|
|
Nuseirat was under a curfew, and the Israeli army agreed to allow her burial on the condition that only the immediate family was to be present under the monitoring of Israeli soldiers. We arrived at the graveyard, carrying the coffin and were soon joined by Mariam, Zarefah’s mother, who came running into the graveyard calling out her daughter’s name. We began digging, but neighbors peeking through their windows quickly concluded that Zarefah has died and was being buried. My mother was a beloved neighbor. She was particularly adored among the older women of the camp, whom Zarefah treated with untold kindness. “Allahu Akbar,” resonated a voice, coming from one of the refugee homes. “Um Anwar has died” cried another. Within minutes, shouts of “God is Great” echoed throughout the camp. People appeared from everywhere, carrying Palestinian flags; women, children, old men and women, and youth, all descending onto the graveyard. Refugees were outraged that the poor woman was to be buried based on military instruction, and was followed, even to her grave, under the watchful eyes of the occupiers, their guns, tanks and a hovering army helicopter. Youth began throwing stones, and soldiers responded with bullets and teargas. But the people were not to disperse easily this time. Thousands of them ensured that Zarefah would depart the earth and enter Paradise in the company of friends, treated as a martyr should be treated. As an ambulance hauled some of the wounded to the local clinic, Zarefah was lowered in the ground amidst chants and Quranic verses, recited en mass. Shouts of “Allahu Akbar” were intermingled with the whimpers and prayers of the crowd, the sound bombs, the teargas, and the hovering helicopter. My mother was 42-years-old when she died.
|
