Hezbollah rocket attack: An innocent little girl’s bedroom, frozen in time

Alma el-Din was among 12 children killed in a Hezbollah rocket attack in July. One of her relics is cherished above many others – a long-stemmed flower her mother handles like priceless treasure.

Naela el-Din has surrounded herself with every last possession ­belonging to her daughter. She smiles and sighs at each precious artefact on display while stepping carefully through Alma’s bedroom. A photograph of the blue-eyed girl, aged 11, is pinned to Ms el-Din’s chest, the only colour to be found on her all-black clothing.

“She was something special for us,” Ms el-Din said of Alma, who was among 12 children killed in a Hezbollah rocket attack in July. One relic here is cherished above many others – a long-stemmed flower Ms el-Din handles like priceless treasure. Drained of its moisture, but still bearing a life force, it was given to her by Alma weeks before she died.

“I kept it,” said Ms el-Din, letting out a painful sigh. “I don’t know, maybe fate kept it for me.” These totemic reminders are all that remain of a young girl whose life ended 64 days ago when a rocket bearing a 50kg payload crashed into their Druze village of Majdal Shams, in the northeastern corner of Israel.

The el-Dins welcomed The Australian into their home just days after the terrorist whose ­orders led to the killing of their daughter, Hezbollah chief Hassan Nasrallah, was eliminated in an ­Israeli airstrike. “We are Druze. I believe God will take justice. We don’t believe in taking revenge. God will bring justice for these children,” Ms el-Din said.

In this complicated pocket of land between Syria and Lebanon, the Druze are a religious minority who practise an Islamic offshoot and whose teachings can be ­fiercely guarded. One that Ms el-Din mentions frequently is that of reincarnation, a source of comfort in her time of grief.

Father Aymon, brothers Ryan, 12, and Elyan, 10, and mother Naela with a picture of Alma in the 11-year-old’s bedroom in the village of Majdal Shams. Picture: Liam Mendes

Controlled by Israel since 1967, Majdal Shams and the rest of the Golan Heights were previously within Syria’s borders. This has given the Druze of Majdal Shams a slightly more vexed relationship with Israel – older residents have spurned ­offers of citizenship while their children and grandchildren have tended to embrace the concept, serving in the Israeli army and voting in elections.

This historic association with Syria is why the people of Majdal Shams felt assured their village would be untouched by Hezbollah rocket fire. After all, they are not Jews and many are not Israeli.

But this false sense of security was shattered on July 27 when a rocket landed on the Majdal Shams soccer field. Much of the ­escalation between Israel and southern Lebanon, including an impending ground invasion, can trace its way back to the attack on Majdal Shams.

Until that incident, fighting between Hezbollah and Israel was contained to tit-for-tat exchanges of anti-tank fire and drone attacks along the border. Three days after the deaths in Majdal Shams, and after Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu vowed revenge, Israeli jets bombed a Beirut building, killing Hezbollah commander Fuad Shukr.

The same day, Israeli security services purportedly detonated a bomb in the Iranian capital of Tehran that killed Hamas leader Ismail Haniyeh. Since that time, Hezbollah’s strongholds have been obliterated by fighter jets, its command-and-control structure has been decimated and its leader, Nasrallah, was eliminated over the weekend. Not that Nasrallah’s death brings much consolation to Ms el-Din.

Clutching a picture of Alma, lit candles on a silver tray at her feet, she says the Druze don’t speak the language of revenge, nor is revenge something she seeks.

“So Nasrallah is gone? I don’t care. The result is the same.”

Alma’s mother Naela in her bedroom. Picture: Liam Mendes

In the aftermath of the rocket attack, condolence messages poured in from Israeli dignitaries including President Isaac Herzog and from politicians as far afield as Spain and Finland. At the family home, the front door swung open repeatedly as mourners brought trays of food.

Ms el-Din and her daughter were incredibly close, she said. They pestered one another for selfies and basked in each other’s affection. “She was my friend, my daughter, my lovely girl, my sister. And we started to talk to each other,” she said with a smile, “about boys and all this stuff, about secrets.”

But only now, two months later, is the true depth of grief revealing itself. Every message exchanged between them is subjected to “a deep look at each word”. Every photograph taken, every gift given, every piece of clothing kept in Alma’s cupboard bears the extraordinary weight of bottomless, endless meaning. “I miss her the most. I miss her hugs, her kisses, her talks, her eyes … everything about her. Every simple detail about her. I can tell a lot about her, you can’t imagine. I can write books about her.”

Alma was the centre of the family, despite being a middle child between brothers Ryan and Elyan. They were on the soccer field minutes before the rocket fell and left only because Ryan wanted doughnuts and demanded Elyan go with him. Alma, who played basketball – not soccer – turned up instead. Ms el-Din has given herself over to the reasons why. “This is destiny, and I believe in that,” said Ms el-Din. “He gave us a lot of blessings. He took one, but I must not forget about the others – the other blessings. In my heart, something else, like a mum, I miss her all the time, I’m burning to see her.”

Additional reporting: Liam Mendes