Plainfield Township in Illinois stretches across the rolling prairie landscape just about thirty five miles southwest of Chicago's gleaming skyline.

It traces its routes to a Potawatamie village on the banks of the due Page River and the French Canadians who would trade with them.

It was the first white settlement in Will County, and the settlers came seeking fertile farmland and opportunity.

Over the decades, Plainfield evolved from a farming community into a thriving suburban township.

Long considered a small town, Plainfield has experienced substantial growth as Chicago sprawl reached westward.

By twenty twenty three, had become a place where families moved to escape the chaos of city life.

Tree lined straits, one pass well manicured homes and playgrounds where children's laughter echoed on summer afternoons.

It was a community built on the belief that neighbors looked out for each other, where different cultures could coexist peacefully in pursuit of the American dream.

But not everybody held that belief.

Sometimes hate confessed or behind closed doors invisible.

The neighbors who away from their driveways and chat over backyard fences.

It was a Saturday morning, October fourteenth, twenty and twenty three, at a duplex home on a tree lined street.

A Palestinian mother and her six year old son were going about their morning when they heard a knock on the front door.

What happened next shook the world to its core.

Male lord's killing baby with a knife.

Female is in the bathroom the ambulance stage, possibly two stabbing victims, female and child.

Female has been stabbed a server time actively pleading.

In twenty and eleven, Hanan Shaheen made the decision to leave her homeland of Palestine and start afresh in the United States.

For years, she had watched their lives shrink beneath the weight of conflict, restriction, and uncertainty.

At the time, the Israeli Palestinian conflict was entering yet another turbulent phase, though far from new, two thousand and eleven was marked by deepening political fractures and escalating tensions in the region.

The Palestinian territories, particularly the West Bank, where many like Hanan lived, were gripped by economic stagnation and political deadlock.

Gaza, which was under an Israeli blockade since two thousand and seven and governed by Hamas, was railing from the aftermath of the two thousand and eight to two thousand and nine Gaza War, Israeli military incursions, settler expansion, and internal political fragmentation left ordinary families with dwindling opportunities and an overwhelming sense of insecurity.

For Hanan daily life meant navigating to checkpoints, a stagnant job market, and the constant hum of anxiety.

Education, health care, freedom of movement, things others may take for granted were often out of reach or heavily restricted, and Ann dreamed of starting a family, building a life with possibility, and simply being able to move through the world without fear.

So she left, arriving not just as an immigrant, but as a survivor of a long conflict, seeking dignity pace in a place where her future children might thrive.

In America, she met Ode al fa Yume, another Palestinian who had made the same difficult journey three years after her.

Together they built a new life, and in time they welcomed the sun, and Anna and Ode looked at their son and saw not just their child, but their hopes made flesh what Dea was, by all accounts, an extraordinary little boy.

He was extraordinary in the way that only children can be, completely and authentically himself.

His father, O Day, would later remember asking his son what he loved the most.

The answer came without hesitation.

Everybody would.

He loved his toys, especially lego blocks that he'd spend hours assembling into fantastic creations.

He loved anything with the ball, basketball, soccer, it didn't really matter.

He also loved color to swing at the local park until his mother called him in for dinner.

He loved hugs and kisses.

He couldn't say goodbye to somebody without sending kisses.

He joined his parents in prayer each day, finding joy in their shared faith.

He was also fascinated by the Solar system, by the vastness of space, and the mystery of distant planets.

But perhaps most remarkably would he loved school.

Every morning, he'd wake up excited for another day of learning, another chance to be with his classmates.

His teacher would later say that he was the kind of child who made others smile just by being himself.

All his words are positive and good.

His mother would remember He was in every sense a child filled with light.

After Hanana and Oday separated, she found herself looking for a new place to live with her son Wdea.

The search led her to a duplex near South Lincoln Highway and Plainfield owned by a seventy one year old man named Joseph Suba.

Joseph lived on the upper floor with his wife of thirty years Mary.

They were offering two rooms on the ground floor for rent three hundred dollars a month, with shared access to the living room and kitchen.

For a single mother trying to make ends mate, it seemed like a reasonable arrangement.

During their in person interview, Hannan was upfront about who they were.

She told the Zubas that she and Wodea were from Jerusalem and that they were Muslim.

Joseph and Mary, who were Catholic, said they had no problem with this.

As long as the rent was paid and there were good tenants, everybody would get along fine.

And for a while they did more than get along.

It became something like a family.

Joseph didn't just tolerate little Wdea.

He embraced him.

He built the boyetry house in the backyard.

He brought him toys.

He set up a blow up swimming pool for the hot summer days.

He installed the basketball hoop and even put stairs nearby so Wadea could reach the rim with his shots.

People who knew them said that Joseph traded Withdea like the grandson he never had.

On the seventh of October twenty twenty three, the militant group A MASS launched a surprise attack on southern Israel, breaching the heavily for border fence that separates Gaza from Israeli territory.

In a matter of ours, over a thousand Israelis were killed and hundreds of others taken hostage.

What followed was an immediate a mass of Israeli military response, including air strikes, a ground invasion, and a full siege on Gaza.

The events of that day and what followed didn't emerge in a vacuum.

Tensions between Israel and Palestine had been building for years.

For decades, Palestinians in Gaza had lived under a suffocating blockade imposed by both Israel and Egypt.

Over two million people, half of them children, were packed into an area just twenty five miles long, with limited access to clean water, electricity, medical supplies, or even the ability to leave.

In the months leading up to the seventh of October, tensions were already boiling Israeli military raids in the world.

The West Bank had become increasingly deadly.

Far right ministers were pushing for more aggressive settlement expansion, and settlers had carried out attacks on Palestinian villages with impunity.

Gaza, meanwhile, remained isolated and battered, its people, paying the price for geopolitical deadlock year after year.

So when the events of October seventh unfolded, and there was a grim sense among many Palestinians and their supporters that this violence hadn't come from nowhere, It came from decades of dispossession, from statelessness, from a population repeatedly told that their lives mattered less.

But in the West this contact was largely ignored.

The dominant narrative was simple, Israel had been attacked and was defending itself.

Any mention of the humanitarian crisis in Gaza or of Palestinians suffering was dismissed as justification for terror, and that narrative had consequences, especially for Muslim communities in the United States.

In the weeks that followed, American Muslims began experiencing a sharp and terrifying increase in hate.

It was a wave of islamphobia that felt earily similar, almost like a replay of the days after nine to eleven, where anti Muslim hate crames jumped seventeen hundred percent.

The Council on American Islamic Relations or c AIR reported record high civil rights complaints.

Mosques in California, Texas, and New York were vandalized or threatened.

Muslim women wearing he jabs were harassed in public.

Students faced bullying or disciplinary action for speaking up about Palestine.

Social media was flooded with hate speech, Muslims being called terrorists, accused of supporting Hamas, or told to go back to where they came from.

For many, it felt like they had been forced to choose between their safety and their identity.

People stopped wearing religious clothing, Parents pulled their kids out of school.

Mosques had private security.

The fear was real, and it was everywhere and inside the do plex on South Lincoln Highway.

Something had shifted to The warm dynamic between neighbors had grown quieter.

There were no confrontations, no accusations, but something unspoken had crept into the home, something heavy.

In hindsight, people look back and wonder if there been any warning signs, any indication that Joseph Suba, the man who once spilt a treehouse for a little boy, had changed, But there hadn't been, at least not yet for Hannah and madea life inside the duplex for the past two years had always been peaceful, But in the days following October seventh, that quiet equilibri began to unravel.

Joseph, like many had watched the events unfolding in Israel and Gaza with a mixture of horror and confusion.

But where others saw tragedy and complexity, he seemed to see something else.

In the weeks that followed, Joseph began listening obsessively to conservative talk radio.

The voices he tuned into didn't just report the news, they amplified it, distorted it, and then fed it through a lens of fear.

On one particular broadcast, the host spoke urgently about Hamas's so called Day of Jahad, referencing a call by the militant group for a global day of rage on the thirteenth of October Joseph became fixated on the idea of a violent attack on American soil, convinced that something catastrophic was imminent.

At some point, the fear seemed to curdle into something else, entirely suspicion than hostility.

He told his wife Mary that he wanted Hanan and would to leave, no warning, no discussion, just a growing conviction that their presence in the home was now somehow dangerous.

Not long after, Hannan encountered Joseph in the shared kitchen.

At first she assumed it was one of the usual quiet exchanges, but the look in his eyes was something unfamiliar.

He had a cold and intense stare, and then he snapped, you people are killing Jewish people and babies in Israel.

Muslims are not welcome here, not in my home.

The words hit her like a punch to the chest, and Am was stunned, not just by the vitriol, but by how sudden it was.

This was the man who had once built her son a tree house, who had made space in his home and his life for both of them, and now he was looking at her like she was the enemy.

Shaking, Hanan reached out to Mary and relayed the disturbing interaction.

Mary, to her credit, was apologetic and firm.

She told that she and Woodea were still welcome, that Joseph's outburst didn't reflect her own feelings.

I was angry that he was even asking her to move out, Mary would later recall.

But the apology did not undo what had been said, and it certainly didn't stop what was coming.

The fear in Joseph Zuba had begun to take on a life of its own, fading on every news segment, every social media rumor, every conspiracy whisper he absorbed from the talk shows.

October thirteenth came and went without violence.

But for Joseph, the absence of danger didn't bring relief.

It only seemed to confirm his belief that something worse was looming.

He became increasingly agitated, increasingly irrational.

At one point, he insisted they withdraw one thousand dollars in cash from the bank.

He told Mary they needed it on hand in case the us porgrid was taken down.

It wasn't just fear anymore.

It was paranoia, and it was spiraling fast.

It was Sunday morning on October fourteenth, twenty twenty three for Hanan and her six year old son, Wadea.

It began like so many other quiet mornings in their home.

They had breakfast together, easing into the rhythm of their weekend routine.

It was a kind of morning where nothing seemed out of place, the warning signs, no indication that within moments, the world as Hanan knew it would come crashing down.

She was in the bathroom with Wodea, getting ready to give him a shower, when the cam was shattered by the sound of loud, angry banging on the bedroom door.

The clock read just past eleven thirty am.

Confused and startled, Hanan stepped out to see what was going on.

When she opened the door, Joseph Zuba was standing on the other side, and before or she could say a word, he forced his way inside.

I told you to move out, he screamed, his voice filled with rage, and Anne tried to diffuse the situation.

She told him they were getting ready for the day.

She was just trying to give her son a shower, but he wasn't listening.

He followed her inside the room, the fury in his voice mounting.

He then spat at her, You people are killing Jewish babies in Israel, and you're doing nothing about it.

And Anne's voice trembled.

She looked at the man who had once been kind to her son and said, pray for peace.

But those words only seemed to enrage him more.

You Muslims must die, he screamed.

He shoved an hand with such force that she fell backwards.

Before she could scramble to her feet, Zuba was on top of her.

He gripped her neck, trying to choke her, his hands finding her jaw as he pulled and pressed with violent strength.

And then she saw it, a flash of silver, a blade drawn from a holder on his belt.

And then the stabbing began, and Anne fought with everything she had.

She tried to shield her body as the knife tore through her skin, her arms, her chest, her face.

The pain was blinding, but the will to survive was stronger.

Somehow, through the chaos, she managed to knock the knife from Joseph Zupa's hand.

She grabbed it from the floor and turned it on him.

In that split second, she was fighting not just for her life but for her son's.

But Joseph was stronger.

He wrestled the blade back from her and resumed the attack.

Standing in the doorway was little Bodea, his wide, innocent eyes frozen in horror as he watched the man he had once trusted assault his mother with a knife.

Joseph then turned and looked at him.

He said, with an eerily calm voice, but I will take care of you.

I'll raise you.

You will grow up with me.

And Mary, don't tell people I killed your mom.

And then as suddenly as it started, the attack stopped.

Joseph stood up and left the room, bloodied and gasping for breath, and Anne somehow pulled herself off the floor.

She stumbled towards the bathroom, clutching her cellphone with shaking hands, and locked the door behind her.

She dialed nine one one and told the despatch what had happened.

But then came the banging.

Joseph was back.

He was pointing on the bathroom door, and then she heard it, a scream, shrill, piercing, filled with terror.

It was coming from another room.

It was Withdea and then his voice, high and panicked, called out, oh no, and Anne screamed into the phone, her voice breaking with desperation.

The landlord is killing me in my baby, He's killing my baby in another room.

Yeah, we haven't.

The collar on the line is claiming that the mother of this child, we're still trying to get her language caer harm.

That the child is six years old.

One A one held Lincoln Highway.

The females claiming that the landlord has the child in another room and apparently is either standing or had it down to the child.

Police and paramedics were on the scene within a matter of minutes.

They entered the home with urgency, following a trail of blood that led them down the narrow hallway to the bathroom door.

Ann was still inside, still clutching the phone, still on the line with the nine one one operator.

She hadn't dared move.

I'm too scared to do anything, She told them.

She thought that she was dying.

When officers finally reached her, they found her in a state of shock.

Her face was covered in blood, her voice was barely audible.

She'd been stabbed repeatedly in the chest, the mouth, the neck, and across her cheek near her eye.

The pain, the trauma, and the fear, none of it had caught up with her.

Yet she was frozen.

Is there a baby in my baby?

Wasn't there.

This room is in the room of the man.

So many seat there's the baby.

Yet you guys got the baby.

As paramedics tended to her wounds, others began searching the apartment.

In one of the bedrooms, paramedic Brandon Vanowski made a devastating discovery.

There, on the small bed he had slept in the night before, lay six year old with dear.

He was surrounded by blood.

Twelve inch military style serrated knife was still embedded in his abdomen.

All around it were wounds.

There were twenty six in total.

The paramedic rushed to his side, desperately checking for a pulse, but there was none.

Still, he moved quickly.

He didn't dare remove the knife it might cause further damage, but he wrapped it gently and gauze to stabilize it.

Outside another officer found Joseph Zuba lying on the ground in front of the house.

He wasn't unconscious, he was waiting When officers approached.

He sat up slowly.

His hands and clothing were soaked in blood, and around him were pocket knives.

On his waist was an empty knife holster.

It matched the knife found embedded in Wodea's stomach.

He was arrested on the spot.

Both an Anna and Wodea were carried from the home on stretchers, paramedics working frantically as they were loaded into ambulances.

Sirens wailed as they raced towards the hospital, but it quickly became clear that only one of them would make it.

Hannan, although gravely injured, was expected to survive.

She had fought for her life and in doing so, had survived a brutal attack that might have easily killed her.

But what day was different.

The knife wounds had cut deep through tissue, muscle, and organs.

His heart had been stabbed multiple times.

By the time the ambulance reached the hospital, there was nothing left to be done.

Just days after celebrating his sixth birthday, woude At al Fayoum was pronounced dead.

He had been stabbed twenty six times by the man who once built him a tree house, who brought him toys, who told him he'd take care of him.

As for Joseph Zuba, he was transported to the Will County Sheriff's office.

Along the way he began to speak.

He told the officer driving the vehicle that Hanan had been a trained fighter, that she had attacked him first.

He rambled about being in danger.

They were just like infested rats.

He said, I was afraid for my life.

I was afraid for my wife.

I was afraid they were going to do ge hat on me.

Joseph Zubo's arrested and formally charged with first degree murder, attempted first degree murder, took counts of a hate crime, and aggravated battery with a deadly weapon.

In the days following the attack, the will County Sheriff's Office released a statement confirming what many already feared.

Detectives were able to determine that both victims in this brutal attack were targeted by the suspect due to them being Muslim and the ongoing Middle Eastern conflict involving her math in the Israelise.

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The killing of six year old Widea al Fayume reverberated far beyond the quiet suburb of playing Fie, Illinois.

It made international headlines.

His name appeared on banners and candlelight vigils across the world.

His face became a symbol of something bigger, the innocent lives caught in the violent wake of global conflict and rising bigotry.

Ahmed Rehab, the executive director of c ai or Chicago, spoke to a say of mourners and reporters and said they were not only attacked for their personal identities, but for their ethnic and religious identities that we all share.

They were picked almost randomly to represent all of us, and so in that sense, we were all stabbed, we were all wounded, we were all killed.

That day with Ray's uncle Yusuf stood before the press with tears in his eyes in a trembling voice as he said, we are not animals, we are humans.

We want people to say us as humans, to fail us as humans, to deal with us as humans.

Another uncle, Mahmood, reminded the world of what was lost.

He was a six year old boy.

Like any other six year old, he liked to play.

I just want to tell the whole world we live in a country called the United States.

We're not at war and we're not going to bring war here too.

But for many, the war had already come through the screens, the headlines, and the language used to describe it.

Critics pointed to the media, accusing them of fanning the flames of hatred, of framing Palestinians only as aggressors and rarely as victims.

They spoke avoid Coverage on October seventh focused almost exclusively on the Israeli deaths, without acknowledging the years of occupation, sage, and suffering that preceded it.

The context, they said, was crucial, but it was glaringly absent.

And then there was the voices like Fox News host Jesse Waters, who during one broadcast said, plainly, there's no difference between Hamas and Palestinians.

They all love killing Jews.

I don't like how people tried to differentiate, and for many Muslims and Arab communities in the United States, it felt like deja vous Usana Jamal, a board member at the Mosque Foundation, didn't mince his words as he said, public officials in our media are acting irresponsibly.

They're pouring gasoline on a fire.

The next day, the community gathered in Bridgeview, Illinois, a town with deeply rooted Palestinian population, to say goodbye to six year old with Da Al Fayoumi.

His body, wrapped in a white shroud and placed in a small casket draped with a Palestinian flag, was carried through a sea of mourners into the Mosque Foundation, one of the largest mosques in the region.

The crowd spilled out into the surrounding streets.

Many people were weeping, others stood in silence, clutching one another as was brought inside for his jenaza.

This is an Islamic funeral prayer that is traditionally performed quickly after death, in keeping with Muslim customs that emphasize respect and dignity for the deceased inside.

A ma'am Jamal said addressed the mourners and said, Wadea is a child and he is not the only one under attack.

Children are being slaughtered literally in the Holy Land, unfortunately, which is very sad.

He pleaded with those listening, both in person and watching from Afar, to avoid rushing to judgment or choosing sides without understanding the full context.

He said, we pray that justice and peace will prevail.

Waddeia's father O'Day stood close to his son's casket and silently prayed.

Han Ann, who was still recovering from her injuries, was unable to attend.

She remained in hospital, barely able to walk.

After the Jenaza leaders from the community in Woodea's father carried the small casket outside and placed it gently into a hearse As it pulled away, hundreds followed on foot, chanting softly in Arabic.

Later that day, mourners reconvened at Parkham Cemetery.

Palestinian flags fluttered in the wind.

Children were lifted onto their parents shoulders to see over the crowd.

A ma'am stood near the freshly dog grave and reminded everybody that children in Islamic belief go straight to heaven for their purity and innocence.

There was no doubt Wherewidia was now, they said.

AmAm o Mar, who traveled to be there, addressed the mourners and said, this graveyard is a reminder.

It's a reminder for all the children in Gaza.

We are left with this emptiness, this void.

It is our responsibility to make sure that no more blood is shed for no reason.

The funeral costs were entirely covered by the community.

A fundraiser launched in the aftermath of the tragedy had raised over six hundred thousand and dollars in just a matter of days.

That money would help with the burial and provide some measure of stability for Hanana, she recovered.

Later that week, a vigil was held at a local basketball court in Plainfield, a place where Wodea once played.

Dozens of classmates came with their parents, many holding handmade signs.

One of them read, I'm not a threat.

Another justice for Woodea.

Woddea's father O'Day, stood before the crowd, barely able to speak through his grief.

His voice broke as he said, with Woodea gone, I don't think there's room for me to speak English anymore.

And Ann was released from hospital on the twentieth of October.

Her wounds were healing, but the road ahead would be long and uncertain.

She had survived a brutal attack and lost the only son she had, the boy she called her best friend.

She went through something that no mother should have to go through, said Deputy Chief Dan Jungles.

Days later, her An ansat thorn for an interview with ABC News.

Her space still bore the physical scarce of the attack.

Her voice was quiet but clear as she said I need justice.

I trust in God, and God will give us a good result.

On the thirtieth of October twenty twenty three, Joseph Zuba appeared in court for the first time.

Dressed in a red prison jumpsuit.

He looked gaunt and withdrawn, his face expressionless, his eyes rarely opening as the charges against him were read first degree murder, attempted murder, two hate crimes, and aggravated battery.

He pleaded not guilty.

In the gallery with DEA's father, Odey sat still and silent.

He stared directly at the man accused of killing his son, hoping to lock eyes, hoping for a flicker of remorse, but Zuba kept his gaze averted.

He closed his eyes and refused to look at him.

His defense team argued for bail, describing him as a military veteran with no significant criminal history and long standing ties to the community, but the judge denied the request, citing the severity of the crime and the danger Zoob opposed not only to Hanan, but to the broader Muslim community in Plainfield.

He was then ordered to be held without bond.

The following month, day filed the wrongful death lawsuit against Suba, his wife, Mary, and their property management company.

His attorney, Ben Crane stated, justice comes in many forms.

There is obviously an unbelievable loss in Wodea, but his mother was also seriously injured.

This family has been through a whole lot, and if there's something the civil justice system can do to ease that burden, then we need to figure that out.

The lawsuits sought damages necessary to fully and fairly compensate the next of kin under the Illinois Wrongful Death Act.

In the aftermath of the tragedy, ode had taken time off work to grief.

That time turned into unemployment as he lost his job.

Eventually he began driving for umber to make against mate.

I lost my everything, he said.

He would later tell reporters that his son was not only a victim of violence, but of hatred.

He stated he was targeted because of his faith, because he was Muslim.

Let his life inspire us to reject bigotry and to embrace the diversity that makes our nation so beautiful.

In February twenty twenty four, Annan was officially appointed as the special administrator of Oodea's estate in the wrongful death lawsuit.

The lawsuit was expanded to include Zuba's brother Daniel, who had helped facilitate the rental agreement.

Annan had originally found the apartment through him.

The suit alleged that Mary and Daniel had failed to warn Hanan that Joseph held extreme dangerous beliefs about Muslims and Palestinians, believes that had grown increasingly unstable in the days before the attack.

Han Ann had considered moving out, afraid of Joseph's escalating hostility, but Mary had told her not to worry.

She said that Joseph would leave if it came to it that Hanan and Whdaa were safe.

After Joseph's arrest, Mary filed for divorce.

That lawsuit is still ongoing today.

As the court case won through the system, the community did what it could to carry Wooday's memory forward.

On the one year anniversary of his murderer, residents gathered in Settler's Park in Plainfield for a memorial.

Trisha Matthias, one of Odea's teachers, stood before the crowd and said, Butia is continuing to make a difference in people's lives.

My goal for my students is for them always to become something.

He inspires me every single day.

Ode also spoke, His voice trembled, but he wanted people to know that his son was never far from him.

He stated, He's still alive in me.

I talked to him, hear him, I see him.

I know he's in a good place right now.

The murder trial was initially scheduled for March of twenty twenty five, but by early January that date was in jeopardy.

Joseph Zuba had been diagnosed with advanced prostate cancer and he was refusing treatment.

His prognosis was uncertain.

Prosecutors warned that he could die at any time, and if that happened, the case would be closed.

It was a haunting possibility for Wouda's family.

It didn't feel like justice at all, but both sides continued preparing for trial.

Meanwhile, the community found other ways to memorialize the day.

In February, on the east side of Van Horn Woods, a park where we Dae loved, a new sensory plague ground was dedicated in his honor.

The laughter and joy of the children who played there would carry his spirit forward.

A monument was later unveiled.

It depicted a silhouette of Woodea standing tall and full of life.

The project was funded by local Scouting America groups, who raised the money in mere minutes.

According to Scout later mar Ali, the community's swift response was testament to how deeply Wooda's story had moved everyone.

Odey was there for the unveiling.

As he looked at the sculpture, surrounded by families, he turned to the crowd and said, it seems you all will not forget my son, and for that I thank you.

Then he paused and smiled through his tears and said, it feels like everyone here is my extended family.

The murder trial of Joseph Suba began on February twenty fifth, two thousand and twenty five.

He was escorted into the courtroom by sheriff's deputies.

Dressed in a sude and tie.

His gray hair had grown long and fell beyond his shoulders.

His face was pale, unreadable.

He glanced briefly at the jury, then looked down at the table in front of him.

Prosecutor Michael Fitzgerald stood before the court room and said Wadea was six years old on October fourteenth, two thousand and twenty three, not quite four feet pall sixty two pounds.

On that day, Wadea al Fayoumi was stabbed twenty six times, twenty six times, ladies and gentlemen, by that defendant.

He pointed directly at Zuba, who sat motionless.

He then continued staring he could not escape.

If it wasn't enough that this defendant killed that little boy, he left the knife in the little boy's body.

Fitzgerald told the jury that this wasn't a random or senseless act.

It was a hate crime.

He said Zuba had attacked Wadea and his mother, Hanan simply because they were Moslim.

The attack, he said, had been motivated by the outbreak of the war in the Middle East, a war that Zuba irrationally believed would reach his front door.

He said, this happened because this defendant was afraid that a war that started on October seventh, twenty twenty three, a half world away in the Middle East was going to come to his doorstep.

Zuba's defense attorney, Kylie Blatty, urged the jury to look beyond the horror of what had happened and scrutinized the evidence carefully.

She stated, go beyond the emotions, to carefully examine the evidence.

It's easy to get lost in the horror of those images.

The first witness to take the stand was with Deea's mother, Hanan.

She walked slowly to the witness box, wearing hey jab and black clothing.

Her voice trembled as she recounted the events of that morning.

She described the moment she was attacked, telling the jury, I'm thinking it's the moment I'm dying in this moment.

The nine one one call was then played in the courtroom.

Images of Hanan's bloodied face followed.

Then body camp footage was played.

It showed the moment police officers found Withdeia's small body.

One officer could be heard gasping and repeating, holy shit, holy shit as he took in the horrific scene.

Several first responders were then called to testify.

They described Zuba being found outside the house covered in blood.

He was sweating and visibly agitated.

He had a knife holder on him in three pocket knives.

Deputy Sheriff Matthew Starvick told the court he had blood all over his body, all over his hands, and he was speating profusely.

Another officer testified about Zuba's demeanor during the drive to the Sheriff's office.

A video of the transport was played in court.

At one point, Zuba muttered to himself, she didn't tell me she was Muslim.

Mary, his ex wife, also took to the stand for the prosecution.

She said that before the attack they had enjoyed a warm relationship with Hanana Wadea, but something changed after the seventh of October.

Zuba became withdrawn and anxious.

He started making comments he wanted them to move out, simply because they were Muslim.

Mary told the court she strongly opposed this.

I never thought anything like this could happen, she said, then came the forensic evidence.

Investigators had recovered the knife that was still lodged in with Daa's stomach.

Blood DNA testing revealed it contained a mixture from all three with Deea, Hanan and Zuba.

Suba's pants were also soaked in blood, and tests confirmed the presence of both his DNA and with DAIS.

As the trial moved forward, the weight of evidence mounted.

Despite the defenses claimed that the full picture hadn't yet been seen, the picture unfolding in court was already devastatingly clear.

During closing arguments, the prosecution reminded the jury of exactly who Joseph Suba had become in the weeks leading up to the murder and what he believed.

Prosecutor Christopher Cock played the video of Suba in the back of the patrol car once again, then looking directly at the jury, he said, he thinks they're rats.

What do you do when you have an infested rat situation?

You exterminate, and that's what he did that day.

The defense, led by George Leonard, tried to cast out.

He criticized the police investigation, pointing out that a blood soaked blanket found near with Daya hadn't been tested.

He questioned the severity of Hannan's injuries and scrutinized her testimony.

It was an attempt to plant the seed of reasonable doubt, but the prosecutor didn't let it slide.

He turned back to the jury and made it clear that the defense attorney's failed insinuation was that Hanan had killed her own son.

He told them that's what he's really trying to say, that she did it, but it makes no sense.

The jury had seen the evidence.

Zuba had been found drenched in blood, the sheath to the murder weapon had been on his person, his DNA was on the knife that was still lodged in Widea's body, and those muttered words in the patrol car she didn't tell me she was a Muslim were as close to her confession as it gets.

There is zero doubt in this case, the prosecutor said.

The jury agreed.

After just ninety minutes of deliberation, they returned with their verdict.

Joseph Zuba was found guilty on all charges, including the first degree murderer of six year old Widea al Fayoumi.

The verdict brought a measure of justice, but not closure.

Abe By Yube, executive director of the American Arab Anti Discrimination Committee, later said to Day's verdict delivers a measure of justice for Widea Alfa Yumi's family and sends a clear message that hatefield violence has no place here.

We will never accept nor forget that a six year old child lost his life because of dangerous anti Palestinian rhetoric.

Ben Crump, the National civil rights attorney representing Hanan, echoed the sentiment and said, this verdict is a measure of justice, but the work continues.

We must honor with Day's memory by fighting hate and working towards the future where every child is safe, valued, and free from violence.

Would HEAs father ode, tearfully, added, I pray that this senseless loss is the last that we say, and that no child would suffer what my beloved Woodea had to go through.

On the second of May, Joseph Zuba was brought back to court to be sentenced.

Wouldea's family were present.

They gave emotional victim impact statements describing the void the murder had left behind.

His grandfather Mamood turned to Zuba and asked, why did you do it?

Mister Joseph?

Say something but Zuba stared straight ahead and said nothing.

Mamood continued, with his voice cracking.

We need to know, we deserve for mister Joejoseph to explain his acts.

One stab was not enough give the father that peace of mind who had all the plans for his future.

Joseph Zuba never spoke.

He was then sentenced to fifty three years in prison at seventy three years old.

It was effectively a life sentence, but prison wouldn't hold him for long.

On the twenty fourth of July twenty twenty five, less than three months after his sentencing, Joseph Zuba was found dead in his prison cell.

He'd been receiving round the clock medical care for stage four prostate cancer.

The official cause of death was listed as natural causes.

The autopsy was performed.

Following his death.

Ahmed Rehab, executive director of the Council on American Islamic Relations Chicago, released a statement which read, this depraved killer has died, but the heat is still alive and well.

Wodea was stabbed to death twenty six times for being Palestinian.

Two years later, Even as we speak, thousands of gas and children are being shot bombed and starved to death for being Palestinian.

It's the hate that must die.

Well, that is it for this episode of Morbidology.

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