The day they killed our Shireen

I remember it vividly. I woke up to distraught voices in the next room: voices of disbelief and questions marks; voices that sound like my brother saying REALLY? It can’t be possible. I opened my eyes, still hazy and confused: what’s going on? My brother sweet in his attempts to delay reality and to restore calmness at whatever price: go back to sleep. Nothing’s going on. But I could smell the ominous news as if the extra humidity in the air on that May 11th morning, settling on the mounts of Galilee in the distance were a harbinger of death. I insisted and got up leaning on the wooden doorframe that my dad wanted to change, but never around to actually changing it.

They killed Shireen.

The they is for Israel. Who else would kill a beacon of sunshine? A symbol of integrity? An unstoppable force of hope- so strong it can be deemed naive by the unfaithful? Who else would kill Shireen? Only them. The same them who tried to obscure the news and attribute her death due to Palestinian crossfire in the alleys of the camp. The same them that kept shooting, preventing her friends from rushing to her and holding her hand while she exhaled her last breath; the same them that prohibited thousands of Palestinians from accompanying her to the grave. The same them that attacked the mourners carrying her coffin in Jerusalem with tear gas and stun grenades, almost killing her twice in life and in death. It’s exactly the same them that refuse to disclose the name of her murderer: a young soldier perhaps, who was made to believe that when he kills our Shireen, he grows in strength.

I immediately remembered! I fumbled through my phone and recovered a video I took six days before her death (she was killed on Wednesday morning and I took the video on Thursday morning). It was during the Return March in Mia’ar displaced village. I was walking with my sister, when we saw her from afar. I nudged my sister and whispered to her to look to our right-that’s the famous reporter from Aljazeera. The camera shows her passing by, with her camerman, wearing a brown shirt. Did I know that she would be killed six days after this random encounter? I fumbled through the phone and found the video and kept watching it for hours. We lost Shireen. They took our Shireen. The loss is insurmountable.

For the past two years, I’ve had Shireen’s photo hung on my wall (the poster was handed out during a protest in Haifa following her killing) and I took it with me everywhere. Now in Spain, Shireen’s poster hangs above my bed as if sh’s my guardian angel. When I look at her: I’m overtaken by her unstoppable force of hope: خلي المعنويات عاليه
But I’m also overtaken by rage: where is her murderer? What’s he or she doing? Do they sleep calmly at night? Do they read the news about Shireen? Do they realize the magnitude of the loss they had bestowed on us?
Two years have passed and we, her extended family, still demand justice for Shireen.
I look at Shireen, Shireen looking at me
The them has always been the same. Relentless in its attempts to conquer us; to crush our souls in life as in death.

خلي المعنويات عالية

I keep my morale high and keep on writing, thinking of you. You’re terribly missed Shireen.