My Enemies Walk Free (Samir Kuntar - part I)

At first sight one would be tempted to think that Samir Kuntar was an idiot, a cretin: evil spirit and bad genes are written all over him. To say nothing of his record. So when Ma'ariv first published fragments of an interview with him a few years ago I wasn't even curious. The pox on him and his ilk! Let the establishment read what he has to say and let him rot in jail until he dies a slow and painful death. Except the establishment has just let him go and no sooner does he walk free than he declares his love for us and his little heart's desire to come back and kill more of us.
That is why, this time I decided to read the transcripts of his conversations with Ma'ariv columnist Chen Kotes-Bar, because I need to know who the enemy is and what he wants from me. It was a spine-chilling read. I do hope the establishment also took the time to read it, I mean if they can take a second off patting themselves on their shoulders and basking in the glory of how morally superior we are by releasing more and more scumbag from our prisons. Not only are mine enemies allowed to walk free, our prisons are being blown to dust. The walls of ancient Troy…
After reading Kuntar's confessions I no longer think he is an imbecile. Much worse, he is a monster, a ruthless psychopath, a baby-killer who belongs in an off-limits mental establishment. I hope that if and when he decides to come back for another killing spree he gets shot on site. I mean not that we didn't know who he was when our courts decided to show him mercy instead of sending him off to meet his maker.
By the way, I hear that Nasr-al-shaytan wants him to run for the Lebanese parliament. I hope he gets elected. The Lebanese surely deserve him. Just as we deserve what is happening to us for voting into office the most incompetent Jews to walk the earth.

In his own words:

I, Samir Kuntar

Hen Kotes-Bar and Opher Lepler
Weekend, Ma'ariv supplement
July 18, 2008

My name is Samir Kuntar, prisoner number 562885 (I wonder whether it was tattooed on his arm in true Nazi fashion). I was born in the village of Abayeh on Mount Lebanon. My father worked as a chef for an international firm in Saudi Arabia. He was a famous, sought after chef. He would come home every two months or so, always loaded with presents: clothes, perfumes. For my last birthday celebrated at home my parents bought me a leather jacket and my father baked a tiered birthday cake for me (what, no "I grew up poor, hungry and oppressed"?).
My mother was a housewife. She was a very dominant figure. When she made up her mind about something, that was it. We were a prosperous secular Druze family, three brothers and five sisters. We had a beautiful house overlooking Beirut. We could see the airport from our balcony. One evening, in the winter of 1968, at about nine or ten o'clock, we heard loud explosions. Our house shook. We ran outside and saw large flames shooting up from the airport, lighting up the skies like fireworks. I just stood there and watched. I couldn't move. I had never seen anything like that before. It was an IDF raid (in December 1968 Israel retaliated against the attacks on El-Al planes – HKB). That was the first time I heard about Israel. I was six and a half years old.
I was a quiet, thoughtful child, an excellent student. I went to a private school. After school we used to go for walks or hunt birds with our slingshots (how cute!). Or go swimming in the river. When it snowed, in winter, we'd play outdoors and take pictures of ourselves. Sometimes my father took me to Beirut. When we got to the refugee camps just outside Beirut, I asked my father about them. He explained: "Son, these are Palestinians whom the Israelis drove out of their country and wouldn’t let them go back." We were fans of the Al-Nejmeh football team and of Fayrouz. I wanted to be a soldier when I grew up. I wanted to go the military academy and become an officer. In April 1975 my school closed because of the civil war. I stayed home and spent my time hanging out with my friends. We didn't talk about politics. I read a lot of comics. I even had a subscription, because I loved comics so much. I listened to the news on the radio. Then I joined the scouts, a branch of Kamal Jumblatt's Progressive Socialist Party. Jumblatt was revered in our home, my parents even had a picture of him in the living room. I went to the scouts meetings twice a week. There were only boys, divided in age groups. We did all kinds of social activities, harvested olives, and light physical training, which included mountain climbing, hiking and running.
I wanted to be a fighter. By then the streets were adorned with pictures of Arafat and posters of the Palestinian revolution. Palestinians were going from door to door for donations. I said to myself: "singing and day-tripping with other teenagers is not my cup of tea". So I went to see someone from the Socialist Party and told him that I wanted to go fight the Phalangists. He said I was too young. I was 13 and a half, loved action and was very motivated. Ahmed Jibril's PFLP - General Command activists were recruiting volunteers for training from our villages. I approached one of them and persuaded him to enroll me. Every day at 5 p.m. a minivan would picked me up from home and took me to the training camp, where I shot my first gun, a Kalashnikov. It was amazing.
My family knew nothing about it. A few days later my father found out. He was a peaceful man, who didn't want anything to do with war. He lacked the adrenaline. He saw that I was so taken with the idea that he suggested I travel abroad, to Amsterdam, where the company he worked for had an office. I told him: "Father, I'm not going anywhere." He didn't give up, he brought me some pictures from Amsterdam, but I still didn't change my mind. We started arguing at home. My parents told me that I was still too young and I should forget about it. My father promised to send me anywhere I wanted to and that he would look over me. I refused.

The training – I was the youngest.
The training lasted about a month and a half. We slept in tents, 60 young men to a tent, regardless of our affiliation. The Popular Front trained us all. Anybody was free to join. First we practiced crawling and rope climbing. The political officer in the camp taught us about ideology. He showed us movies about Israel in 1948 and 1967. We were high on Yom Kippur stories, on how we shattered the myth of the invincible Israeli soldier. We read brochures about terrorist raids on Kibbutz Shamir (June 13th, 1974, three women killed), Kiryat Shmone (April 11th, 1974, 18 people killed, among them eight children) and Ma'alot (May 15th, 1974, 27 killed among them 21 children). I felt deep admiration for them, but I did not want to be like them.
At the end of the course, the chief instructor told us that we could join the Popular Front if we wanted to. I asked to be admitted and I was referred to the admission committee. There were five members in the committee, all in military uniforms, but without ranks, because it was a Marxist ideological organization. There was no saluting. The questions were really annoying: "Do you believe in the suffering of the Palestinian people?", "Why do you want to join?" Still I provided them with answers. In the end they told me I was admitted. They promised to send me an official letter with instructions on where to report for weapons. They took a blood sample and gave me a military card, which bore the organization logo, two guns and the inscription "Palestine Popular Front". In it they wrote down my blood type, my personal ID and rank: combat soldier. Part of the resistance was choosing a nom de guerre. Mine was Nabil Ahmed Kassem, personal ID: 8053.
The group split in October 1976. Jibril stuck with the original name. We became the Palestine Liberation Front. Abu Abbas, who had been in charge of propaganda until the split, became the military commander. I was sent to an officer training course where I studied tactics, topography, use of weapons, engineering and communications. There was also "ideology training" by a commissar. His lectures soon became ideological indoctrination, as part of the philosophy of an organization sending troops to the battle field: boosting motivation, instilling hatred against the enemy, getting the troops to fight the enemy at all costs. For three months we wandered from place to place, in trucks, so that the Israelis wouldn't find us. Home visits were not allowed during the course. There were about 20 of us, because it was a small organization, 500 members or so.
I graduated seventh. I was the youngest, barely 15. The top three were presented with 9 mm handguns on graduation. I received "Ten Days that Shook the World", about the bolshevik revolution.

The failure - one year in Jordanian prison.
The plan was to hijack a bus: one gets on through the front door, the second one through the back door and the third stands guard outside the bus. I was supposed to deal with the driver: "Stop the bus! Stop driving! Don't move! Listen to my instructions!" in Arabic, of course. We were unit no. 9, the elite commando (reference to the Sayeret Matkal) under Abu-Abbas' direct command. Whoever made it to this unit was a candidate for an "operation" in Israel. I was admitted "on trial", because I was so young. I had begged them to take me.
We trained in an isolated camp on the outskirts of Tyre for a month and a half. We practiced shooting at buses and crossing rivers. We crossed the Litani in preparation for crossing the Jordan. The first member of the group crossed the river with a rope and a handgun. When he got to the other side he tied the rope so that the second one could hold on to the rope and transfer all the weapons to the other side. We also learned how to detonate explosive belts: each one of us was equipped with one in case negotiations with the Israelis failed.
We were to demand the release of 20 prisoners, among them Kozo Okomoto. The main part of the training was psychological prepping on how to conduct negotiations: how the Israelis would react, how they would try to stall for time. They brought in a specialist who taught us how to circumvent the Israeli attempts to drag us into long conversations.
We had our pictures taken and drew up our wills. On January 31st 1978 we traveled to Damascus via Beirut. In Damascus we took a cab to Jordan. According to the plan, we were supposed to meet someone in Rabat Ammon who would take us to the border. We were to cross the Jordan River and to come out of the water 4-6 km between Beit-Shean and Tiberias. There we would change clothes and walk until we came across a bus. But as soon as we reached Jordan, we were picked up by Jordanian security during passport control. They must have been tipped off. We were tortured and beaten to a pulp for 17 days. Then they took us to the Intelligence Bureau in Rabat Ammon and then to prison.
The Jordanians sentenced us to 11 months in jail. I was released on Christmas day. I went back to Beirut. Everyone at home was crying. My father told me to go anywhere in the world and to stop fighting. He tried everything in his power to stop me from rejoining the organization, but I wasn't listening. I was given an unlimited leave of absence from the organization. They told me to come back when I was good and ready. One week later I told them I was coming back. They suggested I join the infantry divisions and leave unit no. 9. They said I had done enough already. But I insisted to go back to unit no. 9. They told me to start preparing for the next mission, this time from the sea.

The commander – a maritime attack.
I chose three members for my crew: Abdel Majeed Asslan nicknamed Majed, Mhanna al-Muayed aka Muhammad Ali, and Ahmed al-Abras – Abu-Assad. I was the commander.
In the beginning of January 1979 we started to train at sea. The four of us were trained by two instructors, both of them Palestinians: one of them had taken a seafaring course in Pakistan, and the other one was a specialist in maritime warfare. First we learned how to swim really well. They took us out to sea, farther and farther, night and day. First we only had our clothes on. Then, all sorts of equipment were gradually added: weapons, backpacks, life jackets. I loved the sea, especially at night. At first I was afraid because it felt like I was inside a black ball. They take you out to sea, far from the shore, where the water is deep and you can't see the shore. When you are out there in a small dinghy you feel you are inside a globe of darkness.
When we had mastered swimming, we moved on to rowing: how to row as a foursome, how to steer, technical stuff. Everyday we increased the distance to be ready in case the engine broke down or if we had to switch it off. We had a light rubber boat. It took a while to sail it properly with all four of us in it plus the equipment. It kept capsizing all the time. We put the equipment in the middle and then sat down, two of us on each side. Then they installed seats, so we would be more comfortable.
Several infiltration attempts by Fatah failed at that time, so we also drilled fighting at sea. The instructors would throw large barrels into the sea and we had to shoot them while the boat was moving. They would encourage us: "If you don’t make it to Israel, at least you will be able to fight it out at sea. Do your best!"
We used to talk about the Israeli Navy all the time and their Daburs. We gathered intelligence on them at night. They would advance as far as Rosh-Hanikra, kill their engines and spy on Lebanon with binoculars. Every evening I'd summarize my observations in a report. On the first night I forgot to bring paper, so when I reached for my notebook, I realized I had only brought a pencil. But there were some paper bags filled with fruit, so I wrote my report on them. When I returned to shore in the morning I couldn't read anything I had written. I was admonished by my superiors. The following three nights I brought white sheets of paper and blue pens. All night long I took notes of what I saw. In the morning I would arrange the notes: patrols, when they arrived and when they left, if they fired flares, how many and how often. The Daburs were always out at sea. I suggested we better stay close to the shore, say 50-60 meters, because the Israelis were patrolling the deep waters and ignoring the shores. That way we wouldn't get caught.

The mission – to kill civilians.
An additional instructor joined us for the ground operation, to help us with our marksmanship. We practiced shooting at stationary and mobile targets, so we could target passing cars. The instructor would let a barrel roll downhill and we had to hit it with RPG fire. We practiced breaking into houses, how to go about it, how to secure a building. It was clear we were targeting civilians.
In March, while still drilling, we recorded our wills. Each of us wrote down what he wanted to say and the political instructor made technical corrections. I wrote: "To all my friends in the Palestinian organizations. Today I sacrifice myself for the Palestinian cause. I take my leave of you today and I ask that this will only escalate the struggle for our people and our freedom. We seek peace and this is the way to achieve the peace we believe in. I am going on a mission today on behalf of all the Palestinian mothers, their happiness and their future. I am going on a mission today on behalf of all the Palestinian fathers and I hope that my actions help them return to their motherland in the future, so that all Palestinian families can live and raise their children in peace. Peace to you all."
Two weeks before the action Abu-Abbas came to see us training. He took me aside and told me: "Your objective is Nahariya." I was supposed to kept it a secret even from my comrades. I traveled to the organization's war room in Beirut. Abu-Abbas brought me maps of Nahariya and a file containing everything I had to know about the place. "Land on the beach", he said, "and make sure your raid is a big one, with a lot of noise, kidnap someone and come back." We had tea together. He went into more detail. "In the initial stage of your mission you have to hit a car", he continued, "because the Israelis hit a car with our people from the General Command in 1978, as part of Operation Litani. Any vehicle that comes by, hit it! Next, you walk to a building, preferably a multiple storey one, secure it, take hostages and come back to Lebanon." It was obvious that we had to kill civilians. The term we used for it was "hurt Israelis". We considered every Israeli a soldier who is on leave for 11 months every year.
We talked at length about the operation, Abu-Abbas and I. He told me that chances were 99% that we would not return. The day before we were scheduled to leave, I went home. I arrived around 8 p.m. My father had just returned from Saudi Arabia and my mother had cooked a big dinner. We sat together and talked. I knew it was my last visit home, that I would not survive the mission. I didn't tell them anything. I went to my room. It was full of pictures from my school days. There were books, a tape recorder and comics. Then I went to the nursery. Bassem, my one-year-old brother, and Tamiss, my two-and-a-half-year-old sister, were asleep. I kissed them and went back to the living room. I kissed my mother, my father and my brothers. They walked me to the road. I got into the car and went on my way, to Beirut.

Nahariya – a multi-storey building.
The mission code name was al-Nasser, after the former Egyptian president. This was after Saadat had gone to Israel. We departed on the night between April 20th and 21st, 1979, at 8 p.m. We bid farewell to Abu-Abbas on the beach in Tyre. He hugged us. When we got to Rosh Hanikra the engine broke down. We rowed back. I went back to the beach and hollered: "What technician put the engine in this boat?" I was sure someone had snitched on us. Abu-Abbas calmed me down. I stayed on the beach with him. Abu-Abbas, the technicians and I. We took the engine apart and fixed the problem. It was something technical.
The following night we set out again, about 10 p.m. It was a cold and stormy night. We were at sea for about four hours. We advanced slowly, because if you go too fast the boat bounces and the wake can give you away. As we passed Rosh Hanikra we saw the Navy patrol boat with searchlights. I gave the order to duck and killed the engine. It was a critical moment. But they didn’t see us, so we moved on.
We arrived at 2 a.m. We looked for a dark spot for the landing. There were yellow lights everywhere. Finally I found a suitable spot, at the edge of town. I told my team to prepare for landing. Majed was the first off the boat. I threw him a rope and he tied it to the rocks on the beach. I jumped out after him. The other two stayed on the boat so we could unload the equipment. Each of us had a backpack. I covered Majed while he put his backpack on, then he covered me. Then the two of us covered the other two.
We drank some water. I inspected the other three, checked the equipment. Abd-el-Majid had the shoulder-held rocket-launcher, six grenades, ground rocket launcher, rockets, a Kalashnikov with four magazines, four hand grenades and a revolver. Ali had a Kalashnikov with ten magazines, five anti-tank grenades, five anti-personnel grenades, ten hand grenades and a revolver. Abras had the PK machine gun with 1,500 bullets and a hand gun. I had a Kalashnikov with ten magazines, ten hand grenades, a German Spiegel with a silencer and a hand gun. Each of us had an explosive belt. I also had a walkie-talkie.
We started walking along a dirt path. We were dressed as civilians and wore Palladium shoes. We had no idea where we were or what Nahariya was supposed to look like. At the end of the path we saw some trees and a road. Across the road there were some villas and a little farther away a three-storey building. We approached the road.
We waited for a car to drive by. A quarter of an hour passed but no car. We were wet and cold. I said: "Let's go knock on the door of the villa. People will suspect something is amiss and will call the police." There was a large villa not far from the road. Majed, my deputy, and I approached it. First we checked the license plates of the cars, to make sure they were yellow and that we were in Israel. A previous group had landed in Syria by mistake. We knocked on the door, in fact we pounded really loud. A woman answered the intercom, in Hebrew. I started talking with the others in Arabic, so she could hear us. We knocked some more, we wanted her to understand something was wrong.
A few minutes later we heard a car approaching. The woman must have panicked and called the police, just as we wanted. We went back to the road, my deputy and I. We stood there: Ahmed with the machine gun in the middle, between Muhammad Ali and Majid, and me in front of them. The auto stopped. Officer Eliahu Shahar got out of the car and fired two shots in the air. We started shooting at the car. I took careful aim, I wanted it to be perfect. I mean the thing we had to do about the vehicle. I fired some 30 rounds at the car alone. Then we launched an RPG. One grenade hit under the driver's door. There was a flash, then silence. The cop was dead. We didn't confirm the kill. I assumed that nobody could survive a hit like that. A bomb can melt a car. Later on we found out that there had been two more cops who managed to get out of the car, and another one who was wounded. We waited a little longer to make sure there was no sound from the car, then I said "Let's go!”.
During the briefing in Lebanon they told us not to go too far away from the boat. There were plenty of villas near the beach, South African immigrants, but we had been told to go for an apartment building. So I directed my men to the three-storey building I had seen before. Abras and Ali remained downstairs, near the entrance. Majed and I went up the stairs. I wanted to take two or three hostages. We could go up or down the stairs, but I decided to go up. It was like opening a road. We wanted to create "sterile areas". We started in the middle, on the second floor. We broke into the flat that was right in front of us. We kicked the door down and went into the flat. I told Majed to go to the right while I went to the left. Majed opened the bedroom door. Someone fired at him from inside the room, two shots in the forehead. Someone must have heard us shooting at the car and was ready for us. Majed managed to say "I was shot" and collapsed. I went to the bedroom and saw the man who had shot Majed, still holding his gun. He was an older looking man, with a long nose. I could tell he had just woken from his sleep. He was wearing pajamas (Samir says "sleeping clothes"). I pulled the trigger on my gun with the silencer, but nothing happened. I tried again, but it was jammed. I tried the Kalashnikov but the safety was on. That was one lucky man. I shouted to the men downstairs: "Come up here, one of you!” Ali came up. I told him to throw a grenade while I fixed the Kalashnikov. After the explosion the room was dark and the man was gone. I thought he was dead, but I fired into the room anyway, just to be sure. I didn't hear a sound. The stairway was dark, but I could see the lights were on in the flat downstairs. We went down the stairs and kicked the door open. That was were the Harans lived.

The murder – why we didn't kill ourselves.
We entered the room. The door was open. Dan Haran was standing there, staring. The little girl was there with him. When we walked in, he was sitting on the bed, as if waiting for someone. As soon as we were in, he stood up. He started talking to me in English. I didn't understand much, just a few words. He was trying to ask me not to hurt him. I told my comrade (in Arabic) not to shoot. I gestured to him to remain calm. I told him to come with me. He responded in English and Hebrew, mixing words. He grabbed his girl and held her tight. The girl was quiet, just a little girl. She was wearing pajamas. He held her in his arms, close to him. I tried to explain to him that I wanted him to leaver her there. He didn’t understand my Arabic. I tried to gesture. I signaled with my hands to put the girl down and come with me. He didn’t want to. I said to him: "Come!", but he didn’t want to. He just didn't want to. I understood that he was stalling for time, waiting for the Israeli forces to arrive. He was scared.
My colleague, Muhammad Ali, wanted to get it over with. Why wait? I tried to explain to Haran once more, in Arabic and sign language. Finally he understood, but he refused. I tried to pull the girl from his arms. There was already gunfire outside the building. I looked at my watch twice, it was almost 2:45 a.m. I said: "We're late because of him. I grabbed by the hand, but the little girl was clinging to him. I said: "Yaalla, emshi, emshi!" (c'mon, go, go!). We went out the building, the girl still in her father's arms.
We walked the two-three minutes to the beach. One of us was leading the way, Haran behind him, his little girls in his arms, then me, and the other one behind me, for cover. Haran was trying to delay us, he was talking all the time. He stopped walking and talked. We were supposed to go back to the boat. Our people were waiting for us in Lebanon. While we were walking I heard gunshots. I asked Abras where they were coming from. He couldn't tell. When we got close to the boat I heard voices, a commotion. They started shooting in our direction, but not quite at us. We could hear the bullets shrieking in the air, but their aim was poor.
Then we reached the rocks. I said to Ali: "Get the boat ready!" He got into the boat with Danny. Heavy gunfire was coming at us. I returned fire, but it was not enough. Ali and Danny got off the boat. I said to Ali and Ahmed: "Duck and hold your positions. We'll return fire." One of them turned to the south, the other south-west and I turned east. Danny was behind us, between us and the boat. His daughter was sitting next to him. Haran waved to the soldiers and shouted something in Hebrew. They lit the entire area. They kept shooting at us all the time. I lowered my head to switch magazines. Haran was waving, his hands up high, while the Israelis were shooting all around. Suddenly he was hit and fell to the ground.
The girl was screaming. We hadn’t heard her before. That's it. That's the last I remember. I was busy with the gunfight in front of me, not with what was happening behind me. When I was done exchanging magazines, I saw two of them standing two-three meters in front of me, behind the rocks, holding their guns. I got up, stood straight before them, sprayed them with bullets and ducked again. They fell next to each other. And that's how it went on until dawn, 5:30 a.m. or something like that. Ahmed was hit in the forehead, Ali got killed. I was hit five times and lost a lot of blood. I couldn't focus any more.
When the shootout started, I told everybody to get their explosive belts ready. When I checked, I saw that I had the lost my battery. Ahmed had his belt on and asked me: "What, you want to explode?" I said to him: "Not yet, let's wait for the soldiers to come closer. I don’t' want to go alone." I knew that if Ahmed detonated his vest we would all blow up. The soldiers came closer, but Ahmad still didn't detonate. I can't figure out why.
What happened to the girl? Later, during the interrogation, they told me I had to admit that I had killed the girl with my gun. I told them write whatever you want. I didn’t see or hear anything. The whole thing had been such a mess and I was really focused on the gun battle. I don't mind admitting to things I did, but I won't admit to what I didn’t do."

This is the first time Kuntar's version of what transpired on the night of April 22nd, 1979 is made public. It is not what Israeli civilians and members of the security forces testified.
According to the Israeli investigation, the dinghy reached Nahariya beach at 2 a.m., and the four terrorists started walking towards the city. They first reached the Sela residence at 50, Ma'apilim street, and buzzed the intercom. The family were waiting for their youngest son who was out partying with friends. Mrs. Sela thought her son was ringing the bell, but just before she opened the door, she saw four young men standing outside her house. The heavy backpacks they were carrying looked suspicious, so she called the police. Another witness claims the foursome were hoping to break into the Sela residence and take the family hostage. Since that plan failed, they went on to the building where the Harans were living.
Meanwhile the police arrived, and officer Eliahu Shachar got out of the car and fired two warning shots in the air. The terrorists opened fire and killed him. A young man who was sitting in the car got hit in the leg. He and two other policemen who were in the car hid behind the hedges. Despite Kuntar's claims, the RPG they fired hit an adjacent wall, and the police car windshield was smashed by shrapnel.
Charlie Shapira, the Harans' neighbor at 61, Jabotinsky street, heard gunshots and went down to search the area with yet another neighbor. They didn’t see anything suspicious, so they went back to their apartments. However, Shapira forgot to slam the main door behind him. The four terrorists came out of their hiding place and entered the building. One of them stood guard by the main door of the building while the other three made their way up. When they got to the second floor, Majed burst into Shapira's apartment, while Kuntar and the third terrorist broke into the Haran apartment. Shapira, who was waiting for them to come, grabbed Majed and shot him in the head point blank. Despite Kuntar's claims that he tried to shoot him but his guns were jammed, he didn’t try to shoot Shapira, not did he throw any hand grenades into his apartment.
During the attack, the terrorists came upon the two young girls of the family living on the third floor. The girls were making their way to the bomb shelter of the building. The terrorists tried to shoot them, but the lights went off, and the girls managed to get away.
Contrary to Kuntar's claims, Smadar Haran – who was hiding with her daughter Yael in a storage cabinet – does not remember Kuntar trying to persuade Danny to leave Einat, the elder daughter, behind in the apartment: "It was a terrible, eventful night, but I find it hard to believe that such a thing happened. I don’t recall hearing Kuntar talking to Danny and telling him to put Einat down."
While the terrorists were heading for the beach with their hostages, Brigadier General (res.) Yossi Zachor came out of his house. He had heard the shots and was hurrying to the scene. "I first saw the police car and officer Shachar lying next to it. I checked for his vitals, but he was dead" he recounts this week. "Then I heard someone calling from the hedges: it was the other two policemen who had been in the car and were hiding there. They told me the terrorists had gotten away. I asked them if they had fired at them, and they said no. I ran to the beach and called for help. Immediately soldiers from the Ben-Amy base joined me and we headed for the beach feeling sure that the terrorists had managed to get away with the hostages. When we approached the waterline, they started shooting at us and I was relieved: they hadn't gotten away. We stormed forward and I heard little girl crying in a terrible voice. My blood curdled. I shouted: "Stop!", and at the same time Kuntar rose from the rocks and started firing at me. Three bullets hit me in the chest and I fell. Eventually, he told his Shabak interrogators that he twisted the little girl's leg in order to make her cry and to stop us in our tracks. And this indeed what happened. After I collapsed, the gun battle raged on."

After Zachor was evacuated, the troops were joined by Brig. General Ephraim Hiram (Pihodka), commander of the 91st brigade, just back from Lebanon. "The first thing I asked was where the father and the child were", recalls Pihodka. "They told they were out there with the terrorists. I started shouting "Hold your fire! Hold your fire!'. I organized a group of young soldiers and told them that we had to storm forward without using our guns. I told them I was aware that this was an irregular command, therefore I would lead the force. Twenty minutes later we stormed them. When we reached the terrorists, they raised their hands and surrendered. Danny and Einat Haran lay dead next to each. This sight has been haunting me to this very day. Next day I was summoned to a debriefing by the Chief of Staff, Raful [Raphael Eitan], who scolded me for not shooting the terrorists. I explained that I did not want to place this kind of burden on the shoulders of young soldiers who had been instructed not to shoot those who surrender. Only twenty years later he told me he understood why I chose not to shoot the terrorists."
The wounded Samir Kuntar and Ahmed Abras were apprehended at 5:30 a.m. Mhanna al-Muayed was killed in the gun battle. During the trial Kuntar rejected the accusations that he had killed Danny and Einat Haran, despite the pathologist testifying to the fact that Einat Haran had died as a result of her head being bashed in by a blunt instrument – in all likelihood Samir Kuntar's pistol butt. As for Danny, a number of witnesses testified that they saw Kuntar shooting him in the back. The pathologist report confirms that a Kalashnikov bullet was extracted from Danny's body. Little Yael Haran suffocated to death while her mother, who was hiding with her and a neighbor in a tiny storage cabinet, was trying desperately to smother her sobs.

Excerpts from the court proceedings.

to be continued and updated with photographs