Ahmed Helou

My grandparents left Gaza in the early twentieth century and moved to Be’er Sheva for professional reasons. My parents were born and grew up there. In 1948, they fled to Jericho, where I grew up hearing their stories about the Nakba. They shared about the people who were killed in front of them and the bodies they came across. I also heard my parents’ stories about the 1967 war when they temporarily fled to Jordan. It was a difficult trip: they saw people killed in front of them while they were crossing the Jordan river. All these stories made me angry at the Jews and made me seek revenge against them.

I was 10 when Israel invaded Lebanon in 1982. I felt patriotic from a very young age and decided that I must become a strong fighter, to resist the occupation and achieve justice. I was thinking about revenge and violence all the time.

When I turned 15, I joined the local branch of Hamas. I threw stones at soldiers, blocked streets, and sewed Palestinian flags knowing that I could be thrown in jail for months if the army caught me. In 1992, I was sentenced to seven months in prison as a political detainee. There, I met people who had different visions for the future. The Oslo peace process also started at that time, and my parents were telling me about the possibility of a two-state solution when they were coming for visits. It became legal to fly the Palestinian flag. I saw it as a real chance for peace.

Upon my release, I created a youth group to help my city and society. We started working as volunteers in schools, hospitals, and nursing homes. I took a first aid course and became a volunteer ambulance driver for the Palestinian Red Crescent.

During the 1996 clashes in East Jerusalem, I provided medical aid to many wounded Palestinians. I ran once to help an unconscious man who happened to be my close friend Firas from Jericho. I lifted him and began running towards the ambulance. I was shot in the back by an Israeli soldier and collapsed. On my way to the hospital, I drifted in and out of consciousness. In one terrible, lucid moment I heard the doctor ordering the paramedic to cease the revival efforts of the second patient in the ambulance — my friend Firas.

When I came back to Jericho, I asked my family about my friend. My brother told me that he had died that day. He took me to the cemetery. There were four graves: one for Firas, another for a 17-year-old, and a third for a Palestinian policeman. These three had been killed on the same day I was injured. The fourth grave was empty. My brother told me that they had dug it for me because they did not think I would survive. After six months of rehabilitation, I slowly began to walk again, though the bullet is still lodged in the back of my neck today.

In 2004, a friend offered me to participate in a workshop with Israelis. I was shocked and shouted at her. “How could you ask me to meet my enemy? To meet the ones who killed my people? Who took my land? Who made me a refugee? Who put me in jail and occupied my hometown? How could I meet these people?”

I eventually decided to go, but not talk to them. By the third day, we drank and smoked together. I asked them whether they were really Jews and Israelis. The only Israelis I had met before were soldiers, not civilians. I had never had a chance to talk with Israelis about the future. I finally had the opportunity to talk about human rights, Palestinian rights and two states.

In 2013, I was invited to give a speech at the Joint Memorial Ceremony. After that, I became a member of Combatants for Peace and started protesting the occupation alongside Israelis. At the age of 30, I married Hiba, who is also originally from Gaza. Our four children have never met their grandparents. My wife and I have lost many relatives to the wars in Gaza, more than 60 since 7 October 2023. Yet, I know that binational cooperation is the only way to end the occupation and achieve peace.