Hadil Hashlamon - A Story That Must Be Told

     “When you lose a member of the family, you suffer for a long, long time.” These were the words of Hadil’s father, Dr. Salah Hashlamon as he addressed our group of 8 Americans and 2 Palestinian guides in his living room, on October 15, 2016.  His 19 year old daughter had been shot dead  the year before on September 22 at a Hebron checkpoint.

     Hadil was on her way to her volunteer work to help the needy in the Old City of Hebron.  She had started the Fall semester of college, but found time to continue this work out of devotion to the task.  Being a very devout Muslim, she chose to cover her face except for her eyes.  Being a Palestinian woman, she carried a large purse.  For these two things she was killed by an Israeli soldier.  When the soldier stopped her to search her before letting her pass the checkpoint, Hadil, according to witnesses, asked for a female soldier to do the searching.  Whatever the soldier then said to her, she apparently did not understand.  That was when he shot her, first in the legs so that she fell to the ground, and then 14 more bullets into her body.  Medics were there in 10 minutes, but were not allowed to attend to her for 45 minutes.  She died in the hospital.

     How do we know that this is what happened?  The soldiers claimed Hadil had a knife with which she intended to stab a soldier, and they displayed it on the ground next to her body.  But an international observer with the Ecumenical Accompaniers (EAPPI) wrote a detailed account of what he observed on that day, and it was clear that Hadil posed no threat to the soldiers at the checkpoint.  In addition, Israeli surveillance cameras also captured the event, and the army would have gladly displayed their video if it proved they were right.

Nevertheless, Dr. Hashlamon’s home was raided at 2:30 a.m. one morning so the army could get the dimensions in order to prepare to demolish the family home as punishment for Hadil’s supposed terrorist intentions.  Members of the family were also interrogated as to Hadil’s possibly unstable emotional state that would explain her “attack”.  (So far the house still stands, but demolition orders have no expiration date.)

     One month after Hadil was killed, an Israeli army officer declared that Hadil had not been a danger to the soldiers. 

     Dr. Haslamon’s lap was full of papers and photographs showing the extent of Hadil’s injuries and every word that has been said both in and out of court since her death.  Two of his adult sons sat near him as he spoke to us.  A younger son served us juice and candies, and maybe coffee – I don’t remember.  My attention was upon this grieving father, who was making sure his daughter’s life would not be in vain because it would be told outside of his living room and outside of Hebron, Palestine.  He has taken the case and others like it to the International Criminal Court office in Ramallah, but he cannot take it outside of the borders of the West Bank because his family has been labeled terrorist and cannot get a visa from Israel.

     Hadil was a poet and had been locally recognized for her talent.  Dr. Hashlamon read one of her poems which she had written in English.  I wish I had a copy, but share these lines that I wrote down: 

       "The Israelis say we have a problem: we love to die.”

      "One word can help others.”

      "We have a State waiting for us in the future that will hold us all.”

     After an hour it was time for us to leave.  I, as tour leader, tried to thank Dr. Hashlamon for his time, which had been requested only that morning.  I wondered to myself how Hadil’s brothers felt  listening to their father tell of such sadness and injustice once again.  I know the father was angry that nothing had come of Hadil’s murder. In fact it had been followed by the deaths of 235* more young Palestinians in similar situations – some actually carrying a knife, but most gunned down by young soldiers following orders: Kill if you feel threatened, let them bleed out on the street, frame them if you can.

      Hadil’s story echoes around the world, in our Black, brown and gay communities and wherever native peoples claim their rights or try to protect land and water.   I hope Dr. Hashlamon can count on us all to tell Hadil’s story and to stand up for human dignity wherever it is under attack.

*The death toll included 34 Israelis as of September 30, 2016. Ma’an News

Why Not Dance?

Have you heard music from the Middle East, from Palestine, from Sabina’s living room in the Balata Refugee Camp?  Turn it up very loud – hard on my older ears – and watch Sabina’s 12 year old daughter dance.  She is graceful, using the hand and hip motions typical of this part of the world, and she sings along with each song.  In moments Dareen joins in.  She is 11, and she too knows the motions and the words.  Sabrina gets up and dances with the girls.

Dareen’s mother, who is my Palestinian sister named Ansaf or Im Wafa, cannot restrain herself.  She is up off the sofa, a broad smile on her lovely face.   I watch with delight because life here is so hard, and my dear Ansaf is enjoying herself.  I try to stay out of the way as the living room is small, but Ansaf won’t let me sit and watch, no matter I am stiff as a board with hips that refuse to move like hers do.  So I pretend with my hands and let myself be part of the fun.

The occasion for this playful, joyous half hour was simply to bring me, the American “relative”, to visit another member of the family, this time Ansaf’s sister. Indeed this was our second such visit of that day.  Upon arrival, we were served juice and cookies – so very Palestinian – and so very sugary.  Before the music was turned on, I sat with the little sister and made moulds from pink putty.  (I wrote about that in my blog on “distractions”. )  I only have a few words of Arabic, and there were no words of English in this humble dwelling, but putty and music, juice and cookies are universal.

When  it was time to leave, I happened to see into the kitchen.  I don’t think one can make a kitchen any smaller and still have a stove, fridge and sink.  “How does she do it?  How does she cook for her husband and four children in this tiny space?”  I thought.  This is what apartments in the refugee camps are like:  cramped, and in buildings so close together that sunlight never enters, impeccable on the inside amid narrow, dirty alleys on the outside.

Before I was whisked off to the next relative, Sabrina’s hospitality and music filled me with the warm feeling that I would burst from love and sugar.