Iman doesn't know his parents personally but the Khdeir family is a big family on Shaufat - everyone knows them.
Shaufat was sunny and calm this evening, but only 2 days ago, it was full of angry crowds at Mohammed's funeral, crowds chanting intifada, stones, tear gas, rubber bullets.
We saw remnants of everything that had been burnt - metal parts and waiting areas for the tram line built by Israel, bits of stones and rubble along the sidewalks.
Down one street and left on another one to a white house with a front yard covered in blue tarp and lined with grey and white chairs. Women - most of them in black hijab with white head scarves. They invited us to sit.
His mother sat in small circle surrounded by other women. She was being interviewed by 2 men - a cameraman and photographer. The camera people left. The women around Mohammed's mother patted her arm. She wiped her face with a towel.
A few yards away, on the same side of the street, in an open space, under a larger tarp, groups of men standing and sitting. Directly across the street, a mosque, and no more than a few yards away, the corner where Muhammed was sitting at around 3:45 am Wednesday when a car approached him and took him away. His body would be found a few hours later.
We sat down next to women who had been sitting for a while, someone quiet, some talking in groups.
The women were stolid, calm, the feeling was stolid, calm. For now.
There were grape vines under the tarp, over our heads, and bunches of grapes.
It didn't seem appropriate to cry somehow, no one else was crying. But I teared up anyway.
When the time was right, that is, when Iman's friend, Nariman,
who knows the family, stood up and said "come," we stood up and went towards his mother. I bent and kissed her on both cheeks and said what you say on such occasions, Allah yerhama.
Then we sat some more. A truck pulled up and men went to it and came back carrying large metal pots, some full of ice, some covered in plastic wrap. Food for iftar, breaking the fast of Ramadan later this evening.
Two young women in tight jeans and flowing blouses came by. The mother brightened to see them. They stayed and talked with her a few minutes and left her smiling.
Nariman looked around at the gathering. She said, "This time together is precious, all of us together. It is sad that what brings us together is such a thing. But do you know that yesterday, all of us, without asking each other, we turned off the lights that we normally keep on for Ramadan. All of us, we were of one mind."
We sat for a while longer and then we walked back on the narrow rubble strewn streets, past posters with Mohammed's photo. A father and son passed us carrying food in plastic bags. A middle aged man in jeans said, bye habibi, bye friend, to an older white bearded man. A car stopped. It turned out to be Nariman's sister. We said Marhaba, hello, passed, came back to the house
On the news, there are reports that Mohammed was burnt alive. And also that 6 have been arrested as suspects in his murder.
In response, his mother, Suha Khdair said: "Even if they captured who they say killed my son... they're only going to ask them questions and then release them. What's the point?
"They need to treat them the way they treat us. They need to demolish their homes and round them up, the way they do it to our children"
According to Human Rights Watch in a recent article, "Israel’s military operations in the West Bank following the abduction and killing of three Israeli teenagers have amounted to collective punishment. The military operations included unlawful use of force, arbitrary arrests, and illegal home demolitions." More here. And here.
When everyone leaves, much much later, said Iman, then, the reality of Mohammed's loss will register with his mother and it will be terrible.