Why a Palestinian girl now wants to be a suicide bomber

A two-minute walk away from the Akhras house, members of the Oudeh family grapple with Ayat's death in individual ways. Awad Oudeh, father to Shireen and six other children, seems stunned to find himself in the position of having to discourage his own daughters from the ultimate act of political self-sacrifice.

A lifelong resident of Deheisheh, a jumble of tightly packed concrete buildings that house refugees from the war that preceded Israel's founding in 1948, Mr. Oudeh has achieved middle-class prosperity. He is responsible for customer service for a company that imports Whirlpool washing machines, among other things. "The burden of fatherhood is greater here than anywhere else in the world," he says, his green eyes wide open.

When his daughter Shireen isn't contemplating being a suicide bomber, she works hard at school – math is her favorite subject – in the hope of becoming a doctor. Medicine is her fallback option, she says, should she fail to become a "martyr." For her, Ayat's act is "sensational, it's awesome, it makes me think anyone would love to be in her place."

A physical disability – she walks with a pronounced limp – will in all likelihood rule out Shireen as a candidate for a suicide operation. But it is clear that Shireen and her sister Shurug, Ayat's good friend, have thought hard about performing acts of violence that are widely condemned as terrorism.

Shurug, two years older than Shireen and much more inclined to weep for Ayat than to envy her, says carrying out a suicide operation has long been a topic of discussion among her friends.

First, she says, the acts are considered revenge for Palestinians who have been killed by Israelis. Second, a suicide bombing is "a painful attack on Israel in order to end the occupation." And finally, "the security of Israel cannot be gained at the expense of the tears of the children of refugee camps."

But the suicides hardly bring an end to tears. Abu Laban, Ayat's fiancé, endures a few questions from reporters, perhaps because Ayat had planned to study journalism at Bethlehem University once she graduated from high school.

Sitting on a plastic chair in a chilly, cement room, Abu Laban has a long, high-cheekboned face, and his eyes are red around the rims. Those grieving for suicide bombers often say they are proud of their loved one's sacrifice, but Abu Laban defies that convention.

"I hope God forgives her for what she has done," he says quietly, and then excuses himself. He crosses the lane and enters Ayat's house, where the women of the family are also receiving guests. A billowing Palestinian flag, perhaps 25 feet long, is draped over the front of the building.

The walls and shutters facing the lane are covered with stencils and posters depicting previous martyrs. As in other places where poverty meets dense population, little children find their space to play in the lanes and alleys of the camp. No doubt they will soon see Ayat's face all around them.

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