stared ahead, mouth slightly
open, hands clasping Bedouin style covers under her chin.
'Osama'. It was like her last breath.
Osama would have been 18 on the 6th of August.
After the attack, the Bushkars spent ten days in the
house during the day and slept somewhere else at
night. Then they spent two days completely out of
the house. They left the house one night before the
soldiers did actually come. The soldiers destroyed things
in the house, smashed up the doors, part of one
wall. This happened two weeks after the attack.
After two weeks, the soldiers came in and swamped the
camp, executed a dragnet arrest of all of the men, and
gave a lecture that they are doing
this - arresting them, tying their hands, beating them
etc. - because of Osama. The soldiers said that if
anyone ever made or tried to make an attack, that they
would come to their village and collect all of the people
and put them in the sun and treat them in a badly and say
this guy who made the attack is the reason we are doing
this to you.
The crowd was swelling, figures made their way up the
main street, passing between the soldier and police
jeeps, shivery and sleepy. I touch base with Sheddy, the
10-year-old son from the Abu Amer household - directly
attached to the Bushkar house. Many a time I had climbed
up the wooden ladder leading from the Bushkar yard to
their roof and descended the thinner metal one leading
down into their home. We'd smoke argilla, me and the
brothers or I'd talk to the girls, who'd all coo and
stare at me, bring in violently coloured juices or sweet
gritty coffee, and tell me I'm lovely. Sheddy's trying to
stare through the police jeep. Hands jammed in pockets,
face looking furrowed, he can't even give me one of his
lion-tooth, fraggly smiles. Half his home could go in
this blast. Im Rami comes hustling up the street,
fretting and weeping, her hands falling and rising into a
knot at her chest. I give her massive hug. Hebba, her
energetic tomgirl daughter comes bounding up too, hejab
flouncing behind her, scared and grabbing hold of her
friends. The women all huddle together, some melt inside
a house nearby, to sit and wring hands, drink tea, wait
for the sound. The lads are just easy, used to it all,
walking up casual, expecting it all; they saw their
friends - the five buried men in the shaheed grotto -
blown to pieces by a missile earlier in the year. In the
middle of the day in the middle of the street. Not that
much can shock you after something like that. I always
thought the shallow hole the missile left was just a scar
from the doing their usual lead pumping into the roads,
as they do, just for kicks, just to make people swerve
and slow and bump up and down everyday.
Rami gives me a cigarette which I stick behind my ear to
save for after the explosion. I'm too jumpy and
dry-mouthed to smoke it now. One of the neighbour's son's
tells me the soldiers have stolen his phone. I tell him
I'll try to get it back for him, not to worry and that
they'll probably give it back after the blast (they do).
I try to diffuse the tension around us by recounting the
incident, 5 minutes ago, of a kid in the house just near
the police jeep. As I'd been shove-dragged up to the
safe-spot, a voice could be heard screaming from a nearby
house, a tirade of abuse directed at the soldiers,
provoking them into cocking their guns into the front
gate of the house, 'COME AND SHOOT ME THEN YOU FUCKERS!!
COME ON!!!SHOOT! COME ON YOU FUCKING BASTARDS, LETS HAVE
YOU', all in Arabic, followed by titillated sniggers and
big Ssshhh!!s from within. The voice was that of a young
teenage boy. The soldiers postured around with their
guns, training them sporadically at the woven screen
door, but they could see noone and did nothing. Ahmad
Bushkar AKA Habash - named after George Habash -
the founder of the Arab National Movement and key force
in the establishment of the PFLP (Popular Front for the
Liberation of Palestine) arrives. He's a 1950s skinny
leather jacket kid. His eyes are bright and black. He's
thin, smokes a lot, and watches the TV up close -
literally about a metre away from the screen, feet up on
the table, cigarette in hand, concentrating. He spent 3
years in an Israeli prison for decking his boss. He had
agreed to do some cleaning and decorating work for an
Israeli man and homeowner. After a hard day's work, the
man refused to hand over any payment for his labour.
After verbal negotiations failed, Habash beat him pretty
seriously. I'm not entirely sure how badly but when he
told me the story, all the girls were swearing the boss
had got an absolute kicking. Habash just shrugged, took a
pull off his Arabi cigarette and side-nodded, conceding
it as a fact. It landed him in jail for his life between
the ages of 17 and 21. But like most Palestinian men I've
met who've been incarcerated i.e 90% of them, he got a
lot out of his time inside, met a lot of bright and
promising people, and learned some invaluable life
skills.
There must be about 100 people in the street by now. But
still no sign of Adel. It's the voices of the kids and
shebab behind me that alert me to his presence. 'Abu
Ahmad! Look, look' they say, some even point. He's the
last out, small and wiry (he's only about 5 ft 6) swamped
by his large leather flying jacket. Everything lulls into
a respectful/sympathetic hush. All eyes are upon him.
Striding up the street, his face is rueful, his movements
brisk. He is stopped by the military police on his way. I
am told this by neighbour shebab who yell, 'They've got
Abu Ahmad's ID, they've stolen Abu Ahmad's ID!', I scurry
off to where he is and stand right behind him, hands on
my hips. The soldier who's talking to him tells me to 'GO
AWAY!!', lifting up his gun at me to scare me away. I
just look sideways and say, 'I'm not going anywhere'. The
soldier breaks into laughter and lowers his gun, looks
away behind him, goes to lift it up again at me but
dissolves into peels of laughter again. He mutters
something under his breath like 'crazy fucking girl',
shakes his head and then continues to speak with Adel,
ignoring me altogether. He hands back Adel's ID after
about a minute and then we move off. Once we're both
safely amidst the throngs of neighbours, we are ordered,
via loud-hailer from the military jeep behind the police
jeep to Stand Back, Stay Back and Block our ears.
Many of the crowd move way back but me, Habash, the Abu
Rami brothers, the children of the one-toothed mallow and
wotsit selling woman, and Adel, stay where we are,
closest to the jeeps. We wait. I look at a half-dozing,
grey blanket huddled kid sitting on the pavement, ears
blocked, almost asleep. We take the fingers out of our
ears a few times, looking at one another like, 'well
where the bloody hell is it?' and then inserting them
back in after a few shrugs and a few seconds. They give
us a countdown before the boom hits. It's slightly
muffled behind my fingertips but still pretty mighty. It
sounds almost slowed down like a sky-cracking crash of
thunder. A shockwave passes beneath my feet, causing them
to rock, very gently, from the ball to the heel and to
the ball and back. Everything around us shakes and my
vision wavers slightly, as if someone just slapped me
really hard on the head. The rip-crash is followed by a
sighing sound, the sound of pulverised floors, walls and
ceilings, raining down into a growing mess of dust
steaming rubble. And it's over. A few seconds of silence
lilt on after the explosion, as people unblock their
ears, turn to eachother, look around, check their backs,
look up at all the familiar surroundings. And then
there's a surge forward of all the shebab, all eager to
see the damage. The Wahsz! (Ibrahim-Mr-Bean) shouts at
them all, 'WAIT a minute! Wait a minute!' he says, arms
out, trying to halt their advance, 'just wait, what's the
hurry, wait for them to go'. He gesture-looks to the
soldiers, who are all rapidly rolling up their bomb wire
and getting back into their vehicles, job done, over and
out, they just want to split and they do, rapidly. As
soon as the last jeep door slams shut and it revs it's
engine up to zoom away, the agitated shebab-mob break
ranks and legs it to the Bushkar house. Everybody
hurriedly follows suit.
Dust is still rising as we approach the exploded house.
The blast took out the wooden  electricity post and cables on the corner.
The wires hang lax and dead across the concrete rubble.
In the dark, our eyes sear into the black to make out
each last millimetre of damage.. There's no door, no wall
with 'Herow' on it, no steps, no approach, no kitchen,
livingroom, sleeping rooms, bits and bobs corner, toilet,
and no half of the Abu Amer house next door. Just a
section of the roof, upheld by a cracked-in-the-middle
and wonky square pillar and a rocky range of concrete
slabs - some 3 ft wide, peaking up to have a rippled
effect and others hand-size. Half buried amongst them I
see a metal cooking pot, filled with cement debris. It's
all that's left to suggest it was once a living and
breathing home. Water runs freely from a broken pipe
still half attached to the remains of the roof. Adel
shines a torch along the remnants of his levelled house.
The light beam bristles over all the levels and textures
of destruction. From the slab of concrete wall dangling
from the roof - like a single tooth in a punched in mouth
- to the cracked verge and gaping wall-hole that is the
edge of the halved Abu Amer house. The blast blew in the
windows of the Wahsz's, Abu Rami's and their neighbours
homes and sent strips of aluminim roof, ripped back and
frisbee-like hurled out, plus chunks of concrete blocks,
hurtling over onto the Abu Rami house roof. It also
succeeded in killing one of Rami's canaries. It was blown
clean off its perch by the sheer force of the explosion.
Everyone just stands around, following the torchbeam with
their eyes, some taking shakey steps over the jagged
concrete slabs, peering into the Abu Amer House, walking
in and out of it. Others are surveying the damage in the
Wahsz's house, other drinking hot sweet piping tea,
courtesy of Im Rami. A shaken Sheddy takes me up to their
roof to see the pulverised Bushkar home from above. What
cane I say? It just looks like a dump. A grey concrete
version of the mangled car-piles at the back of New
Askar. Sheddy's family had taken all their belongings out
of the rooms that were destroyed but the impact still
managed to hurl all the belongings piled up in the 'safe
room' out against the walls, making the whole place look
rifled through and robbed. They will now have to find a
new home - Amjid Rfaie, local raspy voiced Preventative
Security cop - said he would help them find one. After
tea, Habash and Hamoody, who arrived on the scene after
the soldiers had left, get me to 'Yalla'(let's go). We
walk fast in the cold and me and Hamoody stride ahead, he
says he's feeling okay, but what I'm sure he's feeling is
stunned. We get lost on the way, make to go down the
wrong warren alley. Habash has to redirect us, smoking
away and frowning, face temporarily breaking into smiles,
as we go in the wrong direction again. Our compass
point's been ripped out of place - the old house, the old
home, is gone. We finally make it back, wiped out and
off-centre and just in time to greet the neighbours all
flocked around the girls and Im Ahmad, sitting in
silence, trying to imagine what's left of their home. We
drink tea, comfort each other and eat 4am Ramadan meal
and that's it. It ended. The waiting, the wondering, the
searching, the moving. The grief of forced leaving of the
family home, the memory home, the anticipation of the
retaliation, the false alarms, the standing on the roof
every night, straining ears to hear the sound - a
bulldozer? A heavy army jeep laded with explosives? Is
it? is is coming?...And the final execution of collective
punishment by the IOF, that dreadful expectation -
Happened. And that's the end of the story.
Abu Ahmad, Adel, is now living with his brother. And the
rest of the Bushkars - happy to be away from their
father, whose tempers, violence and aggression
intensified after the death of Osama to breaking-point
(his more than theirs) are looking at renting a new home,
just 5 minutes from their current, clackety-heel floored,
dingy abode, and much much brighter.
This report was received on
December 6th,2002.
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