February 1, 2004

Suicide Bombings

[Bethlehem, West Bank] When I first heard about the recent suicide bombing in Jerusalem, I was angry. I'm 100% opposed to the bombings, because I think that there are much better options for resistance. When I heard that the bomber was from Bethlehem, I was even more angry. That meant that the Israeli army would probably invade, and invasions makes life for the community more difficult. When I realized that I knew the bomber, I didn't know what to think.

Actually, I had met the young man, Ali Ja'ara, only once. I stopped by his police station to ask about a recent news story from Aida Refugee Camp. (The story was of the miracle baby born with the name of his martyred uncle on his cheek.) Ali spent about a half hour talking with me and my friend, Saliman. We were just a few guys hanging out. We talked a little about families, and he mentioned that it was difficult to live poor in a Palestinian refugee camp. The thing that I remember most about him was his humility. Ali was a police officer, but he seemed very down to earth, quiet with a ready smile. After we talked, he showed me where I could get a small gift for the baby, and then he introduced us to the family. Ali stayed a little while, maybe had coffee and a bit of food, but then he excused himself, and I never saw him again. Not until I saw his face on a local poster.

The Israeli newspaper Haaretz usually runs profiles of the individuals killed in suicide bombings. I read these with incredible sadness. The victim's faces are usually so happy, but now, and maybe forever, their photos are a reminder of tragedy and a needless end. Their biographies include the entire range of Israeli society -- immigrants from Russia, businessmen, soldiers, mothers, sometimes schoolchildren. I read about obstacles overcome, personal triumphs, birthdays to be celebrated, and recent weddings. Their stories start full of hope, but instead they all end in a senseless death.

Today I met Abu Ali, Ali Ja'ara's father. Then men in Ali's family were receiving visitors paying condolences. There was no celebration in the hearts of the family. I saw no joy in the eyes of the men. Ali's father looked crestfallen and demoralized. I shook Abu Ali's hand and told him I was sorry. I was sorry that he had lost a son.

I image that losing a child would be just about the worst experience in life. I can't imagine the pain he must feel. He has been quoted as saying he thought his son Ali would soon be married -- not buried. Abu Ali had lost even more than a son though. He also lost the only means of support for his family, and he lost his house, since the Israeli Army performed the standard demolition of the building where the suicide bomber lived. Abu Ali was already a refugee. Now he is a refugee without a home -- twice.

I sat in the room with about forty or fifty Palestinian men. Visitors greeted the family and then most sat in silence. There was some Arabic music playing -- songs of pain, I expect. I sat with the family for a while. I sat thinking of a situation that would drive a reasonable, personable young man to do such a horrible act -- a situation I still can't entirely understand. I sat thinking of victims -- both Israeli and Palestinian. Knowing that in my mind a bombing is wrong, I still felt a great compassion for these men who had just lost a son. It was the same feeling I had for the Israeli victims of the bombing.

It's easy to point fingers in this place. I know I do it. I think I know who causes most of what goes on. But regardless of who or what is to blame, the sad fact is that there are so many unnecessary victims on each side. Every time a bomber blows up a bus filled with civilians and every time the Israeli Army kills another innocent bystander, both sides lose.

Abu Ali's Demolished Home in Aida Refugee Camp, Bethlehem

(The Israeli Army continues to invade Bethlehem. You can find details on my newsgroup.)