Friends say goodbye to Abu Takki

Friends say goodbye to Abu Takki

In Sitra, one of the Bahraini capital's largest Shia neighborhoods, today was a time to bury the dead. Four people were killed during Thursday morning's notoriously brutal security crackdown in central Manama.

Three of the dead were from Sitra. As prescribed by the local Shia tradition, they are now called martyrs by those who celebrate their sacrifice. Tens of thousands of Bahrainis walked its dusty streets, winding their way through the windy village in a procession of joyful sorrow. Such is the Shia reverence of martyrdom, with mourners proudly weeping.

The simple coffin, draped in black, sat atop a truck, a simple chariot for a martyr. On it, a black-and-white picture stared back. It was the face of Mahmoud Makki Abu Takki. Half a dozen men hang from the rails of the truck, clinging to its edges, accompanying Mahmoud on his final journey through his home town. The sea of mourners provide the chorus for the ritual.

They chant against the government, chant for their shahid. They will never forget.

The men led the way, their cries thundered through the city. Following was a sea of black - the women. They chanted too, but piercing wails from a few females interceded. They carried children and lots of Bahraini flags. "We're all Bahraini," they said defiantly.

Outside the mosque, en route to the cemetery, the wails grew louder. So did the anger. Why would a man, so young like Mahmoud, have to die such a violent death?

At the cemetery, minutes after the interment is complete, Mahmoud’s father told a crowd that he was happy about his son's fate. "I have four sons," he continued, "And I will sacrifice all of them and myself to free Bahrain."

Another mourner jumped forward and said, "We'll all die to make change."

Soon there were more than twenty men eager to tell stories of frustration with Bahrain’s Sunni-dominated political sphere. But they did not dwell on the details. It was not a time for politics. Mostly they were defiant in the face of violence and death.

"We will finish this," one young man promised.

The cemetery then emptied for noon prayers. Still, around Mahmoud’s fresh grave, a group of men remained. One, his face clean-shaven, solemn. He tapped the freshly laid stones and prayed silently as if Mahmoud could hear him. Ali Abdul Amir was remembering his friend and the night he died beside him.

Mahmoud was sleeping at Pearl Roundabout with hundreds of protesters when security forces moved in. It was just 2:30 in the morning. "We heard them," Ali said. "I ran to tell them to stop. 'We are peaceful', I was screaming." They shot him with pellets. Still, Ali managed to run.

"They kept shooting, and I even saw the police in the police station shooting at us." He said they were trapped. "It's not true that they just came in one end. They surrounded us, and there was no exit."

After that, Ali said he ran through the neighborhood trying to find safety. But the security forces attacked homes, ransacking them in search of protesters. It was then that he tried to call Mahmoud. Of all his friends peacefully protesting for reform, Mahmoud was the only one missing. Desperately searching, another protester told Ali that Mahmoud was at the hospital in very bad shape.

"I didn't believe it, so I called other hospitals and places hoping he was there," he recounted. A friend at Salmaniya, Bahrain’s largest hospital, confirmed Mahmoud was indeed there. He was still alive. Ali raced to the hospital, forced to hide amongst laborers walking to work.

When Ali reached the hospital, he found his friend. Mahmoud was in the morgue. He had been shot in the back. "They just shot him!" His voice began to crack, and he repeated, "They just shot him."

At the cemetery, Ali was too sad to be truly angry. There would be a time for that too.

"We will not stop here in Bahrain until we get what we want, peacefully," he said as the cemetery started to fill again. "I will hold our flag, and I will scream our message. We don't want to talk to the government now. We're sick of their promises, and there are too many dead."

Jaffar, a 22-year-old student, chimed in: "In life, you give and take. We'll give our blood to take freedom".

Ali finished the thought, speaking for their deceased friend, "We are peaceful people. We are citizens, demanding our rights. We're not just asking for them."