we are not numbers

emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights

Incident at the Ariel Checkpoint

Whom do you comfort first when you learn that a relative you know personally has been killed?
Young woman with hijab and colored dress in a wheatfield.
A road leading into Nablus.
A road near Nablus. Photo: Hammam AbuAlrob, Creative Commons 1.0

 

On April 27, 2023, I was on a bus from Nablus to my home village. Near the village of Haris, at the Ariel Checkpoint, as it is named by the occupation, is the Israeli settlement of Ariel.

This settlement was established in 1978 on lands belonging to the towns of Salfit, Iskaka, Marda, and Kifl Hares. It was established north of the city of Salfit on the eve of the signing of the Camp David Accords with Egypt. It initially covered an area of 500 dunams, and by the year 2017, it had a population of around 19,626 settlers.

I saw a very large man all alone and covered in blood. He was barefoot and lying next to his wrecked car, which appeared to have crashed into the side of the road. He was surrounded by heavily armed soldiers. Men who witnessed the scene were shouting, “Criminals emptied 40 bullets into his body for no reason.”

I felt my heart break into pieces, but I did not realize who the man was because the bus sped away from the scene quickly. All I could understand was that the young man had lost control of his vehicle near a military checkpoint and had crashed into the side of the road, causing significant damage to the front of the car.

I later heard that when the man attempted to get out of the car, a soldier attacked him instead of offering assistance. The young man, who was in pain, pushed the soldier away, and at that point other soldiers emptied their weapons into his body, slaughtering him. He died instantly. The soldiers then took his body to what’s known as the Numbered Cemetery, where each martyr is assigned a number and placed in a designated refrigerator with that number in order to complete their remaining prison sentence.

A pure soul

Man and his child.
Ahmad and one of his children. Photo provided by Yasmeen Taha

When I reached my home, I noticed that people were sad and angry. Many of my relatives were sobbing. There was a strange woman there whose features I didn’t recognize. She was screaming.

“What happened?” I begged her. “What happened?”

After some moments, I realized that the man who was killed at the checkpoint was my cousin, Ahmad, from the nearby village. He was 39 years old and had two children under the age of 10. He loved his family and did his best to give them everything they needed. In fact, I never saw a father love his children as much as he did.

He always helped people who came into his small tourist office with their travel arrangements. He also took photographs for formal events. I visited him when I was 18 to take the formal photographs I needed for my next step as a new student at Al Najah University. I had just graduated from high school, and he welcomed me and said “mabrook” (a Palestinian word we use to say congratulations) with a great smile on his face.

“I want you to have these photographs as a small gift from me,” he said. I was touched by this kind gesture.

I still remember the broad smile he had for anyone who crossed the road to his office door. He was a pure soul who never hurt anybody. He was a good father who did his best to give his children a happy life.

Ahmad studied accounting and was always honest and principled in his professional life. He lived in a small house in the middle of the village. His father died when he was very young. He relied on himself from an early age and didn’t depend on anyone else but himself and his mother to build his life and pursue his studies. His mother is still alive. He used to write poetry and short stories. I hope he is in a better place now with no pain or guilt.

Shocked into unconsciousness

When I learned it was my cousin who had been killed, I felt that my heart was breaking, but in a different way from what I had experienced before. Often, I had gone to comfort friends and relatives whose loved ones had been killed by the occupiers. However, this time I couldn’t determine whom I should comfort first. Should I comfort myself? Perhaps my uncle? Or my father and grandfather? I lost control of my body and fell to the ground from the shock. I didn’t regain consciousness until I found myself in my room with my mother by my side, trying to give me medication.

Later, my family tried to retrieve Ahmad’s body from the Israeli soldiers, but they refused to give us his body. They did this to increase his mother’s anguish for him. If they had given us his body, it would have comforted his mother. We decided to hire a lawyer and file a lawsuit to recover his body. After the lawyer studied the case, he told us that the case could take months or even years, so all we could do was pray.

After months of attempting to recover Ahmad’s body, the occupying authorities sent a message to the Palestinian police stating that they would hand over the body to his family. After several days, his family received his body, and he was buried in a large funeral. Many mourners attended as a sign of respect for his tortured remains that had been held in the occupier’s refrigerators.

Man and his child.
Mentor: Nina Quigley

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