When more than one bullet is fired, there is no mistake
Na noite de uma sexta-feira, perto de Hebron, na Cisjordânia ocupada, uma família palestina se aproximava de um posto de controle israelense quando soldados abriram fogo contra o veículo, matando Sam Fahd Abou Haikal, de sete meses, e ferindo seus pais e avó. O exército israelense reconheceu que um de seus soldados atirou contra civis desarmados, alegando que o veículo havia acelerado em direção às tropas. O pai afirma ter parado o carro e erguido as mãos antes de os disparos começarem, sem aviso. A morte de uma criança de sete meses em um posto de controle militar coloca, mais uma vez, a questão que atravessa décadas de conflito: até onde vai a distância entre protocolo e tragédia irreversível?
- Um bebê de sete meses foi morto por disparos militares israelenses enquanto estava no banco traseiro de um carro com seus pais e avó, próximo a Hebron.
- O pai descreve ter parado o veículo e erguido as mãos antes de múltiplos tiros perfurarem o para-brisa sem qualquer aviso — uma versão que contradiz a justificativa militar.
- A mãe foi atingida no rosto e permanece hospitalizada; a avó presenciou a cena; o pai, com o braço ferido, carregou o filho envolto em uma bandeira palestina até o cemitério no dia seguinte.
- O exército israelense confirmou que civis desarmados foram alvejados, atribuindo o disparo à aceleração do veículo em direção às tropas — explicação que o pai rejeita publicamente como impossível de ser um erro.
- O gabinete do primeiro-ministro palestino classificou a morte como mais uma vítima da ocupação, enquanto perguntas sobre os protocolos de checkpoints e a proteção de civis permanecem sem resposta concreta.
Na noite de sexta-feira, uma família palestina viajava de Belém quando se aproximou de um posto de controle israelense perto de Hebron. No banco traseiro estavam Sam Fahd Abou Haikal, de sete meses, sua mãe e sua avó de 65 anos. O pai, Fahd Abou Haikal, de 42 anos, diz ter parado o carro e erguido as mãos ao perceber a presença dos soldados. Então vieram os tiros.
Uma bala atravessou o para-brisa, passou pelo braço do pai e seguiu adiante. Outro disparo atingiu a mãe no rosto; estilhaços também a feriram. A avó, que pensou ter ouvido um tiro de advertência, viu a nora coberta de sangue. O bebê não sobreviveu.
No sábado, Fahd Abou Haikal carregou o corpo do filho envolto em uma bandeira palestina até o cemitério de Hebron, diante de dezenas de pessoas. Sua esposa permanecia hospitalizada em estado estável. No enterro, ele foi direto: 'Quando mais de uma bala é disparada, não há tiro de advertência e não há aviso. Isso não pode ser um erro.'
O exército israelense conduziu uma investigação preliminar e confirmou que um de seus soldados havia atirado contra civis desarmados, justificando a ação pela aceleração do veículo em direção às tropas. O gabinete do primeiro-ministro palestino reagiu nas redes sociais, descrevendo Sam como 'um recém-nascido que mal havia começado a viver e se tornou mais uma vítima da ocupação israelense'.
O incidente foi reconhecido. Os disparos foram confirmados. Mas um menino de sete meses estava morto, e seu pai ficou de pé num cemitério numa manhã de sábado, carregando o peso de uma vida que mal havia começado.
On a Friday night near Hebron, in the occupied West Bank, a family of four sat in a car traveling from Bethlehem. Sam Fahd Abou Haikal, seven months old, was in the back seat with his parents and grandmother. When they approached an Israeli military checkpoint, everything changed in seconds.
Fahd Abou Haikal, the father, was 42 years old. He described what happened next with the precision of someone replaying a moment that will never leave him. As they neared the checkpoint, he heard a sound. He stopped the car and raised his hands. Then came gunfire. A bullet pierced the windshield, continued through his arm, and kept going. His wife was struck in the face by another round; shrapnel tore into her as well. His mother, Feryal Abu Haikal, 65, heard what she thought might be a warning shot. Then she saw her daughter-in-law covered in blood.
The baby did not survive. On Saturday, June 6th, Fahd Abou Haikal carried his son's body wrapped in a Palestinian flag to the cemetery in Hebron. Dozens of people gathered to witness the burial. His wife remained hospitalized with facial wounds but stable condition. His mother had been in the car. He had raised his hands.
The Israeli military conducted a preliminary investigation and released a statement: one of its soldiers had fired on unarmed civilians. The vehicle, they said, had accelerated toward the troops. That was the explanation offered for the multiple shots, the bullets through the windshield, the seven-month-old child dead, the mother's face torn open, the father's arm shattered.
At the cemetery, Fahd Abou Haikal spoke to those gathered. "I cannot believe what happened," he said. "When more than one bullet is fired, there are no warning shots and there is no notice. This cannot be a mistake." He had raised his hands. He had stopped the car. He had done what people are told to do at checkpoints. And still, the bullets came—more than one, with no warning, no pause, no second chance.
His wife's injuries were severe enough to keep her hospitalized. His mother had watched her daughter-in-law bleed. His son was seven months old. The Palestinian Prime Minister's office released a statement on social media: "A newborn who had barely begun his life became another victim of Israeli occupation."
The incident was acknowledged. The shooting was confirmed. The soldiers involved were identified as having fired on civilians. But a seven-month-old boy was still dead, and his father was still standing in a cemetery on a Saturday morning, holding the weight of a life that had barely begun.
Notable Quotes
When more than one bullet is fired, there are no warning shots and there is no notice. This cannot be a mistake.— Fahd Abou Haikal, the father, at his son's burial
A newborn who had barely begun his life became another victim of Israeli occupation.— Palestinian Prime Minister Mohamed Mustafa's office, in a statement
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
What made you decide to speak publicly about this, rather than grieve privately?
When you raise your hands and stop your car and still get shot, when your baby dies and the military says it was a mistake—you have to say something. Silence makes it easier for people to forget it happened.
Your mother was in the car. What did she see that you didn't?
She heard what she thought was a warning. She didn't understand at first. Then she saw my wife's face. That moment—when an elderly woman realizes her grandchild is dead and her daughter-in-law is bleeding—that stays with you.
The military said your vehicle accelerated toward them. How do you respond to that?
I stopped the car. I raised my hands. If I had accelerated, would I have had time to raise my hands? Would I have stopped? The bullets came without warning. That is not defense. That is not protocol.
Do you believe it was truly a mistake, as they're calling it?
A mistake is one shot. A mistake is hesitation. This was multiple bullets through a windshield. You don't fire like that by accident. You fire like that because no one told you to stop.
What do you want people to understand about your son?
Sam was seven months old. He had barely lived. He had done nothing. He was in a car with his family. That should have been safe. That should have been ordinary. Instead, he became a statistic in a conflict he never chose.