Sunday, October 24, 2004

"Don't shoot! It's a little girl"

A Schoolgirl Riddled With Bullets... And No One Is To Blame
Israeli Unit Commander Cleared Of Palestinian Pupil's Death
By Chris McGreal in Rafah
The Guardian - UK10-20-4

The undisputed facts are these: it was broad daylight, 13-year-old Iman al-Hams was wearing her school uniform, and when she walked into the Israeli army's "forbidden zone" at the bottom of her street she was carrying her satchel. A few minutes later the short, slight child was pumped with bullets. Doctors counted at least 17 wounds and said much of her head was destroyed.

Beyond that there is little agreement between the army top brass and Palestinian witnesses as to how Iman came to die last week, or even among members of the military unit responsible for killing the child in Gaza's Rafah refugee camp.

Palestinian witnesses described the shooting as cold-blooded. They say soldiers could not have failed to see they were firing at a child, and she was killed as she already lay wounded and helpless.

"Some soldiers were lying on the ground and shooting very heavily toward her," said Basim Breaka, who saw the killing from her living room. "Then one of the soldiers walked to her and emptied his clip into her. For sure she died on the second or third bullet. I could see her lying on the ground, not moving. I can't imagine why that soldier wanted to shoot her after she was dead."

This week an army investigation cleared the unit's commander after some of his own soldiers accused him of giving the order to shoot knowing the target was a young girl, and of then emptying the clip of his automatic rifle into her.

On the day she died, Iman left home shortly before 7am for the short walk to school in Rafah's Tal al-Sultan neighbourhood. The school, facing the heavily militarised border with Egypt, is under the shadow of a towering camouflaged Israeli gunpost.

Like almost every other building in the area, Iman's school is pockmarked by bullets. Last year, a 13-year-old boy was shot dead by the army outside the school. This year, two pupils and a teacher were wounded by bullets inside the grounds.

Iman walked past her school with her satchel over her shoulder, crossed the road and climbed down a small sandy bank to an area that was an olive and citrus orchard until the army's bulldozers flattened it in April. She had entered the "forbidden zone" next to the watchtower where any Palestinian risks being shot.

The schoolgirl kept on walking toward the tower but was still several hundred metres away when two shots caught her in the leg. She dropped her bag, turned, tried to hobble away, and fell.

Four or five soldiers emerged from the army post and shot at her from a distance. Palestinian witnesses and some Israeli soldiers say that the platoon commander moved in closer to put two bullets in the child's head. They say that he then walked away, turned back and fired a stream of bullets into her body.

Iman's corpse was taken to Rafah's hospital and inspected by Dr Mohammed al-Hams. "She has at least 17 bullets in several parts of the body, all along the chest, hands, arms, legs," he said. "The bullets were large and shot from a close distance. The most serious injuries were to her head. She had three bullets in the head. One bullet was shot from the right side of the face beside the ear. It had a big impact on the whole face. Another bullet went from the neck to the face and damaged the area under the mouth."

The doctor said that the nature of the wounds suggested that Iman was already dead when some of the bullets hit her. The army swiftly blamed Iman for her own death by entering the forbidden zone. At first, the military said soldiers suspected the girl was carrying a bomb in her satchel. When it turned out there was no bomb, it said she was being used by Palestinian combatants to lure troops from their post.

But some soldiers in the unit responsible, the Shaked battalion, were outraged at what they saw as a cover-up. One told Yedioth Ahronoth newspaper that a soldier in the watchtower had told the company commander that he was about to shoot a child: "Don't shoot, it's a little girl".

"The company commander approached her, shot two bullets into her, walked back towards the force, turned back to her, switched his weapon to automatic and emptied his entire magazine into her. We were in shock. We couldn't believe what he was doing. Our hearts ached for her. Just a girl of 13," a soldier told the newspaper.

Other soldiers said that if the company commander was not dismissed they would refuse to serve under him: "It is a disgrace that he is still in his position. We want him kicked out."

The accounts of Palestinian witnesses back the claims of the protesting soldiers.

Fuad Zourob was working at a small brick factory overlooking the area where Iman was shot. "The girl was walking in the sand. She was shot from the army post. She was hit in the leg and she was crawling.

"Then she stood up and started to try and run and then she fell. The shooting went on. The soldiers arrived by foot. One came close to the girl and started to shoot. He walked away, turned back and then shot her some more," he said.

Yousef Breaka watched from the balcony of his second floor flat. He owns the 12 acres of bulldozed land beside the building which Iman crossed minutes before she was shot.

"The first shot came from the army post. It hit her in the leg. She was starting to walk on and then fell. She dropped her bag. They were firing, heavy shooting. I am sure she died before the two soldiers came and shot her bag and then her," he said.

Mr Breaka's living room wall is decorated with the holes of nine bullets fired from the Israeli army watchtower two years ago. A tenth bullet killed his 80-year-old mother, Jindiya.

Neither Iman's father, Samir al-Hams, nor the witnesses know why the girl walked into the forbidden zone.

"I can't explain why she was there. I've asked everyone and no one can explain it. Perhaps she just wanted to walk on the sand. Perhaps she was confused. I don't know," said Mr al-Hams.

Mr Zourob was surprised to see Iman walking at the back of his factory. "I was astonished. I didn't know why she was there. No one goes toward that area. She was alone but some of the schoolchildren were calling her: Iman, why are you there?" he said.

The watchtower sits atop a large hill of sand. It is surrounded by barbed wire and other defences. Even before she was hit in the leg, it would have taken Iman 10 minutes or more to scramble up the hill. Once she was wounded, there was little chance she could have got to the watchtower.

If she was carrying a bomb, it could have harmed Israeli troops had she got close enough to them. But after Iman was shot in the leg she dropped her school bag.

Palestinian witnesses say soldiers pumped it full of bullets, establishing that it was not a bomb, but still went on to shoot the girl.

The Israeli army's rules of engagement permit soldiers to wound a person who enters a security zone and does not heed warning shots to leave. But once the person is wounded, soldiers are only permitted to kill if there is an imminent threat to their lives. Witnesses say Iman was helpless and posed no such threat.

Her father is a teacher at a primary school neighbouring his daughter's. "The day Iman was killed, the headmistress of her school called me at 8.15 and asked why she wasn't at school. I said I had no idea.," he said.

"I ran to the school. The teachers and headmistress told me the army shot toward a small girl but she was fine, don't worry. I calmed down a bit when I heard that and thought maybe they shot toward her to make her afraid and arrested her for interrogation and they will release her. But then they declared her dead. That was the worst moment in my life."

This week, the officer responsible for the Gaza strip, Major General Dan Harel, completed his investigation and pronounced that the company commander had not acted unethically in the shooting of Iman but was being suspended for losing the confidence of his soldiers.

The speed of the investigation has revealed once again the cursory nature of the army's inquiries into such shootings. A more thorough investigation usually only follows if there is external pressure, such as in the case of three Britons shot dead by Israeli soldiers over the past two years.

The military has quietly dropped an investigation into the killing by an Israeli sniper of a brother and sister, both teenagers, in Rafah in May. The army falsely claimed that the pair were killed by a Palestinian bomb and only began the investigation after journalists found the bodies of the children and reported that both had a single shot to the head.

Under pressure from the revelations of the Shaked battalion soldiers, the military police has launched a separate investigation into the death of Iman al-Hams. The soldiers say they will insist that it is completed.

Guardian Unlimited © Guardian Newspapers Limited 2004 http://www.guardian.co.uk/israel/Story/0,2763,1332219,00.html

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Friday, October 22, 2004

Fast Food

At iftaar parties:

mixture

sambousa -- chicken, cheese

mango milkshake, lemonade

pineapple pastries

chicken broast

french fries

dates

apples

figs

pizza

ta'miya

kebab

chana and chutney

patties

soup

For the girl in the refugee camp:

a crust of bread with humus. And water.

*******************************

Just something I was thinking of today,

When I was very hungry in the day.

Rida


When I kept my first fast

I was too young to know

[I was five or maybe four]

Why I was not eating.

***********************
I ate cornflakes for suhoor

I wore new clothes that day

White and silver [I remember].

To keep my mind off the hunger.

****************************
For iftaar

I made a long list

Of food I wanted to eat

But I was too tired to eat it all.

And slept before it was time for me to sleep!


Rasha :)

First Fast

7:30 am
The very first Ramadan I have to keep all my fasts as fardh, I find myself in the middle of a desert.
Not the prettified lush palm trees and 24/7 AC-ed mirage, where a can of chilled cola is never out of reach and you need cotton quilts in summer, but the Real Thing. Where camel carts trundle on sandy paths and women dressed in scarlet tie-and-dye clothes balance brown earthen pitchers on their heads and walk miles to get a drink of water for their families.

I wake up with cacti growing in my throat and check my wristwatch. Groan. Hours to go until iftaar.

Unable to lie still, I get out of bed and do wudhu with cool water out of an earthen pot. Everyone else seems to be asleep. I sit on the rope-bed in the verandah and let the hot desert wind wipe my face with its feverish fingers.
* * * * * * *
At suhoor earlier that morning, I was shocked to see mango everywhere. Mango with milk. Mango with porridge. Mango with roti. I think I even saw someone eating mango with tea.
I guess my face unwittingly reflected the horror I felt, when one of my cousins jibed…"This isn't Inglistaan sister. ."
"Can I have some bread?"
"Where does that grow?"

Not being in the mood for wisecracks at 4 am in the morning, I have a glass of milk and a chocolate. Already, I have acquired a "reputation" as the girl-who-only-ate-chocolates. Which explains why I received only nine proposals in my first week there. If I had been a regular girl, the number may well have been ninety.
* * * *
10:30 am:
Everyone's up. The boys are taking airguns off the niches in the wall and the women are organizing the household.

"What's up?" I ask the only brother it is safe to talk to, because he hasn't yet grown the trademark upturned moustache.
"A hunting we will go", he sings…he goes to a British boarding school in a big city.
"Whenever we have guests over, we never buy meat. We hunt it…" he explains, mentally grooming his moustache.

11 .15 am
While the men are climbing onto jeeps, my cousin calls me out to the terrace. "Look there…that's a red storm. We might even get caught in it"…he sounds as if he's looking forward to it.

1.30 pm
It's true. It is a storm where the red sand swirls in the air like rain and beats against windows and closed doors, After dhuhr, I have little else to do so I sit by the window and watch the storm wear itself out against the red stone of the house.
I have been forbidden the terrace . My aunt says she played with the children of jinns there as a child, and they may still be lurking there waiting to make friends with strange, new girls . I believe her.


3.20 pm

They're back. Jeeps laden with carcasses. Wild duck and wild rabbit. Wild deer. There's even a wild fowl in there.

"Want to come and have a look?" a cousin asks.
I get up grudgingly and go to the kitchen where the booty is equally divided between maids and cooks who set to work cleaning and cooking. Kebabs. Korma. Biryaani.

4:15 pm
After 'asr I finally spot something to see. Construction workers live in shanties close to the red-stone house, moving their huts whenever they get a new contract, never aspiring to live in the houses they build for others.
The women return first, babies in slings on their backs and water pots balanced on heads and waists. They set to work, making smoky fires, kneading barley dough and grinding garlic and chilli to a fiery red paste. They slap the dough between their palms and cook it on overturned iron skillets.

The smell of their cooking mixes with the aroma of sizzling kebabs and pakoras.

5:30 pm
The girls are dolling up in their rooms and the servants are spreading metres of starched white dastarkhaan in the verandah.

My great-grandmother's rocking chair is brought out, she follows leaning on the arms of two middle-aged daughters-in-law. She smells of moth balls and rose water. She catches my eye and nods to me to come closer. She kisses my forehead and asks me what I have been doing all day. Have I decided on any of her great-grandsons, she asks. I grimace and hope it passes for a "shy smile".

6.25 pm
The guests are here. Girls and women, eyes bright with satiated sleep and ears, arms, necks, noses aglow with glinting jewels. I have a curiosity value of my own as the strange, chocolate-eating-cousin-from-outer-space and invite many stares. A weak spiral of smoke rises beyond the wall.
I get up to check it out.
The labourers are back. Sitting in groups around the cooking fires, waiting for the cannon ball to sound.

7.15
Bright streaks explode in the maghrib sky. We all drink almond sherbet and eat sticky sweet dates. The girl on my left offers me some more sherbet, but I feel thirsty for water. I make my way to the kitchen where the sight of so much food nearly makes me retch.

I step out of the house and walk toward the shanties, not knowing why I'm going there. I can see them eating.
"Where d'you think you're going?" an indignant voice follows me. It's one of the maids.
"Oh just walking around…I want to check out what those people are eating for iftaar."
"Do you know they kidnap young girls like you and sell them? Besides, you won't like what they're eating."
"I only want to try. Can you get me some?"
"I'll be kicked out of the house if anyone comes to know I've been feeding visitors with labourers food."
"I won't let anyone know. Really."

After a while she returns with a piece of bread smeared with a little red chutney. It is still warm. The labourers eye us while chewing their food, never pausing, except to drink a gulp of water.

I put a piece of the bread in my mouth. It is hard to chew and tasteless.
Why would anyone eat it with so much relish?
* * * *
This Ramadan diary is post-dated by about 15 years, but it remains one of my most powerful memories of Ramadan…one that is refreshed annually by the sight of overloaded sufras at iftaar parties.

It is easy to romanticize hunger. We read about the early Muslims passing out from hunger by the roadside, eating leaves and chewing animal skins, licking the remains of empty containers to ward off hunger. We read about Allaah's Messenger tying his girdle tightly against his stomach in times of want and eating only to a third of his stomach in times of plenty.
We read about the Mothers of the Believers surviving on "the two black things" : dates and water. We read about them breaking their fast with a crust of bread, having spent hundreds of gold coins in charity in the earlier part of the day. We read of men weeping while breaking their fast with a cool drink and sufficient food, for fear that they might be receiving the rewards of their deeds in this world and will have nothing in the hereafter.
Yet, we justify our indulgences as signs of "barakah" – the blessings of Ramadan. Notwithstanding the mountains of uneaten food that make their way to the garbage. Notwithstanding the fact that we have turned the month of fasting into night after night of unabashed feasting.
Notwithstanding the fact that as we eat, drink and make merry, there are people in our Ummah – our extended family -- for whom the hunger does not end at sunset.

May Allaah forgive us our shortcomings and excesses.
May Allaah accept from us our good deeds done only for His sake.

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