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What could I do?

BBC WORLD SERVICE
Issue date: MAR 9, 2006

By Hani Saad, as told to Kelly McEvers

Before my eldest son, Shadi, became a martyr, I didn't care much about what my sons chose to do -- as long as they studied hard and did well in school. If they came home and said they wanted to train with the Hezbollah resistance fighters, I told them, "Okay, go and do it." But now that Shadi is gone, I tell my other two boys, "I don't want you to do it."

Shadi left us last summer. It started when Hezbollah kidnapped those two Israeli soldiers. Then the Israeli army dropped leaflets in our village saying civilians should leave. We started to pack our things.

The family was still here when the bombing began. Shadi was asleep. The bombs woke him up. He immediately put on his clothes and grabbed his rifle. He hopped on the back of a motorcycle and told his mother, "I'm leaving and I might not come back." She told him to take care.

I drove Shadi's mother and the other children away to the city. Then I came back to our village to look for Shadi. I knew he might not talk to me, because the Hezbollah leaders don't allow fighters appear and talk.

The village was completely empty. No one was in the streets. But I knew Shadi was hidden away somewhere. I parked my car in the center of town and started walking around. There was no mobile phone service, but the land lines were operating, so I went and opened our restaurant and waited there for the phone to ring.

I knew my son could see that I was in the restaurant. I waited. On the third day he called and said, "Listen, I saw you, I know you are here. But I can't come and talk to you. Please leave. How would I look to God if I went away with you now?"

I was speechless, because he put me next to God. What could I say? I left.

Later I was told that Shadi and his unit would clash with Israeli soldiers during daylight hours. At night they would rest. One afternoon, as it started to get dark, Shadi's troops pulled back and went to a house where they were staying. Shadi took a shower and prepared to pray. Another Hezbollah unit approached the house, and an Israeli airplane spotted them and dropped a bomb.

Shadi's unit survived. Only Shadi died. The missile actually hit him.

Twelve days later was the cease fire. We were living as refugees near the city. I left the family where they were staying and starting driving toward our village.

There was a lot of traffic on the way. I stopped at a checkpoint and saw a Hezbollah commander from our village. I asked him, "What happened? Any news?" He said, "I don't know." I said, "Isn't it a shame for you to say 'I don't know' and pass by me without giving me praise for my dead son?" Only then did the guy come and kiss me. This is how I knew for sure that Shadi was dead.

At that moment I lost my mind. I turned back. I didn't know what to do. I drove all the way to the capital. I got lost for three hours. I parked the car and just sat on the curb. A teenage boy helped me find my way home. He had Shadi's smile.

The big leaders in Hezbollah came to Shadi's funeral. Now, in the village, we get special treatment. Whenever people find out that I am the father of a martyr, they bow. They make us feel like they are at our service. If we didn't get treated like that, I would have more regret about Shadi. Now I'm proud of him. As the father of a martyr, whatever I say is right. Whatever I want, I get.

There are posters of Shadi all over the village. He still gets a salary. To us this means that even though he is dead, he still plays a role in society. It's not like you had a son and then you just lost him. They make you feel like he is still living with you.

This is part of our Shi'ite faith. We spend a lot of time studying what it means to be a martyr. We hold the belief that defending our land is honorable. It's just like Americans. You have martyrs. They die defending your country. When they die they too are considered to be the most honorable people. In our religion a martyr will go straight to Heaven. He won't get judged.

When I was young, there was a man and a woman picking fruit in the fields just outside our village. They were coming home on a donkey, and an Israeli missile hit them and killed them both. It made me feel bad. That bad feeling stayed in me, that desire to have revenge.

My youngest son has that feeling now. That feeling of injustice. He is seven years old. He trains with the Hezbollah boy scouts. He has to pass many tests. He says he wants to be just like Shadi. He tells his mother not to cry. He says Shadi is a hero. But I'm not sure I want him to do what Shadi did.

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