Academic Shamikh Badra, 38, and factory worker Mohammed Saleh, 39, met on the beach at summer camp in Gaza as teenagers. They’ve been fighting for justice in Palestine – and for each other – ever since.
Shamikh Badra and Mohammed Saleh. “When Mo arrived at Sydney airport it was like a dream,” Badra says, “as if Gaza had walked into the room.”Credit: Joshua Morris
Shamikh: I met Mohammed when I was 15, at summer camp in Gaza. We’d gone to different schools but had both just graduated. He was skinny, polite, always smiling. He had a gentleness that drew people in, and I instinctively trusted him. I’d been a troublemaker at school: nice but a bit arrogant. He’d studied hard and was expected to do very well.
He said, “I’m worried about you. You won’t do well because you haven’t studied.” The day the results came out, I passed with distinctions. I went to celebrate with Mo at his school, but when I got there he was sitting on the gutter. He hadn’t passed. I tried to console him and that was the beginning of our friendship.
In 2005, we travelled to Lebanon to meet Palestinian youth from around the world. We danced the traditional dabke and joked around. Mo left his coffee on my seat one night and I sat on it and burnt my arse. But we also talked about Gaza. We both wanted a secular society, social justice and non-violent resistance. We started to mobilise students and educate people through conferences and workshops. After a while, we were able to mobilise hundreds of students to protest for human rights. We had power, which made Hamas suspicious.
In 2014, I got a scholarship to do a master’s of peace and conflict studies at the University of Sydney, but Mo and I made a promise that we’d continue our advocacy work together. We spoke every day on the phone for hours, discussing ideas. He has a gift for translating vision into action, but he can be very direct. Sometimes he’d criticise religion, and I’d say, “Be careful: that’s personal to people.”
In 2016, he started to be followed. One day, he was driving and a car rammed him, badly injuring his head, arm and leg. I said, “Maybe pull back” and he said, “No! For what?” Then, in 2021, he was kidnapped. I got a call from his wife, Faten, saying, “Mo didn’t come home.” They kept him for three days with a hood on his head. We still don’t know who they were.
‘In 2021, [Mohammed] was kidnapped … They kept him for three days with a hood on his head. We still don’t know who they were.’
Shamikh Badra
In 2017, we’d begun organising the Gaza Nippers program. The idea was to take Australian surf lifesaving training to Gaza Beach. Together with the Northern Beaches Committee for Palestine in Sydney, I organised for Mo to travel to Manly Beach in 2019 to learn how Nippers worked here. He then went back and started a children’s pilot program in Gaza. We were about to launch, officially, in 2023 when the war started, which has now killed 10 people involved in the program, including four children.
In December 2023, my father was killed. Then my brother, Ahab, and his four children disappeared when their house was bombed. I asked my mother, “Please come to Australia,” and she said, “No, your brother might appear.” I told her he’s not coming back, that they are under the rubble, but she’s still waiting.
Since I’d failed to evacuate my family, I decided to evacuate Mo and his. It was expensive and complicated and took six months, but when he arrived at Sydney airport, it was like a dream – as if Gaza had walked into the room. There were no words. Just being there, together, was enough.
Mohammed: When I met Shamikh at summer camp, he was so confident, with too much energy. He made jokes about people without them knowing, but in a fun way. I’m too shy for that, but we laughed for three days straight. I thought he was amazing, but we weren’t real friends. But then, after school, he did very well and I failed. Usually he’s a show-off, but he forgot his happiness and tried to stand with me.
We became members of the Palestinian Youth Union, where we talked about the Palestinian cause and studied activism with other NGOs. It was serious, but we still had fun: there was a big woman in a workshop with us who was always asking, “Is the food ready?” It became a joke between us. Even today, we sometimes say to each other, “Is the food ready?” There was another guy with a huge moustache who never had any expression. We called him the Sphinx. One day, he came up and said, “Why do you call me the Sphinx?” which was embarrassing.
We began our advocacy and worked to improve school results for poor families. With funds from the United Nations, we hired a room and teachers to give students extra tuition. In 2011, we protested the disunity between Fatah [the Palestinian National Liberation Movement] and Hamas. The police attacked us and everyone ran. When I looked behind, I saw the police hitting Shamikh with sticks, so I ran back and took some hits with him.
‘I didn’t believe my luck when I travelled to Sydney: the greenery, the space. In Manly, people would smile and say, “How are you?” even if I didn’t know them.’
Mohammed Saleh
I didn’t believe my luck when I travelled to Sydney: the greenery, the space. In Manly, people would smile and say, “How are you?” even if I didn’t know them.
I went home and founded a Nippers program for Gazan children. The kids loved the games: it allowed them to release their stress. Then the war came. Within the first few months, four children in the program were killed in air strikes: they were six, seven, nine and 10. The youngest were brothers. It took their parents five months to dig them out of the rubble.
I have my wife, Faten, son Guevara, 12, and eight-year-old twins, Adam and Sham. I started to think that every day would be their last. I messaged Shamikh saying, “If I die, please save my family. Take them and keep them safe in Australia.” He worked with the Australian government [and the federal independent MP for Warringah, Zali Steggall] to get visas and arranged to get us out through Egypt.
When we got to Sydney Airport in July 2024, Shamikh was waiting. I didn’t know how much I’d missed him. It was a complicated feeling. I needed to cry but, at the same time, I needed to laugh and smile. Even now I can’t understand it.
twoofus@goodweekend.com.au
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