It’s a small thing but the first time I met Awdah was my first protective presence at the start of this year. We had a brief chin wag, I talked a bit about my life and he shared some of his story, about family and friends. I was back in UaK again maybe three weeks later and he remembered everything from our conversation down to the tiniest detail, asking me about my studies and specific projects I was working on, my family back home etc. It just really stuck with me how he listened with care and intent, I felt seen and that I mattered to him which meant a lot. Was a genuine human moment with a beautiful soul, I’ll never forget it. From day one he always stuck out as such a special person and I really valued every moment around Awdah

— David

He told me he’d see me again with such certainty. I felt worried that I wouldn’t be able to come back, not that he wouldn’t be there if I did. Here is a very serious plan that he proposed one afternoon. I can’t really say why I kept it this long, but when I found it today i was so glad to have something to make him feel close again. Awdah you have given the children of your children’s children a chance at finding your life unimaginable. Love you forever brother.

— Tilly

The last time I saw Awdah, I was invited to guest teach a creative writing workshop in Tuwaneh. I remember his laughter, the way he leaned forward and nodded at whatever nonsense I was jabbering about the helpfulness of writing about smell, and small details (that night, the tea and heat and delicious synthetic sugar smell of the huge bag of candy someone brought to the workshop); I remember the beautiful story Awdah wrote, about a house demolition he’d recently witnessed; I wish I had the words he wrote to reread now, I remember it was brilliant, and moving, and witty, and overflowing with a true earnestness, which is to say, actual heart, in the midst of this heart-frozen world. Awdah was one of the gentlest, kindest people I’ve ever encountered. يرحمه

— Moriel

First story that sticks out though is a time back in June 2017. The Umm al Kheir crew had put out a call for help through various channels - settlers in Carmel were throwing rocks over the barbed wire fence at the residents. A few of us associated with CJNV/All That's Left/ Ta'ayush responded. It was the middle of the night but we organised a rental car in Sheikh Jarrah and sped down route 60 in a panic. When we got there, these big rocks were littered around the area near the 'fence' and more were flying through the air around the tent right up against the wire where Awdah and Tariq were vigilantly keeping watch. We arrived ready to get to work, film the crimes being committed and get onto various contacts to raise the alarm whatever way we could. Of course, Awdah was really troubled by what was going on, but he was also just so stoked to see his friends. After a few failed attempts calling the border police to report what was going on, he had a new mission that he wouldn't let us be detracted from: barbecue. This became our new priority - get some food going and hang out, catch up. Bear in mind, this is well past 2am at this point!

I hold this story dearly in my mind because this, to me, is who Awdah was as a person through and through. He, I feel, was so motivated by community and connection. He lived through hardships that most of us couldn't even begin to imagine - this goes without saying - but where he could have justifiably been consumed by rage, he maintained a simply unfathomable amount of love and care for others - whether that was through his job as a teacher, using his voice to defend the people of Umm al Kheir or hosting us international activists. What a great man. What a disastrous, unthinkable crime that has been committed.

— Rob

I was at UaK last year, and talked to Awdah about my upcoming thesis. I asked him what does he think I should write about, and he said he had to think about it and we exchanged phone numbers. We didn't get to talk about it much, but since then we have exchanged messeges once in a while. I coudn't come for various reasons and was thinking on coming again in a week or too from now and see him and the others. I will miss him, it is such a loss.

— Lahat

My heart shattered yesterday, and I am just trying my best to pick up the pieces as I move through this. Yesterday in Umm al Kheir, my friend and our partner, Awdah Hathaleen was shot and killed by an infamous violent Israeli settler named Yinon Levy. 

Just hours before he was murdered, Awdah had sent a message to activists around the world:

URGENT CALL the settlers are working behind our houses and the worst that they tried to cut the main water pipe for the community,  they will build caravans .we need everyone who can make something to act , if you can reach people like the congress , courts , whatever, please do everything,  if they cut the pipe the community here will literally will be without any drop of water

I could sense the fear that his home would be taken from him by this Israeli violence. I could feel the fear for his family, his community, his people. Awdah was a teacher and a writer and Awdah was an organizer and a leader. He had deep hope and built a beautiful and wide movement of friends and partners around the world to help save his home from Israeli destruction, and to free his people from the nightmare they’ve endured. 

Awdah built this movement-community with his warmth and his smile and with his steadfast commitment. He built it with every story he told, every group he welcomed into his home, every person he taught, and every idea he made into a reality.

Awdah was a father of three and a husband. He loved his children. Every time I think about his family I am shattered again. I am watching a video of my child playing with his eldest son in Umm al Kheir not far from where he was shot down. I am so sad and yet I can’t help but smile at hearing Awdah’s voice behind the sounds of babies and toddlers babbling to one another. 

Awdah was a gracious host of my 40th birthday party in the desert near Umm al Kheir in Masafer Yatta. Photo by Natasha Westheimer. 

Yesterday the updates began to come in. Ahmed was hit in the head by the arm of a digger. Awdah was shot in the chest or stomach. They were now on their way to the hospital. Did I understand correctly? I read the messages over and over. 

I wrote to Awdah, “I know you can't see this right now, but I am sending you strength and love and so many people all around the world are sending you the same”. I knew he wouldn’t see it any time soon, but I imagined he would see it. I just didn’t have room for the possibility that he would die. I now know it is true, but I am still lost trying to understand it.

Today, friends and family began arriving at the village to be together in grief. In the morning, the army told the village they had to take down the customary mourning tent, and they blocked journalists from entering. In the afternoon, they declared a closed military zone and kicked solidarity visitors out, pushing them around and throwing stun grenades. Meanwhile, Yinon Levy is under house arrest. Not even a cell. The situation is still ongoing. No one feels safe to mourn. 

Awdah loved his children and he loved the children he taught. It was exhausting work, but his commitment to building the next generation shone in his eyes every time I asked him about it. I was, and will always be, moved by his energy and his vision.

I find myself rereading Awdah’s words and remembering his laughter and his smile, his sincerity and his humor. Awdah once wrote about Hajj Suleiman, who was killed defending Umm al Kheir and his people, that we will keep him “in our hearts and in our struggle, and we will not forget the sacrifices he made in fighting for our rights — until he sacrificed his very life for us.”

Awdah, you are in my heart and you are in my struggle. 

— Daniel

Living in Umm Al Kheir was the most meaningful experience of my life. It wasn't just this fun, quirky experience that grabs people's attention at parties, it wasn't even “just” a way to do incredibly important protective presence in a really powerful and rigorous way. It was my way of showing that it - none of it - doesn't have to be this way. A better way is possible, because I did it. Nobody is more emblematic of my stay in Umm Al Kheir than Awdah. Awdah, who was the host of every Jewish activist (and there are hundreds) who set foot in Umm Al Kheir. Who, when I asked a question about Ramadan, just said “don't ask me questions this close to Iftar.” Who acted offended that I would even ask when he told me of course I could light the Chanukah menorah in the village kitchen. Who wanted to show everyone that “we have a Jew guy" living in the village. Who was probably the only one prouder than I was when his mom called me “Sam Hathleen.”

Awdah wanted so desperately for the children of Umm Al Kheir to not just survive but to live and thrive and have a “normal” childhood. From my first time in the village to now, he spearheaded efforts to build a basketball court, a playground, and an office. He was the number one supporter of the Masafer Yatta Wrestling Club. We even wrestled a few times. He was freakishly strong. 

Awdah once haggled on behalf of the ajaneb when we were buying Farwas (Bedouin jackets) in the city of Yatta. I think we saved like a dollar each. 

Just about every single person who's ever heard Awdah speak in front of a group came up to me and told me how amazing he was. 

Awdah was infamous for smoking a cigarette before eating food on Ramadan. 

When a (male) friend of mine told Awdah he was in rabbinical school, Awdah responded “oh, I know a lot of rabbis, but they're all women.” 

Awdah always said “if you're Palestinian, you're an activist.”

During the olive harvest I was always gone during the day, and Awdah joked he would sabotage my car so I couldn't leave. 

When my partner and I stopped by the village on our way to Egypt, Awdah spent the whole time telling her how much the community loves me.

The last time I saw Awdah I told him that next time I'm in Umm Al Kheir I'll have better Arabic than him.

When someone from the village gave me a haircut, Awdah said “now you're really Palestinian.”

When I told Awdah I was starting to understand his mom he said “wow, your Arabic is getting really good!”

I once fasted on Ramadan because Awdah told me he'd make me vegan maklubeh if I did. 

I spent thousands and thousands of hours in Umm Al Kheir. He was only able to visit me in Jerusalem once. 

When I made him tea, he made fun of me for not putting in enough sugar.

Awdah would tell people their second time in Umm Al Kheir that they're not guests anymore

I'll never forget the sound of his nephews yelling “uncle Awdah!” 

Awdah taught me that in Bedouin culture, if you accept three cups of coffee from someone it's basically a blood pact. I've had closer to 3000.

— Sam

Just want to share on my way home driving i happened to turn on the radio local news station kpfk 90.7 in la and someone was sharing memories of awdah and the importance of continuing the struggle in his honor. i only caught the very end but made me feel so grateful it was being covered. still can’t believe it but I know how important his legacy and memory will always be in our hearts and how many people he touched around the entire globe. it felt like divine timing i just happened to turn on the radio in that very moment. (if anyone knows who might have been speaking about him on la radio im very curious to find this guy!)

— Emma

One time Awdah told me, as we sped along the winding roads near Umm al-Khair in his car, that he had once gotten into a drag race with a settler from Carmel heading home. “I told myself, ” he said, “that either I win, or I die. I won. I made it home before he did. ” We drove another time, him and I, into Yatta to grab lunch. I drove behind the wheel until we crossed into the city—at which point he asked to get behind the wheel because he didn’t want someone unfamiliar with the Palestinian city roads driving in the city. “No no no let me do it!” I jokingly begged. “Okay, ” he said, “but if I see that you cannot handle it then we will stop and I will get behind the wheel. ” I’m from the USA but my daddy’s from Brazil. I channeled my inner Brazilian and drove through Yatta like I owned every road. As we left the city, he turned to me with a face of quiet, surprising approval. “You know? You are a good driver. ” It was the best compliment I have ever received.

— Adrian

Still in the middle of grieving the murder of my friend Awdah Hathalein of the Palestinian village, Umm al Khair. This silly picture was taken in 2022 after dinner after a day of nonviolence training on the outskirts of Bethlehem. Awdah is second from the left in front. Awdah's cousin Eid is to his right, and behind him is his brother Tariq. "Dear" Bob Suberi and Oscar-winner Hamdan Bilal joined in the merriment. The head of B'Tselem spoke very effusively if briefly about Awdah at the end of  Democracy Now! today. What is remembered lives!

— Jim

There's a funny story Awdah once told that I think about often. There were a group of visitors from Japan who came to UEK and they invited him and a few others to Bethlehem in the evening to get nice massages and drink Japanese tea. He told a story about how wonderful the massages were and then said "but the tea was disgusting, IT WASN'T SWEET AT ALL!" I often think of this story and laugh fondly. Wish I was sipping sweet tea with him now.

— Sarah

I remember Awdah, when he welcomed us into his village, Um Al-Khair in Masafer Yatta area.

I remember the passion in his voice as he spoke of his work as an activist, the joy in his eyes as he introduced us to the people of his community, the pride he radiated as he showed us the small football field where children could play, the greenhouse that fed his neighbors, and the sheep grazing peacefully nearby.

I remember the quiet gratitude he expressed through countless small gestures as he opened his home to us, sharing food, stories, time, smiles, and laughter — despite everything, despite the settlement looming just meters away.

I remember that Awdah never once spoke a word of hatred toward the Israeli settlers who threatened his village. Not even when he helped us understand what it truly means to be Palestinian and to live under occupation.

I remember the way he told his story — with simplicity, with passion, with humility. A life of resilience and activism, as modest as it was powerful. The story of a boy who came to understand that the most effective form of resistance was to tell the world about the conditions in which Israeli settlers force Palestinians to live. A conviction that led him to wash dishes to pay for his language studies at the University of Hebron, sleeping less than four hours per night because he insisted on returning to the village each day to help tend the sheep and the garden. Then came graduation, and a great job offer in the city — which he turned down, to pursue his dream: opening a center in his village to welcome international activists.

I remember the incredible story of how, after years of waiting, anxiety, and countless obstacles, Awdah finally fulfilled a small but immense dream he had carried since he was a child: to see the sea, to swim in that water so close and yet unreachable because of the Israeli occupation.

I remember that night, falling asleep under a magnificent sky full of stars, with Awdah’s stories echoing in my mind and a heavy weight in my chest — full of sorrow, and also, somehow, of hope. A weight that stayed with me until it dissolved — painfully — when I learned that an Israeli settler had killed Awdah.

I remember Awdah, and I always will.

— Andrea

"While in Umm Al-khair today Tariq translated a famous quote for us, something like, “You should live a life of justice and if you can’t live a life of justice, you should die standing up”. This might sound like an extreme sentiment but I interpreted it to mean, we need to lead our lives with justice at its core, guiding our every decision and action, but if this is impossible, then we don’t give up but die knowing that we did everything we could to live a life full of good acts and a warm heart. This is what the people of Umm Al-khair are doing and they don’t deserve the fate that has been thrust upon them."

I can't believe Awdah is gone. As everyone has been writing - truly such a kind, brave, inspiring and friendly human. His life was taken too soon but we know he "died standing up"

— Carly

I have a Hebrew tattoo that I usually keep covered. One day, though, Adwah caught a glimpse of it. With a curious and trepid voice he asked me what it meant. I told him it’s a reminder of the Lamed Vavniks: that it helps me remember that anyone I meet could be one of them. And I said “you could be one of them!” He let out a big, warm laugh and said, “I don’t know about that, but we need more of them”. I can’t help but feel we lost one of righteous ones.

— Stephanie

Building off of the second story, and stuff many folks here have said—I’ve been looking back through my journals from the last few years for stories and mentions. several of them are from Extend trips or big sort of “introductory” work days, and I wrote about being constantly awed by the effect of his words. he was articulate and clear. he was a teacher. he was deeply gentle while also refusing to minimize the severity of the violence he and his community face. I wrote about seeing, in each of these cases, people changing in real time. people who wouldn’t use the word apartheid before their trip suddenly taking it up. people from whom that was their first trip, and they kept coming. he had such patience for everyone—curious and green and still somewhat brainwashed yeshiva students, random well-intentioned but annoying international journalists, people’s parents, politicians with varying degrees of good will. he was able to meet everyone, and still never compromise his integrity or the force of his message. it’s something I never stopped being awed by.

— Lexie

I can’t stop thinking about one night I spent in Masafer Yatta. It had been a long day, and I had a terrible headache. While everyone else went to Um al Kheir for dinner, I stayed behind in another village to rest.

A few hours later, a friend showed up with headache pills and a bottle of water. “These are from Awdah,” she said. “And he’s coming soon with food—because you should eat something to help your headache.”

Many will write about you, Awdah—your leadership, your courage, your deep commitment to your people. Your role as a teacher, a husband, a father of three. The unbearable tragedy of being shot and killed at 31 by Yinon Levy, one of the very settlers who made your life so hard and unsafe. The injustice of it.

But it’s this small moment that plays over and over in my mind. The kindness that came so naturally to you. Your insistence on hospitality, even in the hardest times. Your warmth, your curiosity about people and life.

We were the same age. You were open, thoughtful, always interesting to talk to. I remember long conversations on cold winter nights, the smell of smoke from the soba stove in the visitor’s tent. Sometimes you stayed with us all night as we debated religion, politics, philosophy. I remember little Watan, just a year old then, wrapped in your Adidas jacket against the cold.

A few months ago, in an Arabic lesson in Jerusalem, my teacher—who’s taught many activists—asked if I knew you. I said yes, and she smiled: “Awdah mashhoor," she said.

And it’s true. You were famous in this corner of the world—for your generosity, your fierce devotion, and your belief that the people of Um al Kheir deserve to live in peace on their land.

You deserved so much more from this life. May you finally find peace. And may your memory hold us forever accountable to your mission, building a world where all people are met with kindness, safety, and justice.

— Tess

Awdah Hathaleen. Son of Khadra and the late Mohammed Hathaleen. Beloved husband to Hanadi, and father to Watan, Mohammed, and Kinan. 

We should not be here today. We should have no need to gather, not to commemorate, but to protest the death of our cherished friend. Awdah was brutally murdered by a rapacious Israeli settler on Monday. This settler invaded Awdah’s village of Umm Al-Kheir, in the Masafer Yatta region, to colonize more land for the settlement of Carmel. The death of Hathaleen, an English teacher, activist, and coordinator of the village’s external relationships, was determined by the very alliance that severely constrained the conditions of his livability. That is, the collusion of Israeli settler and state forces set the stage for the spectacular scene in which Hathaleen’s lung was pierced by the bullet of the gun of a vigilante settler putatively defending his excavator while preparing the ground for the neighboring settlement’s expansion. 

Awdah bled to death while the settler announced he was glad to have murdered him. While the gunshot targeted Awdah arbitrarily, this was no accidental murder. Awdah’s slaughter joins those of thousands and thousands in the Occupied West Bank and Gaza, the latest in the atrocious saga of the attempted extermination of Palestinian life by Israel. 

We will not remain silent, nor will we sit by and watch as this brutality is expedited on a mass scale. As Awdah’s mother, wife, sisters, and cousins continue their hunger strike, we demand the conditionless return of his body. So too, we demand the immediate release of Awdah’s six remaining family members, brothers and cousins, who remain in Israeli military prison after being baselessly kidnapped by the Israeli military. 

There can be no justice, and no peace, as long as Palestine and the Palestinian people remain trapped under the yolk of a murderous colonial occupation and genocide. 

Awdah, may your memory be a revolution. ا

لله يرحَمُه

— Joseph (speech given at a protest)

When I think of Awdah I think of his infinite love for the children, the elders, his friends, his guests, and the land. Nothing competed with another, he always had room to love more

— Elias

Everyone who met Awdah and heard his and Umm Al-Khair’s story left with an understanding of the brutal realities of daily life in the West Bank and an example of Palestinian existence as resistance. Awdah deeply believed that if only people knew what was happening, we could stop it. And he dedicated his heart and soul to telling people not only about the challenges of life but also the beauties of Bedouin culture.

As anyone who went on an Extend trip to Umm Al-Khair knows, the first thing you notice after you clamber down from Samer’s red minibus onto the dusty road is the most striking, visceral understanding of Israeli apartheid, with Umm Al-Khair and its 99% of buildings with demolition orders on one side of the fence and the suburban Israeli settlement of Carmel on the other side. The second thing you see is Awdah coming up to the group with the biggest smile on his face saying, “Ahlan wa’sahlan! Welcome, welcome!” as he ushers us into the Umm Al-Khair community center. Soon we would be generously offered many rounds of sweet tea and bitter coffee while Awdah recounted the horrors of home demolitions, settler violence, and bureaucratic mechanisms of civil control and discrimination.

Shortly after October 7, 2023, Awdah created a WhatsApp broadcast message to keep people apprised of what was happening in Umm Al-Khair. He even messaged about what was happening in the hours before his death with the urgency of someone fighting for his community’s livelihood, “URGENT CALL: the settlers are working behind our houses and the worst that they tried to cut the main water pipe for the community, they will build caravans. we need everyone who can make something to act, if you can reach people like the congress, courts, whatever, please do everything, if they cut the pipe the community here will literally be without any drop of water.”

We ended every Extend program with a processing circle to discuss what we were feeling, sitting with, and wanted to commit to. As we witness the ongoing genocide and mass starvation in Gaza and the ethnic cleansing of the West Bank, we must heed the blaring alarm bells of a dear friend to act, in his memory and for the sake of his children. Awdah’s three little boys will now grow up without a father and his wife without her beloved husband. The entire community of Umm Al-Khair has lost a great advocate and communal leader. I have lost a friend and partner.

— Isaac

Normally when someone dies

Their friends and loved ones say very nice things and skip the not-so-nice parts. The parts where they were real and flawed human beings

They become more beautiful and perfect after death than they ever were in life

And when people sing their praises, I raise one skeptical eyebrow but remain silent out of respect for the dead and the mourners 

But with Awdah 

I promise you

Every single nice thing they say is absolutely true 

He really was a careful and loving father

He really was a doting husband 

He really was courageous and kind 

He really did have the biggest heart

He really was funny

He really did make everyone feel seen, special, and loved 

He really was a good friend to so many people all over the world 

He really was a good writer, speaker, activist, educator 

Its all true, every word of it

I remember one day watching Awdah speak with the solidarity activists 

And I thought to myself, "wow, this man has the biggest heart I've ever met." I could feel his soul light up the whole room, and I couldn't believe how much energy came from just one person. I was inspired by him then. Not just in death, but in life and the way he lived it.

Despite daily settler harrassment, despite the war planes overhead on their way to bomb Gaza, despite the nightly army raids, despite the lies and vitriol posted online, despite the degradation and dehumanization of the occupation, despite the theft and destruction and unbelievable injustice-

Awdah still had the biggest smile and the biggest heart and he had a vision of truth, justice, and peace. His heart and soul were untouchable. His inner light and strength was so profound that he was never poisoned by bitterness or hate, even in conditions when almost any other human would be. 

I really think Awdah's heart was so big that he gave a small piece of it to every person he met 

And that's why when he was martyred, thousands of people in Palestine and around the world felt like a piece of them died too 

In moments when I felt overwhelmed by rage, despair, a desire for revenge, and hatred towards other Jews and even towards myself- I would be reminded of Awdah's inner strength. I would think of his smile and dedication to peace and justice. And I could feel the darkness fall away from me, remember the love and humanity and laughs and friendships and focus on the beauty we have together already and the shared future we want to bring into reality. If Awdah could remain strong then so could I. No excuses.

He welcomed us- Jews- into his village and his own home during the genocide. A genocide against his people being perpetrated by our people. This is courage, this is solidarity, this is strength of the highest order.

He made connections with people all over the world, he made us laugh, he got us face cakes for our birthdays, he wrote letters, he left voice memos and sweet text messages, and got us gifts to bring back to our homes. I cannot even describe to you the grueling conditions in which he lived, and yet he still did all of this with a smile.

He was one of the most skilled organizers and relationship builders I've ever met. Despite apartheid, travel restrictions, censorship and repression- his love and warmth and vision went beyond borders, and called in solidarity activists from around the world. When we answered his call, not only were we introduced to the beauty and the struggle of Um al Khair, but we also found each other. Awdah didn't just connect Israeli and international Jews and other solidarity activists to Um al Khair. He also connected us to Masafar Yatta, all the West Bank, all Palestine, and to each other. He connected us to a beautiful future, a small taste of possibility beyond colonization and occupation.

In a time of destruction, division, hatred, and extremism- truly the most extreme circumstances imaginable-

He was a builder  

And the future he was working towards is one built on a foundation of truth, justice, human rights, intercultural connection, faith, respect, education, and love. 

May we all continue his legacy and create a better world for his children. May his three sons never suffer as their father did. May their lives be filled with joy and ease in a free Palestine.

May Awdah's memory be a blessing and a revolution

— Brooke

I still can't believe that Awdah is gone. 

I am so thankful that his family and community was finally able to bury him and give him the funeral he deserved today. 

I feel numb to the violence here because it's the only way to cope. But everything is actually so unbelievable for Palestinians in the West Bank. 

That Yinon Levi, an Israeli settler was able to come into the village with his bulldozer and build on their land. That when Palestinians came to defend their home, his immediate response was to fire gunshots. That Awdah, a known nonviolent peace activist, who was only 31 years old (born the same year as me) with a wife and 3 young kids, was killed during the daytime while standing in the community center with kids around (not even approaching Levi).  

That after this horrendous tragedy, the murderer was released on house arrest and has been allowed to return to the village to continue construction and tell the army which Palestinians to arrest for throwing stones. 

That numerous Palestinians - friends and family of Awdah, were the ones arrested and held for days in a military prison while they mourned their beloved relative. 

That the army violently invaded the village the day after, using tear gas and stun grenades to dismantle the mourning tent and kick out Israeli and International activists and longtime friends of Awdah who were there to mourn with the village. 

That Awdah's body was held by the army and not immediately returned to his family for a proper burial. And the women, including many elderly women of the village went on hunger strike to nonviolently protest this cruel act. 

That they offered to return his body if the family agreed to have a funeral of 15 people at night time (of course they refused). 

That after 10 days, Awdah's body was finally returned to his family and even though the court didn't impose any restrictions, the army declared the village a "closed military zone" and many Israeli, international and local Palestinian activists and friends were denied entry.
That it is incredibly unlikely we will see Yinon Levi face any consequences despite multiple eye witnesses and media footage. And he will be able to roam freely in the area and do the same again. 

It's unbelievable. But at the same time completely believable and expected. If you understand anything about the system of occupation in the West Bank you'll know that all of this is routine cruelty. That it doesn't actually matter if you're a "peace-loving" Palestinian or a violent one, that you will suffer because the system is set up that way. It's unfair. Palestinians in the West Bank don't have the same rights I do as an Israeli or an international Jew. It's as simple and tragic as that.  

It's hard to know what we do now. But what can we do but continue struggling for the reality Awdah envisioned? Justice, equality and freedom for all. Despite everything he went through, he held onto hope that things could be better in this land, both for himself and his community and for all of us. 

We miss you Awdah. <3

— Carly

In a small village called Umm al-Khair, in Masafer Yatta south of Hebron in Palestine, Odeh al-Hahalin was killed on 28.7.2025, not on a frontline, not in an “accidental incident”, but in a clear and deliberate act: one bullet from a settler, went on, to trial, no arrest, no accountability, the killer is a settler, and the victim is a surplus citizen of a state that does not recognize our lives.

In that land that has been living on its nerves for decades, settlements advance and trap houses, and every tree becomes a target, and every Palestinian becomes a "security threat," even if they carry only a bucket of water or a piece of bread, a handful of firewood, or a yargola and a song.

But Odeh wasn't just a victim of a crime, he was also a voice telling the untold, he contributed to the production of the documentary "No Other Land," which spotted the crime of displacement in Masafer Yatta, revealing the faces of Palestinians who don't have another homeland, because they are home.

The film won the Academy Award for Best Documentary in 2025, and the world stood applauding it, but one of its stars, narrator Sadiq Odeh al-Hahalin, who carried the camera instead of a gun, was shot dead months after the award was announced.

As if the occupation says:

Even if you tell your story in style and peace, we will not allow you to live.

What happened with Odeh is not an exception, but part of a full-scale war. The West Bank is exterminated by installments, and Gaza is exterminated by wholesale, in the first: bullet, barrier, bulldozer, settler, arrest and raid, and in the second: rocket, plane, bombing, siege, famine.

The law is one:

"This people have no right to survive."

Odeh was not carrying a weapon, he was carrying a tale, and our stories, it seems, are more dangerous than guns, what scares the occupation not only the armed Palestinian, but also the uncompromising Palestinian, who tells, who portrays, who stands at conferences and says, "We don't have another land, but we have the right to this land"

Born from the dust of this place, a peasant who knew the names of stones and knocked the moon over the hills, but was kidnapped from his day in a systematic and repetitive way: a bullet in the body, silence in the sky.

Daily incursions, arrests, field executions, burning houses, land confiscation, and demolition of tents are not separate from the bloody war in Gaza, where cities are bombed, camps are starved, and families are wiped out in front of the world's cameras.

Blood is one.

And bullets are one.

The target is one:

Palestinian presence as a whole.

They seem to want to take us to square one, to tell us: You cannot in this land, in Gaza with mass death, in the West Bank and Jerusalem with constant individual death at every moment.

His martyrdom is not the end of a story, but a daily reminder that war is no longer a war of borders, nor of self-defense as they claim, but a war against meaning, against the name of villages, against the infant, well, tent, key and memory.

The settler killed the land of the poem,

Because she doesn't kneel,

Because she knows alone,

How to love without forgetting,

And how to live, even though the bulldozer doesn't want it alive.

In the village of Umm al-Khair, death does not come from heaven as in Gaza, walking on two legs, with a trimmed beard, a licensed rifle, shaking hands with soldiers, laughing, then pulling the trigger, orgy, and even more, it is a complete philosophy, a legal-backed racist settlement project, covered in international silence, and all kinds of weapons.

He was one of those who looked like the earth: silent, steadfast, son of the prairie and its deep secrets, he was martyred because his presence was disturbing, because his face reminds them that they are strangers, and because his eyes say: I have been here for generations, and you, the occupier, passerby weapon.

In Masafer Yatta, where the earth walks barefoot on the fragments of occupation, the return of these two people was standing, not on a pier of silence, but on the conscience of the earth, it was not just a body blocking the path of bulldozers, but an idea, and the idea was more solid than cement and deeper than the effects of soldiers on the dirt in front of the ogre of settlements.

In a traveler who travels everything: water, school, home, pasture, tree, and life itself, it is the tyranny that Dostoevsky wrote about when he said that it was the real killers who codified crime, then slept comfortably, enjoying the lights of extermination.

What futility is this? To shake your hand with an Oscar in one hand, and in the other hand a settler bullet? What time is this? When a free and documented criminal becomes dead, and the truth is a closed file in the drawer of the military court? The killer settler was released, Odeh al-Hahalin's body was held for more than 10 days, and when they returned his body, he was washed with his blood and lit up with the earthquake.

The return of a body walking in a traveler was not an individual, but a long dream longer than the earth, but a return to those who never left, even if the guns buried them in the silence.

In the epic mythology "Sipsy" Tired of pushing the rock, but Odeh was pushing the world toward his dignity, knowing that martyrdom was not a defeat, but a final signing of the survival contract.

Odeh was a peasant with no sword,

He carries wheat in his palm,

In his heart is the sun of the south,

He knew that dust was not understood in words,

Race,

Patience that does not die.

But we know what Walid Daqqa said, who wrote in prison, rose as a martyr, facing imprisonment and death by the word: "I will not allow them to write the last line," in Gaza the last line has not yet been written, and in the West Bank the last witness has not erased, and in Umm al-Khair, the voice of the return of these two still walks in the dirt, whispering in the earth's ear:

We're still here,

No other land for us.

You passerby on the news, stop,

This is a comeback,

And that's his name,

And this land he loved, it is the same one that called for it,

To come back,

In Umm al-Khair,

Martyrs are not buried,

They grow.

Peace be upon you, you who taught us that the flesh does not die if the earth is carried in its heart, and that leaving is not death, but scattered in the trees, spread in the stories, and light trembling in the breasts of the living.

Peace on the return...

Who will not return,

Because he never went: God

— Issa

My friend Awdah Hathaleen: I am far from the first and I am far from the last to tell you that Awdah was the greatest man I have ever known. The likes of Nelson Mandela and of the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. came alive in this sweet, gentle, funny man from an occupied village in the southern West Bank. His biggest desire was to live in dignified, peaceful equality with the ones he loved in the land he loved. He wanted to bring all of us with him. When I met him, I was simply a truth-seeking American Jew recovering from the hangover of a hasbara upbringing. I'm not unlike many of us. Awdah was the first Palestinian I met in the Occupied Palestinian Territory. As he did with everyone, he told me and everyone with me his story. Full of passion and life, he told us he wanted his human rights. He deserved every last one of them. This man quickly became my brother, and from one tribe to another we discovered the multitudes of similarities that brought us together—that made us humanly equal in a land where humanity is conditionally granted on a basis of ethnicity and tribalism. It was not long before we discovered that we shared the same birthday. We were sitting around drinking Coca-Cola and sharing jokes. "When is your birthday?" I asked him. I simply wanted to know him. "April 10th," he answered. "Shut up. No it isn't," I exclaimed in disbelief. He looked perplexed; and, granted, why would anyone say that. We went back and forth on this for a bit—him confused, me elated. "April 10th is MY birthday," I joyously told him. Now we switched. "No it isn't," he said to me. Again, we went back and forth on this for a bit. I took out my driver's license and tossed it in front of him as we sat together on the ground. He picked it up and held it close. We had both found our twin. What a joy it was to be your twin, brother bear; and I always will be. Not one birthday will go by where I do not think of you; where I do not light and blow out a candle for you. I think our wishes will be the same as the candle slowly smokes above the cake—drifting along the air that I have blown onto it for us. We wish for a world where you and your children live in dignity; in happiness, in justice, and in peace. As I delved deeper into a hellscape I had never known—that you have known since the day you were born and since the day where you stood on that rock down the road as a child watching your house get demolished for the first of many times—I found comfort in the same comforts you have. I poured love into the comforts around you as I grieved the reality I saw you live. Those comforts are your children. I love them, as I love you, more than anything. As I gazed upon the nightmare around us, I held your tiny children close—laughing and playing with them day after day until the sun set and it was time for them to go to bed. They bring me a joy that I have never felt before; as do you, my brother. I cannot wait to spend the rest of my life telling them that you are the greatest man I have ever known. I know that your wife (their mother), all of their aunts and uncles, and every friend you have will be telling them the same. I don't think either of us expect them to understand how or why you are gone. I've never seen children love anyone so much. The excitement they so purely and clearly display each time you drive back home and they see your car pull up is amazing. It's incredible. Their conversations stop. They drop what they're doing. They run to you. "Awdah! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!" I watched your five year old exclaim as he ran from me to you. You got out of your car and hugged him close—your three year old rushing over to you close behind him. They're obsessed with you. I think we all are. To know and love a man, a brother, so beautifully human in a reality so grievously inhumane is to know and love a shining light in the dark. We will hold that light close to us forever, my dear twin. You will never fail to show us the way. To lead us with your brave and humble torch through this darkness that you have known since birth. I promise, with everything in my being, that I—that all of us—will be as many lights as possible to light the way for your children. They will know that they come from greatness. When freedom comes, it will be because of you—my dearest friend.

- Adrian

Awdah, you were always so nice, so welcoming, always a smile on your face, always a friendlyword.

You were a light in this world, and an incredible activist, always willing to open up, to share your story, to share your world, with those coming in, no matter who and what they were. You were open to anyone and everyone who had it in their heart to learn, to see, to support. You were smart, with so very many insights to share, and a commitment to nonviolence. One person wrote how they learned about community organizing from you, how you built such a huge tent, such a massive community and network that is trying their best to support you and your closer community now with your rejection of gatekeeping, your hospitality, your warmth. The impact of your approach that is now seen with the hundreds of words written about you, the pictures of you shared, the raising up of your voice even as you were viciously were the first person we thought of when thinking about how to bring people into activism, how to help them see the reality of the occupation and the apartheid. The reality of life in Area C of the West Bank. And you always, consistently welcomed in with open arms. There was a long time period where I hadn’t been back to the South Hebron Hills, following some bad experiences. You were the first person I contacted when thinking about going back, and you told me to come, open-armed. We worked together on a really small project, and you laughed gently when I got very lost trying to find my way to UaK, it had been so long. You welcomed me into your home, we drank some coffee, and talked about making this project bigger. It didn’t happen in the end. I’m sorry. There were other projects too, that didn’t happen. Maybe one day they will.

But I digress, because while I have mixed feelings of guilt and shame and responsibility about not going enough, about having been absent for years, about anything and everything, you welcomed me back, no questions asked, no judgement, just with your smile.

I always knew I had a friend in Masafer Yatta, and I already thought that no matter what, I would be able to contact you, to reconnect. That was stolen from me, and many others, in your cruel murder.

You were committed, so committed. To bringing activists to your community, to helping your community survive under the intense threat of a settlement built directly on top of your village, to spreading the word.

Since October 7 you started sending messages, well you sent messages before too, but they became much more consistent. Messages asking for people to go down to Umm Al Kheir, to stand in solidarity, updating all of us on the constant barrage of insane violence you lived through on a daily basis.

On Tuesday, that violence, tore you away from this Earth while you were doing what you do best, being yourself.

Awdah, your murder feels like a hole was ripped in the universe. Our very fabric, ripped apart.

We feel helpless, we feel lost. The world was so much more while with you in it.

We often frame work that we do in terms of Tikkun olam- repairing the world. The Hassidic concept explains as follows: there once was a Divine shattering, something so terrible that pieces of the Divine were flung all over this Earth, trapped in shells. It is our work to release these pieces of God’s soul, and thus help reunite the Divine after this big mystical breakage.

Today, understood as social justice.

Your death feels as though we have gone backwards in time.

It feels like a tearing, instead of a release of the Divine in reparation, there is once again this shattering, and we have been pushed so many steps backwards from whatever repair we imagine we have done. It is surreal and infuriating. It is shocking, and it is devastating.This shouldn’t have happened at all, but that it happened during bein hameitzarim, the time period in which we conceive of ourselves as in a very narrow place, crying to God for our salvation, feels apt. Our cry though, isn’t only in words. I know that each and every person you have spoken with, each and every person you have touched with your story, will commit to continue your work, to fight for justice and peace in Palestine, to fight to end the occupation and apartheid, to seek freedom for all peoples from the river to the sea. And I hope, that as we do our work of releasing the divine from is imprisonment, your soul is reunited, returned as your name states, with Oneness, whatever that means to you.

You were a pillar, and you were larger than life, and you will be missed.

May his memory be blessed, may his memory be a revolution, may he rest in power and also in peace.

— Tamar

Hineinu 2022: @~Katie and I went to Hebron with Hanadi to go Eid shopping. Awdah and Hanadi wanted us to blend in; there had been some recent violence with soldiers in the city and they were really concerned about our safety. The night before our shopping trip we let Hanadi play dress up with us and get our outfits together. Awdah wanted a picture with his “Palestinian girls” lol

(Side note we told Basel and Nasser Nawaja about our trip and they thought it was crazy we were asked to wear hijab. Basel said “You guys look like you’re joining ISIS. Katie will go to Iraq and Sally will go to Syria” 😂)

— Sally

One time, little Hamudi tripped and fell into a square, concrete fire pit in the room behind them here. Hamudi hit his head and cried. Awdah picked up his little boy and began kicking and yelling at the concrete square underneath him—as if the concrete floor itself had attacked his little boy.

— Adrian

Normally when someone dies their friends and loved ones say very nice things and skip the not-so-nice parts. The parts where they were real and flawed human beings.

They become more beautiful and perfect after death than they ever were in life. And when people sing their praises, I raise one skeptical eyebrow but remain silent out of respect for the dead and the mourners

But with Awdah

I promise you

Every single nice thing they say is absolutely true

He really was a careful and loving father

He really was a doting husband

He really was courageous and kind

He really did have the biggest heart

He really was funnyHe really did make everyone feel seen, special, and loved

He really was a good friend to so many people all over the world

He really was a good writer, speaker, activist, educator

Its all true, every word of it

I remember one day watching Awdah speak with the solidarity activists and I thought to myself, "wow, this man has the biggest heart I've ever met." I could feel his soul light up the whole room, and I couldn't believe how much energy came from just one person. I was inspired by him then. Not just in death, but in life and the way he lived it.

Despite daily settler harrassment, despite the war planes overhead on their way to bomb Gaza, despite the nightly army raids, despite the lies and vitriol posted online, despite the degradation and dehumanization of the occupation, despite the theft and destruction and unbelievable injustice- Awdah still had the biggest smile and the biggest heart and he had a vision of truth, justice, and peace. His heart and soul were untouchable. His inner light and strength was so profound that he was never poisoned by bitterness or hate, even in conditions when almost any other human would be.

I really think Awdah's heart was so big that he gave a small piece of it to every person he met and that's why when he was martyred, thousands of people in Palestine and around the world felt like a piece of them died too.

In moments when I felt overwhelmed by rage, despair, a desire for revenge, and hatred towards other Jews and even towards myself- I would be reminded of Awdah's inner strength. I would think of his smile and dedication to peace and justice. And I could feel the darkness fall away from me, remember the love and humanity and laughs and friendships and focus on the beauty we have together already and the shared future we want to bring into reality. If Awdah could remain strong then so could I. No excuses.

He welcomed us- Jews- into his village and his own home during the genocide. A genocide against his people being perpetrated by our people. This is courage, this is solidarity, this is strength of the highest order.

He made connections with people all over the world, he made us laugh, he got us face cakes for our birthdays, he wrote letters, he left voice memos and sweet text messages, and got us gifts to bring back to our homes. I cannot even describe to you the grueling conditions in which he lived, and yet he still did all of this with a smile.

He was one of the most skilled organizers and relationship builders I've ever met. Despite apartheid, travel restrictions, censorship and repression- his love and warmth and vision went beyond borders, and called in solidarity activists from around the world. When we answered his call, not only were we introduced to the beauty and the struggle of Um al Khair, but we also found each other. Awdah didn't just connect Israeli and international Jews and other solidarity activists to Um al Khair. He also connected us to Masafar Yatta, all the West Bank, all Palestine,and to each other. He connected us to a beautiful future, a small taste of possibility beyond colonization and occupation.

In a time of destruction, division, hatred, and extremism- truly the most extreme circumstances imaginable- He was a builder. And the future he was working towards is one built on a foundation of truth, justice, human rights, intercultural connection, faith, respect, education, and love.

May we all continue his legacy and create a better world for his children. May his three sons never suffer as their father did. May their lives be filled with joy and ease in a free Palestine.

May Awdah's memory be a blessing and a revolution

— BK

My first impression of Awdah is etched in my memory: he picked me up on the side of the highway just outside Hebron after an arduous journey. I didn’t know what to expect, but there he was, wearing a backwards baseball cap and a big smile that eased the tension. We sped back toward Um al Kher, racing the sun to make it home in time for Iftar. In that shared hunger and anticipation a friendship began.

The path Awdah chose was never easy. In private, away from the eyes of his community and the visitors who looked to him for strength, he sometimes spoke plainly about the toll it had taken. He admitted he was tired. He admitted the struggle had aged him. That honesty never diminished him in my eyes. If anything, it showed his courage. Even with his worries, he still chose to stand and to lead.

Awdah was many things: activist, father, husband, community leader. He carried responsibilities that weighed heavy, yet he bore them with lightness. But more than any title, he was our friend.

O Allah, forgive Awdah, have mercy on him, reward him, and pardon him. May his grave be a garden of light, and may his family and community be granted patience and steadfastness.

— Kevin

أول مرة شفت عودة ما بنساها. لَقَطَني على طرف الشارع قُرب الخليل بعد مشوار طويل وتعب. ما كنتش عارف شو أتوقّع، بس لقيته لابس طاقيّة مقلوبة وبسمة كبيرة خفّفت عني التعب. سرعنا بالسيارة راجعين عأم الخير، نلحق الشمس قبل ما تغيب عشان نوصل على الفطور. بهديك اللحظة، وبالجوع والانتظار، بلّشت صداقتنا.

الطريق اللي اختاره عودة ما كان سهل. بالجلسات الخاصّة، بعيد عن عيون أهله والناس اللي كانوا يتطلّعوا عليه كقائد، كان يحكي بصراحة عن التعب اللي حاسس فيه. قال إنه تعبان. قال إن السنين كبرته قبل وقتها. هالصدق ما نقص من قيمته بعيني، بالعكس، ورجاني شجاعته. حتى وهو مهموم، ظل واقف وضلّه قائد.

عودة كان كثير أشياء: ناشط، أب، زوج، ورجل من رجالات البلد. الحمل اللي عليه كان تقيل، بس كان يحمله بخفّة. وبالنهاية، قبل كل شي، كان صديقنا.

قال رسول الله ﷺ:
“للشهيد عند الله ست خصال: يُغفر له في أول دفعة من دمه، ويُرى مقعده من الجنة، ويُجار من عذاب القبر، ويأمن من الفزع الأكبر، ويحلّى حلّة الإيمان، ويُزوج من الحور العين، ويُشفع في سبعين من أقاربه.”
— سنن الترمذي (1663)، حسن صحيح

اللَّهُمَّ اغفر له وارحمه وأجره واعفُ عنه. اللهم اجعل قبره روضة من رياض الجنة، وامنح أهله وأحبابه الصبر والثبات.