Al-Qadisiyyah Street in Rahat is nowhere to be found on Waze, Google Maps, or the Apple Navigator. In fact, it might not even exist at all.
While searching for information, I asked an elderly man who was about to enter the local police station where the Abu Latif residence was, and he told me to take a left there and ask by the falafel shop. The shop was not there but rather a supermarket, in which a Jewish couple was standing, also searching for the same address. “Oh, you guys came together?” the shop owner asked, puzzled. Well, technically not, but our goal at heart is the same, I thought. He started counting traffic circles: “At the fourth one, take a right – that’s the neighborhood; you’ll see it somewhere there.”
After another bewildering drive farther into town, passing a large “Bring Them Home Now” sign featuring three Bedouin Israelis still held captive by Hamas, near a mosque named after former MK and leader of the Islamic movement Said Al-Kharoumi, another sign, brown like the Negev desert’s land, welcomed drivers to the Al-Qadisiyyah neighborhood (not street). Right outside a house, a square parking lot was visible, with a man standing in the middle and directing traffic.
The other couple also arrived, bringing with them a symbolic gift: an olive tree sapling. The temporary traffic director, a doctor who is a friend of the Abu Latif family, greeted us. He took us to Ahmad’s father, Abu Kaid, or Tawfiq (his first name), who was talking to a couple of men in military attire inside a makeshift tent in the front yard of the house. Abu Kaid saw us, got up, asked our names and from where we hailed, thanked us for coming, and signaled for us to take a seat next to the officers.
Then Abed, one of Ahmad’s siblings older by five years, saw that we were not part of the conversation, so he took us behind a sheet of cloth to the inner part of the house, where the mother, Umm Kaid, sat next to a family friend, the heartbreaking pain of losing a son evident and ever present in her mournful gaze. We murmured a few words and sat down opposite her.
A kind-hearted ‘gever’
Sgt.-Maj. Ahmad Abu Latif, 26, fell on January 22 in Al-Maghazi in the disaster involving two collapsed buildings that claimed the lives of 21 Israeli soldiers. The youngest of 11 siblings, he was described by everyone as an energetic, kind-hearted, talented, and pious young man with a very special bond with his mother.
Abed sat next to us. There was sadness in his eyes and in his voice, but he also had the look of someone who became used to talking about his brother with complete strangers, many of them Jews, over the past three days. He served us strong, dark coffee and said, sincerely, “Thank you so much for coming here. Really, it gives us so much strength.
“Ahmad was a gever. He loved bringing people together; he was always smiling and loving. He loved it when his friends came over. He especially loved it when Jewish friends came over – people who have never been to Rahat in their lives. In the end, we are all sons of one father, Abraham.
“We have a backyard. It was always muddy and filled with rocks. Ahmad decided one day to clean everything up; he planted trees, and suddenly everything bloomed. Since October 7, nobody has had the time to take care of it. Now that it started raining, the greenery is finally back again,” Abed added, looking into the distance.
“Everything he did, everywhere he progressed – it was all thanks to our mother and our father. Even the love for the people and the love for the country – it all came from them. He was a flower picked much too early.”
Abed told us about Ahmad’s special connection to his mother. “My mother had him last, after two failed pregnancies. She insisted on bringing another child. He was the youngest of the 11 of us and was quite a troublemaker, but during his army service he changed and grew more mature. He and my mother were so connected. He even named his daughter, Mansoura, after her.”
After a brief hesitation, Abed added, “One hour before the disaster happened, my mother suddenly began to cry for no reason. It was as if she knew that something was about to happen.
“Ahmad was gifted in everything he did,” Abed continued. “During his army service, Ahmad excelled as a sniper; and while working on the university’s security staff, he was named a distinguished employee two years in a row. He was also religious, really religious, not like those who went and killed civilians, women, children, even animals,” Abed said in a tone of disgust aimed at the atrocities perpetrated by Hamas in the name of their distorted perception of religion.
On Oct. 7, the Bedouin sector was not impervious to Hamas’s atrocities. Twenty-five Bedouin citizens were killed, and a handful of others were kidnapped; some are still held by Hamas in Gaza.
“That day, he saw what had happened and could not remain silent,” Abed continued. “The Bedouin brigade usually doesn’t call for reserve duty, so he went on to register for Givati, also going through the extra training he needed. My brother is a hero, and I will teach my children to continue on his path.
“He really believed in the need to unite. We all need to unite. Jews and Arabs should also unite among themselves. Our victory depends on our unity,” Abed said. Raising a hand, he added, “See, our fingers are of different lengths, but they’re all part of the same hand, and together they have power.” He then formed a fist, saying, “A hand without fingers can do nothing.”
‘May Allah bring peace to our land’
Abed fell silent for a long moment before calling on his older brother, Kaid, who spoke about their parents. Kaid, who wore the same somber expression while, at the same time, seeming touched by our arrival, pointed to his mother. Echoing his brother’s words, he said, “She knew. The disaster happened at 4 p.m.; at 3 p.m., she could feel it. Ahmad drove our mother crazy even when he was born – he made her go through a C-section.” He smiled bitterly, adding, “When he was little, he wouldn’t let me leave the house until he gave me a kiss. And when he grew up, he wouldn’t leave the house before kissing our mother and father.”
Kaid is an educator working in informal education. He told us about a program he leads with the Hartman Institute, which brings together Arab and Jewish teachers for joint learning sessions based on Jewish, Muslim, and Christian holy scriptures. “Ahmad did not need a program of holy scriptures in order to have joint sessions and bring people of different faiths together. He simply lived it,” said Kaid.
“The minister of interior came and sat here,” Kaid added. “He asked me, ‘What do you guys need here in Rahat?’ and I told him, ‘Don’t cut funding to youth movements.’ Ahmad, too, was angry that some of the youth here in town were losing their way. He knew that someone must chart a course for them and teach them values such as determination and derech eretz [dignified behavior]. He himself was a counselor and camper at the branch of HaNoar Haoved VeHalomed [The Working and Studying Youth, a labor-oriented youth movement] here in Rahat.
“Ahmad wanted to be a lecturer. He offered one of the deans at the university [an opportunity] to start a course for Bedouins at the beginning of their learning careers and offer them tips for life as part of Israeli society. He always checked how he was doing regarding his aspirations. He believed in togetherness. Our father and grandfather, our siblings – they all worked with the Jews and believed we should be together.” Kaid placed his hand on his heart and reiterated, “Thanks so much for coming.”
Then Kaid got up and, with another sad smile, said, “I’m sorry; we have more guests I need to attend to. Thanks again for coming.”
I took advantage of the silence and changed seats to get closer to Umm Kaid, the family matriarch. “May I ask some questions about him?” I asked her quietly in Arabic. “Yalla, ask whatever you want,” she answered in a sad, low voice. She added that she did not want to be recorded but nevertheless would want to talk about her son to the journalist and let people know about the person he was. I respected her request.
With great pain and sorrow, Umm Kaid described a smart, kind young man who was respectful toward his parents, albeit a tad spoiled as the youngest child. She then called for Ahmad’s wife and baby daughter. The term “widow” seemed so inappropriate and out of place for this young woman, who appeared to be in her early 20s.
Baby Mansoura resembles her father, as Abed noted. She yawns, and her eyes slowly shut as she falls asleep on her mother’s lap, oblivious to the happenings around her and to the ambiance of grief over her father, whom, unfortunately, she will never know.
Abed said, “Mansoura means ‘victorious’ – just like our mother.” He pulled up a photograph of Ahmad with the two Mansouras, the three of them smiling and happy. A grandmother, a son, and a granddaughter are all sitting together on the same couch where Ahmad’s mother is now weeping and aching over the death of her child. “This was taken just a few days ago,” Abed added somberly.
Umm Kaid asked Abed to show me another picture, one that she particularly loves. Abed pulled it up on his phone and showed me a beautiful scene: Ahmad is seen kissing his daughter, but the baby gazes upward with a deep look, pointing a finger at the sky.
Umm Kaid also pointed a finger upward, as if to say, “The daughter also knew; everything is from Allah.”
I uttered the traditional Arabic saying, “He who brings a progeny does not die.” Umm Kaid gave me a sad smile. I added more traditional blessings: “May Allah have mercy on him, and may He give you patience, and may He grant that his path is the one of heaven. What a man he was, a true hero.”
As I rose from my seat, the family friend sitting next to Umm Kaid, an elderly lady wearing a long, white head covering, peered at me through her glasses and concurred, “Yes, a hero. Well, Israel is our country; we live in Israel. May Allah bring peace to our land.” I nodded and turned to leave.
ACCOMPANIED BY a third sibling, Salmeh, we were then taken to Ahmad’s orchard and small animal farm. The orchard is roughly five square meters, with young trees, no longer saplings, planted in rows, stretching their trunks and branches to catch some sunlight before the rain. Across from the orchard is the farm, which consists of a handful of goats that drew near us, curious, as well as many hens that were running around.
“Ahmad was a pious person,” said Salameh. “He took our mother to Hajj [a pilgrimage to Mecca, the holiest site in Islam] at his own expense.” Salameh then showed me a picture of Ahmad and his mother rejoicing in happiness, with the Ka’aba, the holy black stone, in the background.
“What else can I tell you? I taught him mechanics when he was younger, and he grasped everything so quickly. He went on a trip to Poland with his class in the military boarding school and was chosen to light candles [in memory of the Holocaust victims] and speak in one of the ceremonies. He fought hard to get into the Bedouin brigade, even though it is not compulsory for Bedouins to enlist at all. He had the full support of my parents. He was so proud of what he did, and so were we,” Salameh recalled.
“My siblings would tease him before he went into Gaza,” he continued. “They kept asking him, ‘Well, did you do anything already? Did you beat them already?’ and he would answer them like a lawyer, putting them on the spot.” Salameh then looked down toward the animals his brother had raised with a sad expression. “They will miss him too, I tell you.”
Ali, a fourth sibling, took me back to the tent. He told me about a dream that his friend had about Ahmad and how he smiled at him from above. “It’s a sign; I’m sure of that,” he said.
Abu Kaid met me again at the entrance. “In the last three days, we’ve had ministers, Knesset members, Supreme Court judges, and high-ranking IDF officials. My father worked in the neighboring Kibbutz Shoval for 40 years, and they also came here to console us. This is how far the connection between our family and the Jews here goes. And this is how we want it to remain – in life, not only in death.”
A SON, a brother, a husband, a father.
A cook, a gardener, an animal whisperer.
Religious, respecting, uniting.
A soldier, a hero.