I came to Israel from South Africa in 1967; I came as a volunteer after the Six Day War, thinking I’d be here for about six months. I really wanted to leave South Africa because I’d been active in the anti–apartheid movement and it was getting very pressured and ugly. I actually wanted to live in the States, then I came here and I’ve had this sort of love–hate relationship with this country ever since. I went to a Hebrew language program, got married and had two kids, worked for the Jerusalem Post, and then with immigrants to help them find employment. After I got divorced I came to live in Tel Aviv.
I saw the scars in both of my children after serving in the military, from having to be in the first intifada.
I brought up my children in a very tolerant and loving liberal way; David and Eran, it was kind of like a triangle – the three of us. David went to the Thelma Yellin School of the Arts because he was a very gifted musician. Out of his whole class he was probably the only one who went to the army. I was really surprised when he chose that, but I think you can’t take responsibility for somebody else’s life, even if it is your child. Even in his regular army service David was torn because he didn’t want to serve in the Occupied Territories. He became an officer and was called to go to Hebron. He was in a terrible quandary and came to me and said, “What the hell am I going to do? I don’t want to be there.” I said, “If you want to go to jail I’ll support you, but are you going to make a difference if you go to jail”. Because basically, if he were sent to jail, when he got out they’d put him somewhere else [in the Occupied Territories]. It’s a never–ending story. If it would have created a huge noise then maybe that would have been the right choice; but you can also go [to your military post] and lead by example, by treating people around you with respect.
I saw the scars in both of my children after serving in the military, from having to be in the first intifada. They grew up in a home that never made any fuss over one’s creed or color; we just liked people. All through this army service that was what happened all the time [debating whether to serve in the Territories], and then this group was formed of officers that did not want to serve in the Occupied Territories and David joined and went to all the demonstrations; he was also part of the peace movement.
After the army David went to Tel Aviv University and studied philosophy and psychology and then started to do his Masters in Philosophy of Education. He was teaching philosophy at a pre–military program for potential social leaders and he was also teaching at Tel Aviv University. Then he got called up for reserve duty [milu’im] and the whole issue came up again: he doesn’t want to go, if he goes he doesn’t want to serve in the Occupied Territories. If he doesn’t go he’s letting his soldiers down, what kind of example is it for these kids who are going to be inducted into the army in two months, if he goes he would treat anybody, any Palestinian, with respect, and so would his soldiers by his example. I said, “Maybe you are setting a good example [by refusing to go]” and he said, “I can’t let my soldiers down and if I don’t go someone else will and will do terrible things.” I keep telling everybody that there isn’t really black and white.
David went to his reserve service and I was filled with a terrible premonition, of fear I suppose. He called me on that Saturday and said, “I have done everything to protect us. You know I love my life, but this is a terrible place, I feel like a sitting duck.” He never shared that kind of stuff with me, ever. My kids never told me what they were doing in the army. They always told me ridiculous stories thinking that I was going believe them. The next morning I got up very early and ran to work hours before I had to be there. I didn’t want to be at home, I had a very restless feeling.
It's not that I'm not the same person I was. I'm the same person with a lot of pain.
David was killed on March 3rd 2002. On October 2004 the sniper who killed David was caught, which for me was a huge step. That was really the test. Do I actually mean what I’m saying or am I just saying it because… That is the test of whether I really have integrity in the work I’m doing. Do I really mean what I’m saying when I talk about reconciliation. I wrote a letter to the family. It took me about four months to make the decision, many sleepless nights and a lot of searching inside myself about whether this is what I really mean. I wrote them a letter, which two of the Palestinians from our group delivered to the family. They promised to write me a letter. It will take time; these things take time, I’m waiting. It could take five years for them to do that. They will deliver the letter that I wrote to their son who is in jail. So in my own personal development, this was the big milestone for me. When he was caught I didn’t feel anything; not satisfaction, except maybe satisfaction that he can’t do it to anybody else. There is no sense of revenge and I have never looked for that.
These past years have been an incredible experience for me. I’ve learned such a lot for my own personal growth, apart from the work I’m doing, which is almost the reason I get up in the morning, actually. It’s something I feel almost duty–bound to be doing; it’s not a favor that I’m doing for anyone else but a personal mission almost. I know this works. I believe removing the stigma from each side and getting to know the person on the other side allows for a removal of fear, and a way to understand that a long–term reconciliation process is possible. That’s also based on my background as a South African person, seeing the miracle of South Africa and how that all happened and that it was actually possible.
On David’s grave there is a quotation by Khalil Gibran that says:
The whole earth is my birthplace and all humans are my brothers.
...nothing for me is more sacred than human life, no revenge or hatred can ever bring my child back.
I’m married, a mother of eight children and a homemaker. I got married at an early age, and after five years I gave birth to my eldest child, Mahmoud. Mahmoud brought meaning and color to my life, filled it with happiness and hope. He was beautiful and wonderful and so glorious. My life was focused on raising him, while giving him the best possible education, so “something great will come out of him”. Unfortunately, our financial situation was tough, and so when Mahmoud grew older, he started working while at school, to help his father improve the family’s financial situation.
During the first Intifada, Mahmoud was still a young boy. When I saw the children and teenagers killed and the pained mothers grieving their lost boys, I thanked Allah that Mahmoud was still a young child and asked him (prayed) that there would not be another Intifada when Mahmoud grows older.
On January 24, 2008 the Israeli army killed two young men from Beit Omar in the Goush Etzion area. The next morning, the forces entered the village to destroy their houses, and many of the village residents took to the streets to demonstrate and protest the fact. My son Mahmoud was among them. The army soldiers launched an attack on the people and caught the young men who threw stones at them. The army used ammunition and tear gas in response. Mahmoud came home with his younger brothers and told me: “Don’t let them come out of the house. There are confrontations and it’s dangerous outside”. I asked him to stay in the house as well and to continue studying – he was already in twelfth grade, and he answered that he’s staying home and that I shouldn’t worry about him. I turned back to my house work, assured that Mahmoud was in his room. I didn’t notice him leave the house.
After a few minutes I heard heavy gunfire. I ran to Mahmoud’s room, but didn’t find him there. I asked his father to go out to look for him and bring him back home.
After Mahmoud's death my heart was filled with revenge, sadness, pain and endless sorrow.
At this point I had a very strange and unpleasant feeling. I felt something terrible had happened to Mahmoud. Immediately afterwards I heard the siren of an ambulance. My husband didn’t return home. After about fifteen minutes our neighbor’s son came to tell me that Mahmoud was hurt in the incident and was taken to the hospital, but that he’s in good condition.
I rushed to the hospital crazed. I was so angry with Mahmoud that he left the house and didn’t listen to me. I told myself that I will punish him for it when he comes home and gets well. I arrived at the hospital in Hebron and found my husband crying and yelling, “Mahmoud is gone”. I ignored him not wanting to believe or even hear what he said or what my brothers and sisters said, as well as the other relatives. I refused to go into the hospital because I didn’t want to see his body. I looked at him one last time at the mosque, before they prayed for him and buried him.
After Mahmoud’s death my heart was filled with revenge, sadness, pain and endless sorrow. I shut in and gathered myself, ignoring my husband, my home and my children. I was consumed with sadness and by my crying over Mahmoud, and I wished for death, so I could see him. Three years passed this way.
One day, a friend suggested I join the Families Forum (PCFF). I refused adamantly and asked her how could I shake the hand of the Israeli side that killed my son? A little while afterwards that same friend invited me for coffee in her house. When I arrived, I met an Israeli woman called Robi in the living room, and I immediately turned to leave. I didn’t want to meet her or talk to her, but then the woman got up and asked me to stay. She said she would like to hear the story of my son, Mahmoud. I sat down and began to tell her. When I showed her his photograph she burst out in tears. She later told me her story and the story of her son, who was killed by a young Palestinian man in 2002.
After my meeting with Robi, I understood that our tears are the same tears. Our pain is the same pain. As mothers who lost their sons, we could share our emotions with each other. I later participated in a joint meeting of Palestinian and Israeli mothers who have lost their children. The atmosphere in the meeting was different, appeasing and honest. We talked about the suffering of both sides and about the fact that we all agreed that the bloodshed must be stopped, that peace must be made between the nations, and that the occupation must be ended. I joined the Forum believing in its message, and I am a prominently active member still.