There was no organized football training or match in progress when the air raid siren sounded in Majdal Shams on the evening of 27 July. Rather, the kind of spontaneous soccer kids engage in on Saturday nights when no adults are looking.
But the kids on the field never made it to the newly built shelter next to the artificial turf field. Twelve children between 10 and 16 died in the attack, another 19 were injured.
Israel claims to have evidence that Hezbollah was behind it, something the Iran-backed militia denies. The attack was followed by an Israeli retaliation against a high-ranking Hezbollah leader in southern Beirut.
“No one shall kill in the name of my child”
– But we don’t want any revenge. No one should kill in the name of my child, says Ibrahim Ibrahim, whose son, 10-year-old Gevara died doing what he loved most: playing football.
Just hours after the bombing in Beirut, Hamas political leader Ismail Haniya was killed in a suspected Israeli attack in the Iranian capital, Tehran. When Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu visited Majdal Shams this week, he was booed by the villagers. Ibrahim shudders when he thinks of how his son’s death was used to escalate the situation.
– We do not accept that anyone uses the blood of our children to justify more violence. Not from any side. All we ask for is peace.
His friends called him the golden foot
In the family’s house, where friends and relatives come to mourn, hangs a large photo of Gevara, there are footballs everywhere. A woman comes over with a flower placed in a soccer ball. In Majdal Shams, with its 11,000 inhabitants, everyone knows everyone. And everyone knew that Gevara wanted to become a professional footballer. His friends called him the golden foot.
– For Gevara, football was everything. His biggest dream was to meet the players of Real Madrid and see the team play at the Santiago Bernabeu. And then become a football star himself, says his mother, Dalia Ibrahim.
The village of Majdal Shams is located on the disputed Golan Heights, which since the six-day war at the end of the 60s is controlled by Israel. In 1981, the area was annexed, known for its strategic importance: around a third of Israel’s fresh water is estimated to come from here today. But only 20 percent of the Druze who live here have accepted Israeli citizenship. The vast majority, especially in the older generations, still see themselves as Syrians.
“They say there might be war now”
Ram sneaks in through the hall door. It is Guevara’s little brother and sparring partner when the living room was their Bernabeu.
– It is still difficult for him to understand that Gevara is not here, says Dalia.
She offers cherries, one of the region’s delicacies.
– They say that there might be war now, says her husband, Ibrahim.
– But we are not going to stop hoping for peace.
In the corner outside the artificial turf, a few burned-out electric scooters remain. Nobody plays football anymore. Balqi has brought his daughter with him. They look at the pictures of the dead, the wind tears the black flags, a boy tries to light a candle.
– We don’t want the leaders to take this as a reason to escalate, says Balqi.
– They should take this as a sign that war does not work. All we ask for is peace.