What was Issa's playground once became his own brother's grave

What was Issa's playground once became his own brother's grave

An Israeli general once said "dead Arabs are numbers, dead Israelis are heroes" Many times in my life during many different occasions I just wished if m my eyes were a camera lens , if my ears were recorders and if my thoughts were the headlines in the news papers speaking up for the people who couldn't share their stories anymore . That's too far away from reality but it took my too long to realize that my mouth could still scream on a microphone, my hands could still type the letters on my keyboard and write words on paper. There are daily Israeli crimes and lots of unshared personal stories. 

This time my story is about a close friend of mine, it is about Issa Jabbareen, a 19 years old Palestinian simple guy who grew up in the streets of my previous neighborhood in the old city of Ramallah, this neighborhood of the old city with its tiny old houses, the smell of Abu Khalaf’s taboun bread, and its narrow streets has witnessed Issa's best memories, his earliest attempts to walk, to run, and to say his first words. Issa laughed, loved and played in each corner of the old city.

After the Israeli invasions to the old city in 2006, what was Issa's playground became his own brother's grave and the smell of the bread became mixed with the smell of blood.

When I first asked Issa to tell me a personal story of living under the Israeli occupation he looked at me with his green eyes with silence then and said "Hurriyah write this down: The date when my brother was arrested is 6/6/2006, the date when my other brother was killed 22/6/2006, the date when my cousin was killed 17/9/2007, what exactly do you want me to talk about?”.

I found myself speechless, I could not find any words that can ease his pain, and I knew no words can bring his brother back, his eyes were full of tears, it was so hard for him to breath, but he held himself and looked at me once again and continued: "I knew something wrong was going to happen that day, I was walking in Al Irsal Street in Ramallah with my friend Eyad. Suddenly, I heard the sound of shooting", Issa did not know that this time it was his own brother who was being shot, Israeli soldiers were all over the old city, Issa could not go home , "my brother Mohammad called me warning me once again not to get close to our neighborhood".

His phone rang once again, it was his neighbor this time " he asked me is true that the Israelis shot your brother's legs and now he is paralyzed?" The Israeli soldiers did shoot Ayman's legs but they shot every other part of his body as well, the hospital report informed that there were more than 50 bullets in Ayman's body.

After Issa received that phone call he could not stay away from the old city as his brother asked him for anymore, Issa walked towards the old city till he met his cousin, who picked him up silently and drove him to Ramallah hospital without any kind of explanations, expressions or giving any answers to Issa.

He got to the hospital it was very crowded, all his neighbors were there, a strange man approached him and gave him a hug and told him stay strong Issa. His dad was close to the door, “I ran to my father and asked him: what's wrong? What happened? “They killed him”, he said, I screamed: Who did they kill?” Issa walked into the emergency room looking for answers but all wht he found is a dead body of a lost beloved one. He uncovered the sheets and saw his brother .Ayamn face for the last time on 22/ 6/ 2006.

Ayman’s picture is still hanged in the exact location of his murder, close to my old house in the old city of Ramallah, like many other pictures, some of them are new and some are old, but behind each picture there is a story and lots of silent words.