Tony Dodero -- From the Newsroom

o7 As I tried to come to grips with the sadness and pain from the

past week’s events, I knew there was no way I could write anything that

wasn’t already said, or touch an emotion that wasn’t already touched.

So forgive me. I found someone else to do it.

The person I found was an American abroad. A kind soul of Middle

Eastern decent who has seen much pain and suffering in his new home of

Jerusalem.

His name is Husein Mashni.

Many of you, especially those around the Newport-Mesa Unified School

District, probably will remember him because for about two years, he was

the Daily Pilot’s education reporter.

In that short time, he touched many of our lives with his warmth and

genuine love for humanity, a love kindled from deep within his Christian

faith.

Husein was very grateful to be able to pass on this message. He wants

to tell his fellow Americans how heartsick he is over the East Coast

terrorist attack and how, contrary to media reports, the large majority

of Palestinians and Arabs feel the same devastation that he does.

So please, before you paint all Middle Easterners, all Arabsf7 ,o7

with the same broad brush, listen to these words from my friend Husein:

f7

It was almost a year ago that the whole world watched, with horror,

something human eyes weren’t meant to see.

A 12-year-old boy in Gaza was crouched behind his father screaming as

bullets flew past them. From behind a concrete planter, the father

attempted to signal with his hand that he had no weapons and for the

soldiers to stop shooting.

But helplessly trapped in the cross-fire of Israeli and Palestinian

shooters, in front of a European cameraman, the boy and his father were

hit, repeatedly.

Fast forward: the boy is shown lying dead. Lying behind his father

who, in spite of multiple bullet wounds, survived.

When I saw the pictures of Mohammed Al Durra, who was one of Time

Magazine’s top newsmakers of 2000, my heart broke.

You didn’t have to be Palestinian for your heart to break at the sight

but there was something inside me, something Palestinian, that rose up.

I wrote a song called, “An angel named Mohammed.” The words of the

song come from the Bible book of Ecclesiastes: “There’s a time to live

and a time to die. A time to laugh and a time to cry. A time to break and

a time to heal.”

I was asked to record the song at one of the largest Arabic radio

stations in the West Bank. It was played for months.

More than anything, I hoped that people would hear the words, “there’s

a time to heal,” because I believe with my whole heart that God wants to

heal the Palestinian people.

Fast forward: Last week, I was in the Old City of Jerusalem talking to

a friend when someone yelled that a plane had crashed in America. Two

planes.

I was on my way to church and didn’t have time to stop at an Internet

cafe for details. At church one of the young men, in Arabic, asked the

congregation to pray for America because of what happened.

What happened?

As soon as church was out, I hurried to the corner Internet cafe and

read the news, “Twin Towers collapse!”

“Lord, Jesus!” I yelled. Everyone in the cafe turned. “As many as

10,000 feared dead.”

“Jesus! No!”

I couldn’t hold back the tears. The others had already heard the news

and knew why I was so upset. I went to the home of a friend who has cable

TV to watch CNN.

We sat and watched with disbelief, again, things that human eyes

aren’t meant to see. It couldn’t be real.

The Twin Towers. I read about them in second-grade while they were

being built. I even went there twice. They were so much a part of America

and our psyche. I couldn’t believe they weren’t there.

I couldn’t even fathom that there were people inside.

The fire, the smoke, the people running for their lives. These are

sights I’ve grown accustomed to having lived here for almost three years.

But not there! Not in America. With all my heart I didn’t want to

believe it.

As the second great tower fell, floor by floor, my heart sunk with it.

Sunk with the pain and the realization that I can’t begin to imagine what

their cruel fall means to America and the world.

You didn’t have to be American for your heart to break at the images.

But something American rose up in me.

I wanted so bad to be there, if just to speak one word of comfort to

one person and to let them know their pain was my pain.

My mother lives in Nevada, nowhere near New York, but I still called

to make sure she was all right.

I tried to call my brothers and sisters who live in Brooklyn, but the

lines were tied up. Most people here have relatives in New York and were

calling to make sure they were alive and well.

I finally got through the next morning. My sisters and their families

were fine. Because they’re Arab, however, they were asked to stay indoors

in case there was a backlash against Middle Easterners.

“Usually, you have to worry about me because of what you see on TV,

but now I’m the one watching TV and having to call you,” I told one of my

sisters.

She assured me, she and everyone else was fine and to just take care

of myself, here.

Having the song about Mohammed Al Durra on the radio was a small way

that I could tell my people, here, that I love them, feel their pain and

that I am praying and believing for their healing.

Through this story, I want to say to America that I love you and am so

proud of you and to be a part of you.

I feel your pain, deeply, and am praying for your healing, our

healing.

“There’s a time to live and a time to die. A time to laugh and a time

to cry. A time to break and a time to heal.”

* TONY DODERO is the editor. His column appears on Mondays. If you

have story ideas or concerns about news coverage, please send messages

either via e-mail to o7 tony.dodero@latimes.comf7 or by phone at

949-574-4258.