standwithpalestine: When I heard that two children from the Aida Refugee Camp had been shot I instan
standwithpalestine: When I heard that two children from the Aida Refugee Camp had been shot I instantly thought of Abdul Rahman and his two cousins Ameer and Mohammad. I rushed to the radio and turned it up louder - they gave the first name (injured but in stable condition) and relief washed over me. He wasn’t one of mine - and more importantly he was okay. Then they gave the second name. Abdul Rahman Obeidallah, thirteen years old, dead. I thought of his parents. I thought of his friends. I thought of his siblings. I thought of him. Then I thought of nothing. I met Abdul Rahman and his cousins Ameer and Mohammad three months ago at Aida Refugee Camp. I had been enlisted to help with face painting for Playgrounds for Palestine. We were debuting a new playground and the air was thick with excitement and energy. I had just come back from a day of sight seeing around Bethlehem and I was showing off what I had bought from the gift shop to a group of kids. Abdul Rahman approached me first, Mohammad in tow. Our first interaction began with him teasing me mercilessly for my selections. “Are you kidding me?! That’s my favorite one!” I cried. He didn’t like the pattern on the bowls that I had bought.“They’re okay…” he said trying to make me feel better. “At least you didn’t buy them for someone!”“I bought it as a house warming gift for my aunt!” Pause. Mohammad and Abdul Rahman looked at each other, then me, then we burst into laughter. From that moment on my face painting duties were over. There were enough volunteers that I handed in my painting supplies and made my way through the crowds of people with Mohammad and Abdul Rahman leading the way. They showed me all around Aida Refugee Camp and gave me the low down on all the local gossip - including their recent fight with another cousin. “See that kid over there?” Abdul Rahman whispered tilting his head to the right. I looked behind me and nodded leaning in. “Thats our cousin. We’ll never talk to him again as long as we live.” I began laughing and Abdul Rahman cracked a smile. “I’m serious! I’ll be 90 years old, sitting on my porch, and when he passes by I’m not even going to greet him!” We didn’t know it then, but Abdul Rahman would never get to see 90. He didn’t even get to see 14. The Israeli Army would make sure of that. The Israeli Military later reported that the shooting of Abdul Rahman was an “accident”. No apology. No repercussions for the soldier who committed the murder. No explanation for why Abdul Rahman had been killed with live ammunition, when for years, Israel has continued to claim that they only use rubber bullets. Just, an accident. He had been standing under a United Nations poster when he was shot directly in the chest. He was still alive as they raced him to the hospital, blood seeping through his school uniform. An hour later I heard the report. “Abdul Rahman Obeidallah. Thirteen years old. Dead.”Abdul Rahman had told me he was fifteen years old. At first, I hadn’t believed him. “I swear!” He said grinning. It was the same grin that I would later recognize as his tell. He would try and fight it but eventually it would break through mischievous and playful - poker wouldn’t be his forte. And yet, on that day, I chose to believe him. After quite some back and forth I finally relented and agreed that he must be fifteen. In the three months that I knew him he never admitted otherwise. It was the final prank he had played on me, and it proved to be a saving grace. It gave me hope when they announced his death. “Abdul Rahman Obeidallah. Thirteen years old. Dead.” But Abdul Rahman was fifteen, he wasn’t thirteen! I used it as a crutch for the next few days. When I felt overwhelmed and consumed with grief and anger I felt a surge of hope as I reminded myself that it probably wasn’t him. He was fifteen after all. With the Israeli Army posted at the gates to the Aida Refugee Camp I couldn’t get access to any of the boys - and secretly I was grateful for that. I could keep on living in my bubble of denial, for at least just a little bit longer. I met Ameer on the same day that I met Abdul Rahman and Mohammad. Abdul Rahman was like a proud father. He told me about how his cousin, Ameer, could jump from structure to structure. How he could climb to the highest point and jump off with nothing to break his fall. No, he doesn’t get scared. Yes, he’s very brave. Do you want to see for yourself? Don’t move! I’ll go get him! Abdul Rahman raced off then paused at the entrance to the playground. Looking back he pointed at me “don’t leave!” he said. I promised him I wouldn’t leave until he came back. Ten minutes later he returned with Ameer by his side. You couldn’t take the smile off of Abdul Rahman’s face as Ameer raced around the playground. Abdul Rahman was right. Ameer was amazing! Ameer made a final grand leap from the top of the playground, without me realizing. I stepped forward and ended up inches from the spot he landed. I screamed causing Abdul Rahman to cry out with laughter. Later the three of us sat on the structure and I told them there was a name for what Ameer had been doing: parkour. They asked me about America. Abdul Rahman told me America was beautiful. I asked him if he’d ever been. He laughed and shook his head. “No but I’ve seen pictures.” He told me about how he wished to go to Jerusalem one day. Palestinians have to get special permission to be able to enter Jerusalem. I told him how I was born there and hoped to be able to return one day as well. The sun was setting and our conversations showed no signs of stopping. Ameer, Abdul Rahman, Mohammad, and I exchanged Facebooks. We kept in touch through Facebook Messenger. I can’t read or write Arabic and they struggled with English so we communicated through emojis. I talked about Ameer, Abdul Rahman, and Mohammad to anyone who would listen. The day that I spent with them had meant so much to me. Looking back on a journal entry of that day, I believe the following sentence that I had written down put it perfectly: “they made me feel like one of their own.” The last time I saw Abdul Rahman he invited me to go to an amusement park with the kids from the refugee camp. I couldn’t go that day but promised I would visit and go with them another time. Not going will remain one of the biggest regrets of my life. Once things calm down at Aida I plan on visiting Mohammad, Ameer, and Abdul Rahman’s family. I never got a chance to meet his siblings. With Abdul Rahman as their eldest brother I can only imagine what a great influence he was on them and how wonderful they will be. I’m also going to go to the amusement park that Abdul Rahman invited me to. Even though I told him I’m terrified of amusement rides and that I’ve never been on a roller coaster in my life, I plan on riding every single one in his honor. I am so utterly grateful for the limited time I got to spend with Abdul Rahman. I have been trying to write a post about him, Mohammad, and Ameer for quite some time but I never felt that anything I wrote did them justice. I erased countless unfinished posts as I vowed to eventually take some time, sit down, and write something that truly captured the time I spent with them. Even now, I know that this post is not enough. But I felt that I had to post something. Not just because the world deserves to know what is happening in Palestine and not just because I feel an obligation to share and write about what is happening here but because Abdul Rahman deserves more than just a one line statement. Abdul Rahman deserves more than “it was an accident.” Abdul Rahman was so much more than “Abdul Rahman Obeidallah. Thirteen years old. Dead.” He was Abdul Rahman Obeidallah, who thought America was beautiful and never got a chance to visit Jerusalem. He was Abdul Rahman Obeidallah who loved Real Madrid. He was Abdul Rahman Obeidallah whose favorite movies were Despicable Me and Home Alone. He was Abdul Rahman Obeidallah who was a huge WWE fan. He was Abdul Rahman Obeidallah cousin of Mohammad and Ameer. He was Abdul Rahman Obeidallah eldest brother and son of the Obeidallah family. He was thirteen years old. He was shot in cold blood. He still had on his school uniform. He was more than just a post in the newspaper. He was most than just another name on the list of Palestinians murdered by Israeli Authority. He was worth more than just “an accident”. – Nural Hasan -- source link