The Sopranos of Gaza City

Ahmed is serious but restrained as he quietly describes his plans while his mother, Taman, wails about revenge and the need for blood. “We know the eighteen men,” he says. “Two tried to stop the others and we will spare them. Six of them shot Mahmoud and played with him while he was wounded. I will not rest until they are dead. The ten others were lookouts or stood by and did nothing. Some I will shoot in the leg or arm and the others we will forgive.”

Later that week, I walk through a Daghmash lemon grove with Ahmed and six of his men. He sleeps in the fields at night and cannot safely stay in one place for very long. But here, today, he seems relaxed. His men—kids, really—drive me crazy with demands that I photograph them in silly, macho stances: guns up and walkie-talkies held to mouths like they’re issuing orders. I finally demand that one young man knock it off, flashing him an annoyed glance. Without any drama in his voice, he explains that he shot one of the Hamas men and he’s at the top of their list. He wants to make sure his family has the best possible martyr picture for his funeral.