Flags and Tears for Young Victims for Israeli Death Squads in Rafah Camp

By Stephen J. Sosebee

Deep in the Shaboura quarter of the immense Rafah refugee camp, four families mourn the shooting deaths of their sons. While Israeli military spokesmen claim the first two youths were shot and killed after Israeli plain clothed agents were "attacked with knives," eyewitnesses say Israeli soldiers in Arab clothes opened fire without warning from a car with Gaza license plates on two masked youths spray-painting on a wall. Two more Palestinian youths were then killed and over 600 injured (250 by gunfire alone) in clashes between Israeli forces and Gaza residents protesting the ambush.

In Rafah, with a population just under 100,000, more than 2,200 unarmed civilians—most of them young men or boys have been shot with live ammunition during the intifada. Of those, 75 were killed. This level of violence in the 24th year of a brutal Israeli occupation of a poverty-stricken 43 year-old refugee camp makes Rafah one of the most oppressive locations on the planet Earth.

Led by two Palestinian friends from Khan Younis, I enter the camp, just off the main road connecting Gaza to Egypt, with two European photographers on a sunny Mediterranean winter morning four days after the massacre. Immediately, we become part of the sea of men and boys passing through the narrow alleys and stepping over open sewage drains to pay condolences to the four families. The traditional three-day mourning period has been delayed by a four day curfew imposed on all of Rafah following the bloodletting.

The entrance to the first martyr's house is blocked by a huge Palestinian flag. As we stoop under the banner to enter, a voice booms out of the crowd of men milling around inside. "Yes, I am the father of the dead boy. Please sit down. You are all welcome here."

He is a proud, thin, white-bearded man wearing a brown cap and a long Islamic robe. "Yes, that's right, I speak English. I worked for the British in Majdal before 1948. For six years I cooked for them."

As usual, I succumb to a wave of guilt when introduced, as there is no pride in being "American" in Gaza. The old man, however, seems unconcerned about nationality. He turns to Paul, a British photographer. "I knew a man, Eric Burton from Manchester. A great bloke, I'll never forget him as long as I live."

He looks at my open notebook. "You want to know about my son? Islam Harb is his name and he is 18 years old. We had just finished selling fish in the market. I am fisherman, you see. When my son bent over to help, he was shot and killed."

A young man quietly serves Turkish coffee as the father halts to collect his thought in English. "We have to give blood. Write that. We are forced to give blood for Palestine and our freedom."

He pulls up a chair and sits down. "My father was killed in 1948, my wife's parents were also killed in 1948. My brother was killed in 1967, and, now they kill my son.”

A pause. "But what can we do? We are ready to give blood for our rights."

Other men converse with our interpreter, and the old man turns again to Paul. "We know you English are responsible for starting our problem, " he says softly, with a roll of his eyes as if repeating out loud a simple but basic truth painfully contemplated too often in the past. "But no matter, we don't blame the British people. We always differentiate between the government and the people." Both Paul and I are relieved.

More men arrive and kiss the old man with respect and sympathy. "You know, I can kill also, but what do I want to kill for? We don't like trouble. Why should I take your land and chase you away? We ought to live as brothers, to help each other. We just want our rights and peace."

Thoughts of his son return to the old man. "He was to be engaged tomorrow, on Friday, the holy day for Muslims. We had bought the girl everything and he was to be engaged to be married." He has said his piece. He turns to our interpreter and asks, still in English, if we have visited the other families yet.

A Sea of Sorrow

Across the main road dividing Shaboura are the homes of the first two youths ambushed. One of my friends from Khan Younis proudly whispers, as we walk up an alley over crudely placed boards laid to cover the open sewage, that these two were "activists in the Popular Front. " When we reach our destination, a huge grey canvas overhead provides shade for the silent sea of somber faces occupying the long rows of chairs. Before sitting, we pass down a line of middle-aged male relatives, shaking hands and offering condolences. "There are more people here because the two boys lived next to each other," explains my friend.

A man looking too young to be a grieving father is brought over to meet us. He is the father of 18-year-old Hisham Abu Harb. In Arabic, the man talks about his son as a good student and a quiet boy who was "polite to everyone. " He wasn't present when his son was killed, but he has heard the boys were masked and were shot by soldiers in Arab clothes. While the man speaks to someone else, my friend leans over to explain: "Most of the fathers don't know the truth about their sons; they don't know about their political activities in the camp."

Hisham left seven sisters and four brothers and spent the obligatory nine months most Gazan youths endure in the Ansar III prison in the Negev desert. "As long as we are denied our just rights we will continue to sacrifice for our freedom, " his father says.

The father of Fawzi Issa, 18, who was killed along with Hisham, is brought over. He is an UNRWA employee and looks as though he has not slept in the four days since his son was murdered. "During the curfew, the army came and burned the canvas set up for the funeral. They tried to provoke the people with tear gas, but the families built it again this morning when the curfew was lifted. " Our interpreter is still repeating the grieving father's words when we are interrupted by a commotion in the alley.

Three youths appear in matching grey uniforms and hoods decorated with Palestinian flags. Crowds of young boys stare in awe as the shebab spray paint slogans on the wall and pass out leaflets commemorating the martyrs on behalf of Fatah, Yasser Arafat's mainstream PLO faction. Israeli soldiers are "legally" permitted to shoot on sight any Palestinian wearing a mask.

"Our family considers Fawzi's death a sacrifice for our homeland and principles, " the father continues after the masked youths leave. "I believe there is no difference between my son and the many other people who have been killed."

Relatives address our interpreter in Arabic. "The first two boys were not killed directly, it seems, " the interpreter explains. "They were shot when plain clothed Zionist intelligence agents saw them spray painting on a wall. The soldiers took them and beat them to death after that. Many people saw this. " Both fathers add that there were signs of beatings on the bodies when they were returned for burial.

Another commotion breaks out among the hundreds of youths in the alley. Two men in matching black ninja pants, shirts and hoods appear. A tall one holds a homemade submachine gun while the other spray paints with a hand grenade in one hand. As the two pass through the crowd to kiss the martyrs' fathers, the boys sing nationalist songs. "They're from the PFLP, " my friend says in my ear. "Don't forget that."

The Last Martyr's House

A scratchy tape of intifada music blares loudly at the last martyr's house which, like the others, is draped in a huge Palestinian banner. Again we pass down a line of somber men shaking hands, and in return are greeted with words of peace and welcome. A red eyed young man holding a child approaches as we sit down. It seems the father of the family is dead. In Palestine, it is then the eldest son's obligation to greet mourners, and this young man looks both uneasy and unprepared for such duty.

"Osama Bilbassy was 20 years old. He was seriously wounded when he went to help the first two youths," says the brother, through our interpreter. "The Zionist intelligence were in the same place, waiting for the military to take away the injured boys. Osama, like many others, went to help them. He died at Nasser Hospital in Khan Younis. " Osama had been arrested many times and had spent five months in Ansar 2 and 3. The military had taken his ID and he was wanted by the Israeli occupation authorities.

More people stream in as a bearded man grabs Osama's brother and, with a strong but gentle embrace, whispers comfort in his ear. I wonder what is said to comfort anyone at such a time.

"During the curfew after he was shot, the army came to the house and ripped down the pictures of Osama and locked us in the house with a steel bar for three days. The Red Cross came only yesterday to let us out, " the brother continues.

He explains that his mother was injured by the Israeli agents who killed her son, and he goes to ask her if she will allow us to meet her. We pass a huge drawing of Arafat and Osama as we walk down an alley into a house where Osama's mother lies on a blanket, surrounded by elderly female relatives. We first file through an adjoining room where young girls, crying under a Palestinian flag, greet us with determined "V" signs.

Osama's mother greets everyone warmly in the same fashion: A strong embrace and kisses on each cheek. She has a very loving and strong presence.

"I was shot with a rubber bullet in my chest when I went to help my injured son, " she says. "I am very proud of Osama. " The mother is handed a photo of her dead son and places it over her heart as she begins to cry and speak. "She is telling God that she also is willing to sacrifice her soul for Palestine, our interpreter explains.

As we leave the final martyr's house, the whine of an army jeep entering the camp can be heard in the distance. Crowds of youths begin to mobilize for the day's clashes. As we file out through the courtyard to leave, two dozen older men in three well-organized rows stand silently in noon prayer facing Mecca. As one they kneel and touch their foreheads to the ground. As I look back, their heads rise, and the Mediterranean sun strikes their faces. In the bright sunlight I see the glint of tears.

Stephen J. Sosebee is a free-lance writer from Kent, OH presently living in Gaza.