jueves, 28 de agosto de 2014

Nombres de los niños muertos en los 50 días de bombardeos


martes, 26 de agosto de 2014

Israel y Hamás aceptan un alto el fuego indefinido tras 50 días de ofensiva


sábado, 23 de agosto de 2014

The diferencie between children

The difference between children

It is human that the killing of an Israeli boy, a child of ours, would arouse greater identification than the death of some other child. What is incomprehensible is the Israeli response to the killing of their children.

Aug. 24, 2014 | 4:16 AM
After the first child, nobody batted an eye; after the 50th not even a slight tremor was felt in a plane’s wing; after the 100th, they stopped counting; after the 200th, they blamed Hamas. After the 300th child they blamed the parents. After the 400th child, they invented excuses; after (the first) 478 children nobody cares.
Then came our first child and Israel went into shock. And indeed, the heart weeps at the picture of 4-year-old Daniel Tregerman, killed Friday evening in his home in Sha’ar Hanegev. A beautiful child, who once had his picture taken in an Argentinean soccer team shirt, blue and white, number 10. And whose heart would not be broken at the sight of this photo, and who would not weep at how he was criminally killed. “Hey Leo Messi, look at that boy,” a Facebook post read, “you were his hero.”
Suddenly death has a face and dreamy blue eyes and light hair. A tiny body that will never grow. Suddenly the death of a little boy has meaning, suddenly it is shocking. It is human, understandable and moving. It is also human that the killing of an Israeli boy, a child of ours, would arouse greater identification than the death of some other child. What is incomprehensible is the Israeli response to the killing of their children.
In a world where there is some good, children would be left out of the cruel game called war. In a world where there is some good, it would be impossible to understand the total, almost monstrous unfeelingness in the face of the killing of hundreds of children – not ours, but by us. Imagine them standing in a row: 478 children, in a graduating class of death. Imagine them wearing Messi shirts – some of those children wore them once too, before they died; they also admired him, just like our Daniel from a kibbutz. But nobody looks at them; their faces are not seen, no one is shocked at their deaths. No one writes about them: “Hey Messi, look at that boy.” Hey, Israel, look at their children.
An iron wall of denial and inhumanness protects the Israelis from the shameful work of their hands in Gaza. And indeed, these numbers are hard to digest. Of the hundreds of men killed one could say that they were “involved”; of the hundreds of women that they were “human shields.” As for a small number of children, one could claim that the most moral army in the world did not intend it. But what shall we say about almost 500 children killed? That the Israel Defense Forces did not intend it, 478 times? That Hamas hid behind all of them? That this legitimized killing them?
Hamas might have hidden behind some of those children but now Israel is hiding behind Daniel Tregerman. His fate is already being used to cover all of the sins of the IDF in Gaza.
The radio yesterday already talked about “murder.” The prime minister already called the killing “terror,” while hundreds of Gaza’s children in their new graves are not victims of murder or terror. Israel had to kill them. And after all, who are Fadi and Ali and Islaam and Razek, Mahmoud, Ahmed and Hamoudi – in the face of our one and only Daniel.
We must admit the truth: Palestinian children in Israel are considered like insects. This is a horrific statement, but there is no other way to describe the mood in Israel in the summer of 2014. When for six weeks hundreds of children are destroyed; their bodies buried in rubble, piling up on morgues, sometimes even in vegetable refrigeration rooms for lack of other space; when their horrified parents carry the bodies of their toddlers as a matter of course; their funerals coming and going, 478 times – even the most unfeeling of Israelis would not allow themselves to be so uncaring.
Something here has to rise up and scream: Enough. All the excuses and all the explanations will not help – there is no such thing as a child that is allowed to be killed and a child that is not. There are only children killed for nothing, hundreds of children whose fate touches no one in Israel, and one child, just one, around whose death the people unite in mourning.

Behind the IDF shooting of a 10-year-old boy

Behind the IDF shooting of a 10-year-old boy

It's not clear why an Israeli soldier shot Khalil Anati in the Al-Fawar refugee camp. What is clear is that the shooter didn't stay around long enough to offer assistance, or to watch the boy die.

Aug. 21, 2014 | 4:04 PM
Mohammed Anati with his younger son, this week. Khalil was about to enter sixth grade.
Mohammed Anati with his younger son, this week. Khalil was about to enter sixth grade. Photo by Alex Levac

The picture on the mourning poster shows the beautiful, sad face of a boy, his head wrapped in a keffiyeh, his skin sallow, his eyes wide open. In the photograph, one of two images used for the posters, the boy is already dead. Only his open eyes give the impression of life. In the other poster, the eyes are already closed for all time.
Khalil Anati was 10 years and eight months old and came from the Al-Fawar refugee camp, south of Hebron in the West Bank, when he was killed. An Israeli soldier had opened the door of his armored jeep, picked up his rifle, aimed it at the upper body of the boy, who was running with his back to the soldier, and cut him down with one bullet, fired from a distance of a few dozen meters.
It was early morning on Sunday, August 10. The street was almost empty – the idleness, the unemployment and the heat in this squalid refugee camp leave people in their beds late – and the soldiers were apparently in no danger. According to testimony, there were only another three or four young children in the street; they were throwing stones at the jeep. There were no “riots” and no mass “disturbances.”
Khalil tried to advance another few meters after the bullet lodged in his lower back, before falling to the ground in the middle of the narrow alley, its width about that of a person, that ascends to his home. Someone heard him shout, in Arabic: “The bastards shot me.” By the time he arrived at the hospital in Hebron – he had been transported in a private vehicle since the camp does not have an ambulance – he was dead from loss of blood.
The soldier who shot him quickly shut the door of the jeep and hightailed it out of the camp, together with his buddies. Mission accomplished.
The bereaved father, Mohammed, asks now with dry eyes why the soldier who killed him did not at least offer his son first aid, or summon help. “If they are human beings, that is what they should have done. Why didn’t they do that?”
We sat this week in front of the Anatis’ ramshackle home, a few meters from the scene of the crime. No other refugee camp is comparable to Al-Fawar, in terms of wretchedness and forlornness. A putrid stench wafts from the bursting garbage bins, which no one empties, and from the sewage that flows unchecked through the alleys. An Israeli who has never been here cannot begin to imagine what it’s like. It’s also a tough place, which the army rarely enters.
But on that fateful Sunday two army jeeps, one of them flying a huge Israeli flag, drove in, escorting a vehicle of Mekorot, the national water company, which had apparently come to check the pipes connecting to the camp’s wells.
Khalil was shot to death at about 9:30 in the morning. His father, a scrap peddler, was still asleep. Only the boy’s uncle, Mahmoud Anati, peering out of his window which overlooks the narrow alley, saw what was going on and spotted the jeep. He rushed to his 80-year-old father, Ahmed Anati, Khalil’s grandfather, who was at that moment on the roof of a house that is being built as part of a special United Nations Refugee Agency project, for the camp’s old people.
Mahmoud told his father to come inside, for fear of the soldiers; from experience he knows that the troops are quick to fire teargas in order to disperse the children. He hustled his aged father into the house, but is today consumed with feelings of guilt for not having done the same for his nephew.
The street, Mahmoud recalls, was quiet. Then he suddenly heard a single shot ring out and his nephew shout. He rushed into the alley. A construction worker at the site of the home for the aged had already picked up the bleeding boy and was running with him toward the main street, in order to flag down a car to take him to the hospital.
At one point, Khalil fell from the worker’s hands. He and Mahmoud picked him up and put him the car of a Bedouin man who was visiting in the camp. They shouted to people to call an ambulance, but knew that would take precious time, so they sped in the private car to Al Ahli Hospital in Hebron.
As the car left the camp, Khalil stopped moving, and by the time they reached the hospital, he was no longer breathing. Mahmoud tried to staunch the bleeding with his hands. The boy’s last words to his uncle were, “Don’t be afraid.”
The uncle had hoped there would be soldiers at the pillbox – the guard tower at the edge of the camp – who could summon aid, but it was deserted. He remembered that a few days earlier, there had been a road accident nearby in which Israelis were involved, and the army had called in a helicopter to evacuate them.
As the uncle recalls the events of that day, the father sits by his side, silently. Mohammed goes to the cemetery every day now, to visit his son.
Musa Abu Hashhash, a veteran field worker for the Israeli human rights organization B’Tselem, arrived at Al Ahli at about 10:30 A.M. the day the boy was killed, and saw his body in the hospital morgue. Abu Hashhash, who has already seen a great deal in his work, was especially shocked by this incident. He published an article about it on the website of the Palestinian news agency Ma’an under the headline, “The Coward,” referring to the soldier who killed the boy and fled.
Immediately after the event, the Israel Defense Forces’ Spokesperson’s Unit published a statement on its website, stating (in a rare instance) that the IDF “regrets” the boy’s death.
The spokesperson’s unit also provided the following response to an inquiry from Haaretz: “During routine activity by IDF forces, which were providing security for work being carried out by the water authority in the vicinity of Al-Fawar, violent disturbances erupted, during which the force opened fire. The IDF regrets the death of the Palestinian minor who was killed in said incident. In accordance with standard policy, the Military Police’s investigatory unit has launched an inquiry into the circumstances surrounding the incident. At the conclusion of the inquiry, the findings will be passed on to the Military Advocate General’s office for examination and for decisions on any further action.”
During our visit, we saw a few children were playing in the local “community center” – a shabby, tattered room in the heart of the camp, with three old computers and a tabletop soccer game – its walls covered with pictures of their deceased friend, Khalil. Yakub Nasser entered the room in his electric wheelchair. Now 19, he too was shot here by soldiers, in 2009, when he was 14. Since then his legs have been paralyzed and he’s been confined to a wheelchair.
As for Khalil, he was supposed to have attended a local day camp during the final days of the summer vacation, and was also getting ready to enter the sixth grade. He had been accompanying his father as he sold used clothing and old television sets; he buys them from a dealer in nearby Halhoul and offers them for sale to the camp’s residents.
Two days before his death, neighbors had collected donations for residents of the Gaza Strip. Khalil stole a blanket from home and brought it to the local mosque as his contribution to his brethren in Strip.