LETTER FROM JERUSALEM: The Funeral Of Shalhevet Pass
By Arlynn Nellhaus

I went to Hebron to attend Shalhevet Pass's funeral. "Why did you come all the way from Jerusalem?" a woman there asked me.

"Because I couldn't not come," I answered.

That was the truth.

Others from farther away than Jerusalem were among the thousands of attendees. The murder of this 10-month-old baby by a Palestinian terrorist affected us strongly.

Her father had wheeled her in her stroller to the playground. From a house on a hillside overlooking the Jewish community in Hebron, this Palestinian looked through his telescopic rifle. When he had the cross hairs centered on Shalhevet's head, he pulled the trigger.

How did he feel about his deed?

Did it make him feel good?

Like a hero?

Was he celebrated when he told his friends and family?

Another of his bullet's grazed a three-year-old girl's arm. Yet another hit Shalhevet's father in the leg.

I had another reason to come to Hebron. I've never forgotten a feature article in Ha'Aretz, Israel's snootiest most politically correct newspaper. It was about one of the "beautiful" Israeli families, a couple and their two teenage children.

Why they were written about, I don't remember. All I remember is that they typified the Israeli elite, who are little fascists toward anyone less than a mirror image of themselves.

In every picture of her, the wife carried a serious frown, perhaps to convey what an intellectual she is. And then I read her words: "Who are those people (the Jews) in the occupied territories? I don't know them. They don't exist for me."

I went to Hebron to say, whatever the politics of the people in the "occupied territories," they do exist for me.

And so does that woman.

May she never go through what Shalhevet's mother will suffer for the rest of her life.

Contrary to Jewish tradition, the funeral didn't take place the day or day after Shalhevet's murder.

Her parents refused to bury her until the Israeli government retook the hill, Abu Sneneh, from where the shots were fired, so no more children in playgrounds could be killed.

Illogical?

Yes, but who can expect logic at a time like this?

The Jews of Hebron had begged then Prime Minister Binyamin Netanyahu not to turn over Abu Sneneh to the Palestinians. They warned that it would be dangerous for them.

In the end, the young parents gave in to many requests and agreed to have the funeral a week after the murder, so they can go through the seven days of mourning before the Passover holiday begins.

We gathered in front of the Machpelah, the Tomb of the Patriarchs in Hebron.

Almost 4,000 years ago, Abraham sought a cave in which to bury his wife, Sarah. The owner of the cave he wanted offered to give it to Abraham. But Abraham knew there was no such thing as a free lunch. He bought the property for more money than it was worth. He wanted no question as to ownership.

The site is said to be the resting-place also of Abraham, Isaac, Rebecca, Leah and Jacob.

Hebron has been one of four Jewish holy cities ever since. It has many biblical connections to Jewish history, perhaps the most notable after the burial cave is that David was anointed king in Hebron and initially ruled from the city.

In 1929, a pogrom inspired by Haj Amin el-Husseini, later to be a friend of Hitler, led to the massacre of 67 Jewish men, women and children.

The ruling British then removed the survivors and interrupted Jewish history in Hebron.

After the surprising Israeli victory in 1967 Six-Day War, Jews returned.

Many were descendents of those who had lived in Hebron.

Some even were pogrom survivors.

We gathered in front of the Machpelah, turned into an imposing stone building by King Herod 2,000 years ago. Under Moslem rule, Jews couldn’t get closer than the seventh step up to the building.

Under Israel, both Moslems and Jews use it.

After hearing psalms, we set out for the climb up Hebron's steep, twisting streets to the ancient Jewish cemetery. Every few feet, a clump of Israeli soldiers stood on guard.

CNN probably wasn't thrilled by this funeral procession. No flags flew. No shouting of angry slogans. No clenched fists. No exhibited dead bodies. We just quietly climbed.

Shalhevet's grandfather and family friends took turns carrying her little body up the hill. She was wrapped in a deep blue, velvet cloth with a yellow Star of David embroidered on it. She looked about the size of the Torah scroll taken out of the ark for reading.

Words spoken over her grave weren't as subdued as the procession. Speakers called for revenge and for Israel to retake that problematic portion of Hebron. One speaker compared the Palestinians to Hitler, for both deliberately killed and kill children.

But no one applauded, cheered or showed any outward reaction to the strong words.

Joseph Mendelevitch, once one of the most famous Russian refuseniks, spoke briefly. He said that when he was at the Lapids' funeral – father and son of Hebron, shot down as they stood together by the side of the road some years ago – he prayed that that funeral would be the last.

The grieving father, released from the hospital the day before, sat in a wheelchair. If he was able to stand when he recited Kaddish, I couldn't tell.

His tears took over a few times during the prayer, often mistakenly called, "a prayer for the dead."

It is a prayer glorifying God and asking for peace.

Then it was over. Going down the hill, I realized the streets were steeper than I had been aware of, and the distance to the Machpelah greater.

Only from the bus back to Jerusalem did I see two or three Palestinians. But in town, everything was shut up tight. No people. No Palestinian flags. Only the sound of the amplified voice of the muezzin calling Moslems to noon prayers reminded us that this wasn't a ghost town.

That evening, firing from Hebron's Abu Sneneh into the Jewish neighborhood in Hebron resumed.

The IDF responded.

Shalhevet's name means "flame."

Arlynn Nellhaus is a former Denver Post reporter now based in Jerusalem, and the author of Into the Heart of Jerusalem, and a freqent contributor to The Idler.