Hello all,
In this time of conflict in Gaza, it would be good to remember the thousands of young people and children who have been living under the threat of Kassam bombs for more than 8 years. This past summer, my 21 year old daughter Dana made this video. I was in the United States with my two younger children Mayan and Gabi, at Camp Interlaken, where they were guests of the wonderful Milwaukee JCC. I was unaware that Dana had made this video and she showed it to me only this morning, on this the 7th day of the war in Gaza.
Since Saturday afternoon, the Tzeva Adom alarm has sounded 28 times in our kibbutz and many bombs have fallen; however, we are of high spirits and our thoughts and prayers are with our soldiers. Please feel free to distribute this link as you see fit.
Shalom,
Marcell Bar-On
Kibbutz Nir-Am - Gaza Border
h/t Elder of Ziyon
Showing posts with label Palestinian terror. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Palestinian terror. Show all posts
Monday, February 02, 2009
Life in Sderot
This is what life looks like in Sderot: terrorized civilians, traumatized children, shattered lives. This is what is has looked like for the past eight years:
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Samir Kuntar - part II
Torture. To die, and quickly.
The first thing I saw was a guy grabbing me by the hair and bringing his foot down on my belly. I was dizzy and couldn't feel anything. I think they must have sprayed something through my nose or something like that. We were still on the beach. I felt my strength returning to me. Two of them picked me up, one on each side of me and started running. Then stood me up and asked: "How many of you are there? Who are you? How did you get here?" I told them we got there by boat. They asked who the commander was. I said: "He died." (What on earth happened to the hero in you, Samir? You were brave enough to kill unarmed civilians, including a little girl, but when they caught you red-handed you couldn't admit you were the God damn leader? You filthy cowardly piece of human refuse!) Some soldiers put me in a jeep and then they got in as well. Then someone else arrived. They started threatening to shoot me. They asked: "Where are they waiting for your return to Lebanon with the hostages?." I gave them the name of some other place, "Rosh ha-Ain" in Lebanon. My team mates also thought that's where we were supposed to be heading back to. In fact we were supposed to back to Jal-el-Baher, near Tyre, where Abu-Abbas and the other big bosses were expecting us. They probably sent a patrol to Rosh-ha-Ain, because they came back to me and told me I was lying. They pointed there guns at me at threatened to shoot me. I said I didn’t care. I told them to shoot me. I wanted to die. I was pissed off because of how I had been captured. I kept asking myself, how did I fall into their hands? (those filthy Jewish hands, right, Samir?). What kept me going was the thought that I wouldn't be able to hang in there. I was sure I was going to die, because of my injury. It was a pretty bad wound.
That's when the torture started. Someone poked their finger through my wound, where the bullet went in. I felt terrible pressure. Then they banged my head on the table. They punched me with their fists. All they wanted to know was where my buddies were in Lebanon.
About an hour later they blindfolded me. They took me to a helicopter. When we were up in the sky the pushed me close to the door, as if they were going to chuck me down. They did it several times. Each time they told me they were going to dump me. Then they'd pull me back inside. After the landing we drove away in a car for what must have been no more than two or three minutes.
I found myself inside a room, some sort of surgery. This is where my story begins. That was my prison, the Tzrifin interrogation unit.
First thing they did, they took away my blindfold. Then they sat me on the table and hit me a couple of times. There must have been two or three civilians and a few soldiers. The civilians were the ones hitting me. They took my clothes off and laid me down on the couch. They started cleaning and dressing my wound just like that, without anesthesia (Samir, baby, you are breaking my heart. Not that a prisoner does not deserve humane treatment. Because they do. I am only thinking what kind of treatment you arabs extend our Israeli prisoners. Where's me hanky?). There was a doctor there, perhaps two. One of them was okay. I remember he had a syringe in his hand, probably some kind of local anesthesia, but the other doctor snatched it from his hand and threw it down on the table. (How can you be sure that he wasn't going to inject you with some lethal drug and that the other one saved your miserable life?). Never in my life had I imagined that there could be a physician like that. (Who in their right mind could have imagined that hell had spat out such a monstrous creature as yourself?)
The cruel doctor started to tend to my wound. I had taken a bullet in my chest, hands and shoulder. It hurt so bad that I passed out while he was working on me. It was a nightmare. When I woke up they put something in my vein. When it was over, some guy whom I had never seen before came into the room. He had a long red beard and knitted skullcap. I thought he was going to cleaning man. He asked me: "Where is Talat Yakoub?" That was the secretary general of my organization. He spoke very good Arabic, the bearded man did. I said: "He might be in Yemen." My organization had very good relations with South Yemen in those days. He took me seriously. He said: "Are you sure?" I said yes. Then he said: "Right, when you are done here, I wish to speak to you again." There were soldiers around me all the time. He stepped out of the room, but came back in: "Where did you say they were waiting for you in Lebanon?" I got angry: "Why do you keep asking me all these questions? What is this world coming to when a cleaning man is interrogating me?" He snapped back at me: "Me a cleaning man? Me?"
They gave me military fatigues, the kind their paratroopers wore in the 60's I think. They slipped a bag over my head, took me for a short walk and then brought me back into the room. I was still hand-cuffed. (Didn't he just say that he had been shot in the hands? No discomfort from the cuffs? Just wondering…). They didn’t give me anything to drink until the next day. I started hallucinating. The religious guy started hitting me (for real or in your hallucinations?). That was "the toughest part of all", the real torture. (You were hallucinating, you just said so).
That was the second day of my interrogation. They started asking me about the little girl. How she got killed. They asked me who shot her. Only later did they start talking about how she died from having her head bashed in with a rifle butt. Abu-Zakan (Abu-Beard, pejorative term for the bearded-man) went away for two hours and then came back again. He said: "No, you killed her." I started arguing with him: "No way!" He said again: "You killed her, and now you are going to sign a confession." I insisted: "No, I didn't kill her." They beat me and tied me outside. You see, my skin is still bearing the signs of being suspended from the wrists. I was cuffed to an iron bar, just like that, with my hands up, for five days. I stood up, then my body went limp, and I fainted, but then all the pressure was on my wrists. Every now and then a soldier would bring a rubber pipe and hit me with it real hard. When he went away, another one would come by. They practiced karate blows on my body. I was blindfolded all the time, I couldn’t see anything. I figure however that it must have been some sort of inner yard. Abu-Zakan, you know, the religious guy, came to see me every now and then and he'd tell me: "You'll talk soon." They never let me sit down or lie down. They'd finish practicing karate blows, and then they'd take me to Abu-Zakan for questioning.
I was beaten for half a day. Then they took me back to the surgery. There they beat me again. They told me that my parents' home had been bombed, that the IAF had destroyed my home while everyone was inside (such a shame they didn't). I believed them. Abu-Zakan kept slapping and punching me. There was a table in the room, with a long wooden bench next to it. They made me sit on it. Then tied me up with ropes and hit me, sometimes with a rubber pipe. Then they forced me to lie down on the floor. Soldiers brought in loudspeakers, put one on each side of my head, next to my ears, and played loud sirens in my ears, over and over again until I fainted.
Abu-Zakan said: "You will write what I'm telling you." I asked him what he wanted. He was the main interrogator. He stuck to me as if he was my God. He said: "I want you to tell me what I told you this morning." I said okay. The torture I had been subjected to had broken me. I wanted to die, but I could see that I wasn't dead. I had reached the point where I was thinking that if they were so cruel to me, what do I care? I'll say that I killed the little girl. Who was she anyway? I thought to myself that they all deserved to die, what was I ashamed of? I signed the confession. He was happy. He gave me some water to drink.
They asked me where I had trained, for how long, all kinds of questions. It was the third day. I didn’t give them anything. Part of What I was telling them were made-up stories. I was still handcuffed to a pipe. They were still beating me. Those were the first five. All I wanted to do was die. Then they started pressuring me to appear on TV. They told me what to say, that my commanders were traitors, drug-dealers. That they ridiculed and used me, that they had taken advantage of my being under age, that I killed the little girl and broke her skull." They wrote it all down for me in Arabic. I refused; I wasn't going to cross my own red lines.
I hated Abu-Zakan. At one point I wanted to kill because of the way he was torturing me. He was cruel, a monster. A settler, I believe. I had seen people like him on TV. You know, he is the spitting image of Rabbi Levinger, except he is a little fatter.
I couldn't take it any more. The beatings, the humiliation, the cursing, the loudspeakers playing sirens in my ears. My hands were cuffed in the front, because of my wounds. I was seated across the table from him. He got up, hit me and went back to his seat again. I picked up the desk lamp and hit him with it. I wanted to kill him, but he pressed his distress button and help arrived instantly. They started slapping and punching me, they used wooden bats and rubber pipes. Then they charged me with attempted murder of a security officer after my arrest.
I was thrown in a cell the size of a wardrobe. I couldn't stretch my legs and I couldn’t sleep. I was cuffed all the time. The walls of the cell were painted red and there was no window, except a small opening in the ceiling, an air-hole. There was a small slot at the bottom of the door, where they'd shove my food in: two slices of bread and a carrot. Sometimes they'd give me a small piece of cheese for breakfast. And water. How did I tell night from day? By the cock crow, and by the sound of traffic, of cars passing by. There was also a donkey nearby. And birds.
There was a big barrel next to me, to relieve myself. They'd empty it every few weeks. Sometimes soldiers would come in for a bit of fun. They'd take me out of the cell with a bag over my face, and they'd make me run until I'd bang my head against the wall. I was still being taken away for interrogation, even after the first five days, but not as frequently.
The trial. Blood on their hands.
One morning, five months after my arrest, they gave me back my clothes, the ones I was wearing for the operation, my pants and my shirt. The shirt was torn, I couldn’t wear it. So they gave me a military shirt. The pants were stained with blood. I was wearing my own shoes. They took me to Jalame, Kishon, near Haifa. First thing they gave me lunch, something quite different, rice and meat. For the first time since April I was eating meat.
From Jalame they took me to Acco police station. There I met Abras, my partner. I was sure he had been killed. We hugged, Abras and I. I asked him why he didn't blow himself up after I had given specific orders to detonate the charge. To this day I can't understand why he didn't do it. I sometimes envy my buddies who were killed in the attack. They were spared so much suffering.
Then they transferred me to Nitzan prison and then to Ayalon Prison, where I shared a cell with Kozo Okomoto. Okomoto was one of the prisoners whose release we wanted to secure by the attack on Beit-Shean. He was finished, he had gone mad. They were giving him all kinds of treatments, you wouldn't want to know. He was very short and thin, and in very poor mental shape. He never spoke.
My trial opened in November, at the Haifa District Court. It lasted three months. For me it was a circus show. I asked that Lea Tsemel defend me, but it never happened. There were 52 witnesses. I testified for an hour and a half, in Arabic. The sentence was passed down on January 20, 1980. I was sentenced to five life terms plus 48 years. During the trial I heard for the first time the names of Eliahu Shahar, Einat and Danny Haran and also Smadar Haran, his surviving widow.
Smadar "adopted" me as her private prisoner, her pet project. She couldn't understand that it was a national matter, not a personal one. I didn't bring a note with the Harans' names on it form Lebanon. I came as part of a conflict that I strongly believed I should be a part of. I was acting on behalf of my people, of my nation. I didn't steal anything, I didn’t break into a car. Even if I spend sit a hundred years in jail I will not change my mind. This is what I think. You are heading straight for the wall. You are playing a lose-lose game. But you are the strong side. You should give up, otherwise it will never work. This is how I see it. I think of myself as a Palestinian. It's like asking an Israeli soldiers if he is sorry he fired. You don't ask a soldier. You say "a terrorist with blood on his hands". This is a very cynical thing to say. (I agree, we should say terrorists with blood on their heads). Your hands are also stained with blood. Every tax-paying Israeli citizen has blood on his hands. All of you have blood on your hands. (How could we let this thing walk free?)
People who decide to commit terrorist attacks, like me, we are not bloodthirsty. You can't say that we woke up one morning, without knowing what the Palestinian people is, having grown up within this conflict, and decided just like that to commit a terrorist attack (you're right, dear, this is where propaganda comes in, all those lies and myths about the Palestinian people and what we did to them. And they have no problems using minors, like you. All fucked up, but still minors). Not at all. And it wasn't sudden either. It was part of a growing process. (Like I said, dear, all that propaganda, every time they'd come up with something new and more inflated.) It blended in well with the political and ideological roots. Neither is it a matter of age. It does not matter how old I was. Young people are more motivated, so perhaps age had something to do with it, but it was not the main things. I was strongly attracted to the Palestinians. I always believed, even when I applied to be admitted into the ranks of the unit, that we shouldn't enjoy life and let the next generation be consumed by the flames of the conflict. I wanted to fight for the rights of the Palestinian people. For me it was the moral, humane thing to do, to sacrifice myself for the suffering of these people, with whom I felt so connected. I was no mercenary.
Prison. Zionism in Hebrew.
Life becomes complicated for one who spends years locked up in jail, like me. Life in prison is not easy. A human being cannot get used to being locked up. All through the years I've asked myself whether anyone else would have been able to go through what I have gone through, and my answer is no. This does not mean that I am expressing regret. No way. I just think of myself as someone able to bear these things. I am not so sure that others would have been able to hang in there.
I survived, however. After the trial I was kept in isolation for half a year. That was the rule for those involved in a "smart" attack. Later on I was allowed to mix with the regulars. In 1984 I was transferred to Nafha prison, where I spent 20 years. I was also kept in isolation in Be'er Sheva, for long periods of time. I learned Hebrew. I started with cigarette packs. I compared the letters in Hebrew and in Arabic. Then I learned a few words. Then I was allowed to take a Bachelor's degree in social sciences at the Open University, in Hebrew, via correspondence. There was a course on the Holocaust. Nobody wanted to take it, but me. I got a 90 in the course on security surprises during WWII. I learned there about Pearl Harbor, about the Barbarossa operation. Then I enrolled for my Master's Degree, but they wouldn't let me finish.
I read a lot. I could barely sleep at night. I don't like sleeping anyway. I live to live life to the full, to enjoy every minute of my life, even if I am in jail. I ordered books via the canteen. Everything they published about the army, security, the wars in the region, Zionism, I made every effort to read them. I am against Zionism, not Jews (A-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!). I am against Zionist politics. I think that the establishment of the State of Israel was a mistake, but I don’t hate Jews (A-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!). I read Uri Sagi's "Lights in the Mist", Gilad Sher's "Just Beyond Reach", The Zionist Lexicon", books about wars. I've already sent some of these books to Lebanon. I want them there when I go home. You need to learn about the enemy. You can't fight if you don't know everything about the one you are fighting against. I've also seen Israeli movies, "Officer Azoulay", he reminded me of Israeli policemen. I am also familiar with Israeli music and the Israeli experience: Shlomo Artzi "Beneath the Middle East Skies" (sic). (It is in fact " Beneath the Mediterranean Skies").
In the 80's my eldest sister, Sana, died. She was like a mother to me. Of all my siblings it is she that I felt closest to. The news came in a letter that I received from my family via the Red Cross. It is customary in jail that when someone's relative dies, everybody sits with him. I mourned by myself.
My father passed away in 1986, but I found out one year later. We had never spoken since my capture. In his first letter to me, delivered via the Red Cross, he spoke about how he suffered that I was away from him, and because of what he imagined I was going through. I could feel him crying. He reminded me how far away I was from home. He never mentioned Amsterdam. He just said: "Stay healthy, and whatever you need we will send you." His following letters were encouraging.
My father and my eldest sister had been with me all my life. I am certain that my father would have lived longer had things been different (you mean if you hadn’t come to Israel to commit a most heinous crime. I agree, you killed your own father, God have mercy on your miserable excuse for a soul!). It hurt. My father was not a "what if" kind of person. I know that others also paid a very heavy price in this conflict and that my family is not the only one. My father never wrote to me: "Why did you do it?" That was not his style. After 1982, when the Phalanges entered my village, he even sent my brother to join the fighting. He left his job in Saudi Arabia after I was captured. He stayed in Lebanon. His health began to deteriorate, and then he died.
to be continued
The first thing I saw was a guy grabbing me by the hair and bringing his foot down on my belly. I was dizzy and couldn't feel anything. I think they must have sprayed something through my nose or something like that. We were still on the beach. I felt my strength returning to me. Two of them picked me up, one on each side of me and started running. Then stood me up and asked: "How many of you are there? Who are you? How did you get here?" I told them we got there by boat. They asked who the commander was. I said: "He died." (What on earth happened to the hero in you, Samir? You were brave enough to kill unarmed civilians, including a little girl, but when they caught you red-handed you couldn't admit you were the God damn leader? You filthy cowardly piece of human refuse!) Some soldiers put me in a jeep and then they got in as well. Then someone else arrived. They started threatening to shoot me. They asked: "Where are they waiting for your return to Lebanon with the hostages?." I gave them the name of some other place, "Rosh ha-Ain" in Lebanon. My team mates also thought that's where we were supposed to be heading back to. In fact we were supposed to back to Jal-el-Baher, near Tyre, where Abu-Abbas and the other big bosses were expecting us. They probably sent a patrol to Rosh-ha-Ain, because they came back to me and told me I was lying. They pointed there guns at me at threatened to shoot me. I said I didn’t care. I told them to shoot me. I wanted to die. I was pissed off because of how I had been captured. I kept asking myself, how did I fall into their hands? (those filthy Jewish hands, right, Samir?). What kept me going was the thought that I wouldn't be able to hang in there. I was sure I was going to die, because of my injury. It was a pretty bad wound.
That's when the torture started. Someone poked their finger through my wound, where the bullet went in. I felt terrible pressure. Then they banged my head on the table. They punched me with their fists. All they wanted to know was where my buddies were in Lebanon.
About an hour later they blindfolded me. They took me to a helicopter. When we were up in the sky the pushed me close to the door, as if they were going to chuck me down. They did it several times. Each time they told me they were going to dump me. Then they'd pull me back inside. After the landing we drove away in a car for what must have been no more than two or three minutes.
I found myself inside a room, some sort of surgery. This is where my story begins. That was my prison, the Tzrifin interrogation unit.
First thing they did, they took away my blindfold. Then they sat me on the table and hit me a couple of times. There must have been two or three civilians and a few soldiers. The civilians were the ones hitting me. They took my clothes off and laid me down on the couch. They started cleaning and dressing my wound just like that, without anesthesia (Samir, baby, you are breaking my heart. Not that a prisoner does not deserve humane treatment. Because they do. I am only thinking what kind of treatment you arabs extend our Israeli prisoners. Where's me hanky?). There was a doctor there, perhaps two. One of them was okay. I remember he had a syringe in his hand, probably some kind of local anesthesia, but the other doctor snatched it from his hand and threw it down on the table. (How can you be sure that he wasn't going to inject you with some lethal drug and that the other one saved your miserable life?). Never in my life had I imagined that there could be a physician like that. (Who in their right mind could have imagined that hell had spat out such a monstrous creature as yourself?)
The cruel doctor started to tend to my wound. I had taken a bullet in my chest, hands and shoulder. It hurt so bad that I passed out while he was working on me. It was a nightmare. When I woke up they put something in my vein. When it was over, some guy whom I had never seen before came into the room. He had a long red beard and knitted skullcap. I thought he was going to cleaning man. He asked me: "Where is Talat Yakoub?" That was the secretary general of my organization. He spoke very good Arabic, the bearded man did. I said: "He might be in Yemen." My organization had very good relations with South Yemen in those days. He took me seriously. He said: "Are you sure?" I said yes. Then he said: "Right, when you are done here, I wish to speak to you again." There were soldiers around me all the time. He stepped out of the room, but came back in: "Where did you say they were waiting for you in Lebanon?" I got angry: "Why do you keep asking me all these questions? What is this world coming to when a cleaning man is interrogating me?" He snapped back at me: "Me a cleaning man? Me?"
They gave me military fatigues, the kind their paratroopers wore in the 60's I think. They slipped a bag over my head, took me for a short walk and then brought me back into the room. I was still hand-cuffed. (Didn't he just say that he had been shot in the hands? No discomfort from the cuffs? Just wondering…). They didn’t give me anything to drink until the next day. I started hallucinating. The religious guy started hitting me (for real or in your hallucinations?). That was "the toughest part of all", the real torture. (You were hallucinating, you just said so).
That was the second day of my interrogation. They started asking me about the little girl. How she got killed. They asked me who shot her. Only later did they start talking about how she died from having her head bashed in with a rifle butt. Abu-Zakan (Abu-Beard, pejorative term for the bearded-man) went away for two hours and then came back again. He said: "No, you killed her." I started arguing with him: "No way!" He said again: "You killed her, and now you are going to sign a confession." I insisted: "No, I didn't kill her." They beat me and tied me outside. You see, my skin is still bearing the signs of being suspended from the wrists. I was cuffed to an iron bar, just like that, with my hands up, for five days. I stood up, then my body went limp, and I fainted, but then all the pressure was on my wrists. Every now and then a soldier would bring a rubber pipe and hit me with it real hard. When he went away, another one would come by. They practiced karate blows on my body. I was blindfolded all the time, I couldn’t see anything. I figure however that it must have been some sort of inner yard. Abu-Zakan, you know, the religious guy, came to see me every now and then and he'd tell me: "You'll talk soon." They never let me sit down or lie down. They'd finish practicing karate blows, and then they'd take me to Abu-Zakan for questioning.
I was beaten for half a day. Then they took me back to the surgery. There they beat me again. They told me that my parents' home had been bombed, that the IAF had destroyed my home while everyone was inside (such a shame they didn't). I believed them. Abu-Zakan kept slapping and punching me. There was a table in the room, with a long wooden bench next to it. They made me sit on it. Then tied me up with ropes and hit me, sometimes with a rubber pipe. Then they forced me to lie down on the floor. Soldiers brought in loudspeakers, put one on each side of my head, next to my ears, and played loud sirens in my ears, over and over again until I fainted.
Abu-Zakan said: "You will write what I'm telling you." I asked him what he wanted. He was the main interrogator. He stuck to me as if he was my God. He said: "I want you to tell me what I told you this morning." I said okay. The torture I had been subjected to had broken me. I wanted to die, but I could see that I wasn't dead. I had reached the point where I was thinking that if they were so cruel to me, what do I care? I'll say that I killed the little girl. Who was she anyway? I thought to myself that they all deserved to die, what was I ashamed of? I signed the confession. He was happy. He gave me some water to drink.
They asked me where I had trained, for how long, all kinds of questions. It was the third day. I didn’t give them anything. Part of What I was telling them were made-up stories. I was still handcuffed to a pipe. They were still beating me. Those were the first five. All I wanted to do was die. Then they started pressuring me to appear on TV. They told me what to say, that my commanders were traitors, drug-dealers. That they ridiculed and used me, that they had taken advantage of my being under age, that I killed the little girl and broke her skull." They wrote it all down for me in Arabic. I refused; I wasn't going to cross my own red lines.
I hated Abu-Zakan. At one point I wanted to kill because of the way he was torturing me. He was cruel, a monster. A settler, I believe. I had seen people like him on TV. You know, he is the spitting image of Rabbi Levinger, except he is a little fatter.
I couldn't take it any more. The beatings, the humiliation, the cursing, the loudspeakers playing sirens in my ears. My hands were cuffed in the front, because of my wounds. I was seated across the table from him. He got up, hit me and went back to his seat again. I picked up the desk lamp and hit him with it. I wanted to kill him, but he pressed his distress button and help arrived instantly. They started slapping and punching me, they used wooden bats and rubber pipes. Then they charged me with attempted murder of a security officer after my arrest.
I was thrown in a cell the size of a wardrobe. I couldn't stretch my legs and I couldn’t sleep. I was cuffed all the time. The walls of the cell were painted red and there was no window, except a small opening in the ceiling, an air-hole. There was a small slot at the bottom of the door, where they'd shove my food in: two slices of bread and a carrot. Sometimes they'd give me a small piece of cheese for breakfast. And water. How did I tell night from day? By the cock crow, and by the sound of traffic, of cars passing by. There was also a donkey nearby. And birds.
There was a big barrel next to me, to relieve myself. They'd empty it every few weeks. Sometimes soldiers would come in for a bit of fun. They'd take me out of the cell with a bag over my face, and they'd make me run until I'd bang my head against the wall. I was still being taken away for interrogation, even after the first five days, but not as frequently.
The trial. Blood on their hands.
One morning, five months after my arrest, they gave me back my clothes, the ones I was wearing for the operation, my pants and my shirt. The shirt was torn, I couldn’t wear it. So they gave me a military shirt. The pants were stained with blood. I was wearing my own shoes. They took me to Jalame, Kishon, near Haifa. First thing they gave me lunch, something quite different, rice and meat. For the first time since April I was eating meat.
From Jalame they took me to Acco police station. There I met Abras, my partner. I was sure he had been killed. We hugged, Abras and I. I asked him why he didn't blow himself up after I had given specific orders to detonate the charge. To this day I can't understand why he didn't do it. I sometimes envy my buddies who were killed in the attack. They were spared so much suffering.
Then they transferred me to Nitzan prison and then to Ayalon Prison, where I shared a cell with Kozo Okomoto. Okomoto was one of the prisoners whose release we wanted to secure by the attack on Beit-Shean. He was finished, he had gone mad. They were giving him all kinds of treatments, you wouldn't want to know. He was very short and thin, and in very poor mental shape. He never spoke.
My trial opened in November, at the Haifa District Court. It lasted three months. For me it was a circus show. I asked that Lea Tsemel defend me, but it never happened. There were 52 witnesses. I testified for an hour and a half, in Arabic. The sentence was passed down on January 20, 1980. I was sentenced to five life terms plus 48 years. During the trial I heard for the first time the names of Eliahu Shahar, Einat and Danny Haran and also Smadar Haran, his surviving widow.
Smadar "adopted" me as her private prisoner, her pet project. She couldn't understand that it was a national matter, not a personal one. I didn't bring a note with the Harans' names on it form Lebanon. I came as part of a conflict that I strongly believed I should be a part of. I was acting on behalf of my people, of my nation. I didn't steal anything, I didn’t break into a car. Even if I spend sit a hundred years in jail I will not change my mind. This is what I think. You are heading straight for the wall. You are playing a lose-lose game. But you are the strong side. You should give up, otherwise it will never work. This is how I see it. I think of myself as a Palestinian. It's like asking an Israeli soldiers if he is sorry he fired. You don't ask a soldier. You say "a terrorist with blood on his hands". This is a very cynical thing to say. (I agree, we should say terrorists with blood on their heads). Your hands are also stained with blood. Every tax-paying Israeli citizen has blood on his hands. All of you have blood on your hands. (How could we let this thing walk free?)
People who decide to commit terrorist attacks, like me, we are not bloodthirsty. You can't say that we woke up one morning, without knowing what the Palestinian people is, having grown up within this conflict, and decided just like that to commit a terrorist attack (you're right, dear, this is where propaganda comes in, all those lies and myths about the Palestinian people and what we did to them. And they have no problems using minors, like you. All fucked up, but still minors). Not at all. And it wasn't sudden either. It was part of a growing process. (Like I said, dear, all that propaganda, every time they'd come up with something new and more inflated.) It blended in well with the political and ideological roots. Neither is it a matter of age. It does not matter how old I was. Young people are more motivated, so perhaps age had something to do with it, but it was not the main things. I was strongly attracted to the Palestinians. I always believed, even when I applied to be admitted into the ranks of the unit, that we shouldn't enjoy life and let the next generation be consumed by the flames of the conflict. I wanted to fight for the rights of the Palestinian people. For me it was the moral, humane thing to do, to sacrifice myself for the suffering of these people, with whom I felt so connected. I was no mercenary.
Prison. Zionism in Hebrew.
Life becomes complicated for one who spends years locked up in jail, like me. Life in prison is not easy. A human being cannot get used to being locked up. All through the years I've asked myself whether anyone else would have been able to go through what I have gone through, and my answer is no. This does not mean that I am expressing regret. No way. I just think of myself as someone able to bear these things. I am not so sure that others would have been able to hang in there.
I survived, however. After the trial I was kept in isolation for half a year. That was the rule for those involved in a "smart" attack. Later on I was allowed to mix with the regulars. In 1984 I was transferred to Nafha prison, where I spent 20 years. I was also kept in isolation in Be'er Sheva, for long periods of time. I learned Hebrew. I started with cigarette packs. I compared the letters in Hebrew and in Arabic. Then I learned a few words. Then I was allowed to take a Bachelor's degree in social sciences at the Open University, in Hebrew, via correspondence. There was a course on the Holocaust. Nobody wanted to take it, but me. I got a 90 in the course on security surprises during WWII. I learned there about Pearl Harbor, about the Barbarossa operation. Then I enrolled for my Master's Degree, but they wouldn't let me finish.
I read a lot. I could barely sleep at night. I don't like sleeping anyway. I live to live life to the full, to enjoy every minute of my life, even if I am in jail. I ordered books via the canteen. Everything they published about the army, security, the wars in the region, Zionism, I made every effort to read them. I am against Zionism, not Jews (A-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!). I am against Zionist politics. I think that the establishment of the State of Israel was a mistake, but I don’t hate Jews (A-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!). I read Uri Sagi's "Lights in the Mist", Gilad Sher's "Just Beyond Reach", The Zionist Lexicon", books about wars. I've already sent some of these books to Lebanon. I want them there when I go home. You need to learn about the enemy. You can't fight if you don't know everything about the one you are fighting against. I've also seen Israeli movies, "Officer Azoulay", he reminded me of Israeli policemen. I am also familiar with Israeli music and the Israeli experience: Shlomo Artzi "Beneath the Middle East Skies" (sic). (It is in fact " Beneath the Mediterranean Skies").
In the 80's my eldest sister, Sana, died. She was like a mother to me. Of all my siblings it is she that I felt closest to. The news came in a letter that I received from my family via the Red Cross. It is customary in jail that when someone's relative dies, everybody sits with him. I mourned by myself.
My father passed away in 1986, but I found out one year later. We had never spoken since my capture. In his first letter to me, delivered via the Red Cross, he spoke about how he suffered that I was away from him, and because of what he imagined I was going through. I could feel him crying. He reminded me how far away I was from home. He never mentioned Amsterdam. He just said: "Stay healthy, and whatever you need we will send you." His following letters were encouraging.
My father and my eldest sister had been with me all my life. I am certain that my father would have lived longer had things been different (you mean if you hadn’t come to Israel to commit a most heinous crime. I agree, you killed your own father, God have mercy on your miserable excuse for a soul!). It hurt. My father was not a "what if" kind of person. I know that others also paid a very heavy price in this conflict and that my family is not the only one. My father never wrote to me: "Why did you do it?" That was not his style. After 1982, when the Phalanges entered my village, he even sent my brother to join the fighting. He left his job in Saudi Arabia after I was captured. He stayed in Lebanon. His health began to deteriorate, and then he died.
to be continued
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
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
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
Thursday, July 03, 2008
All in a Day's Work
On July 2, 2008, Hossam Dawyyat killed three Jews and injured another 70 in Jerusalem. All in a day's work.
By the way, he was shot to death by off-duty commando soldier Moshe Plesser.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Out of Our Minds
During my daily rounds of the blogosphere, I found this story that really got my pulse going:
New Book May Further the Rift Between Israeli Arabs And Jews
Jerusalem (CNSNews.com) - An Israeli Arab organization distributed at Arab schools throughout northern Israel on Wednesday 20,000 copies of a booklet aimed at promoting Arab unity around the popular idea that the establishment of the modern State of Israel in 1948 was a catastrophe, or what is widely referred to in Arabic as the "nakba."
The booklet contains stories written by 150 Arab children in Israel, the Palestinian Authority-controlled territories, Syria and Lebanon that are harshly critical of and even hostile toward Israel.
It was produced by the Ibn Khaldun Association in northern Israel, whose director Asad Ghanem told Israel's Ha'aretz newspaper that he hoped the booklet would "reaffirm Palestinian consciousness, and maintain and reinforce it among future generations" of Israeli Arabs. Ghanem is also head of the political science department at Israel's Haifa University.
In remarks to Cybercast News Service, Israeli Arab affairs expert Dr. Mordechai Kedar, a research associate with the Begin-Sadat Center, stressed his view that Ghanem and other Israeli Arabs like him do not view the booklet as a threat to Israel.
"They see this book as designed to strengthen national awareness and to promote a connection between Palestinians who are Israeli and those living in other Arab countries in order to consolidate the Palestinian spirit," said Kedar.
That national awareness and struggle is more commonly known as the "Palestinian cause," which today is largely taken to mean the effort to establish a sovereign Palestinian Arab state in the Gaza Strip and the areas known collectively around the world as the "West Bank," but which many Israelis refer to by their biblical names of Judea and Samaria.
The problem for most Israelis is that the Palestinian cause as formulated by late PLO founder Yasser Arafat does not stop with Judea and Samaria. Even after signing the so-called "Oslo Accords" with Israel, Arafat repeatedly told Arab media that the PLO's "phased plan" remained in effect, and that the establishment of a Palestinian state in Judea and Samaria would be only the first step toward the destruction of Israel.
Despite the threat inherent in the Palestinian cause and the "nakba" narrative that fuels it, Kedar said he remains convinced most Israeli Arabs and Jews want to "live together instead of fight each other." Unfortunately, Ghanem's booklet is poised to widen the rift between the two communities by further antagonizing the more hardened elements in Israeli society, whose reaction will be used by Islamists to further radicalize Israeli Arab youth.
This book "will definitely pour more oil on the fire against the Arabs within certain Israeli circles, which will in turn pour even more oil on the fire created by extremist elements on the Arab side," said Kedar.The publication of Ghanem's booklet comes at a time of already markedly increased tension between Israeli Arabs and Jews, a phenomenon that was highlighted last month as Israeli Jews and a slew of visiting foreign dignitaries celebrated Israel's 60th Independence Day while most of the nation's Arabs spoke out against the state or were cowed into silence by extremists.
Israeli media commentators have asserted that national ethnic divisions can be at least partially blamed on an Israeli government establishment that has beholden itself to the principles of political correctness and now refuses to be seen as interfering with its Arab minority by countering negative trends in that community.
Jerusalem Post columnist Carolyn Glick wrote earlier this year that "the natural pull of Israeli Arabs is toward the Palestinians," and that Israel has to make a concerted effort to win the hearts and minds of its Arab citizens, or risk facing an internal explosion in addition to numerous regional threats.
So the Israeli establishment wants to stick to politically correctness and allow free circulation of this piece of inflammatory propaganda (150 stories) rather than interfere (provoke riots) with our ever so hostile and treacherous Arab minority. But the same Israeli establishment does allow the Arab minority to interfere with the Israeli majority in a blatant attempt to shut us up. Said Israeli establishment has just given in to the extortion of a Yaffo-based terrorist sympathiser going by the name of Ibrahim Abu-Shindi, who regularly appears on Israeli TV in order to bash the State of Israel while pretending to work for peace. The man is even the director of an Arab-Jewish Community Center. Well, if it's peace he wants, I'll accept nothing less than the publication of the "bone of contention" poem written by one ten-year-old Israeli boy from Ness Ziona. Please also note that the State of Israel can only afford to publish 500 copies of the poetry contest booklet, while an Israeli Arab organization has the funds to come up with 20,000 copies of their revised "Arabian Nights". Good grief! Fortunately, I am not bound by any multi-crappy-culti PC nonsense. So here's the offending poem:
Ahmed's bunker has surprises galore: Grenades, rifles
are hung on the wall. Ahmed is planning another bomb!
What a bunker Ahmed has, who causes daily harm.
Ahmed knows how to make a bomb. Ahmed is Ahmed, that's
who he is, so don't forget to be careful of him.
We get blasted while they have a blast!
Ahmed and his friends could be wealthy and sunny, if only
they wouldn't buy rockets with all their money.
Anyway, in an extraordinary instance of poetic justice, a mishap seems to have befallen one of Ahmed's bunkers and it is no longer operational. Nor are the houses around it habitable.
I am pleased to see that the saga of Ahmad's bunker, the innocent little poem, has made it to several blogs:
B'nai Elim
Double Tapper
Esser Agaroth
Freerepublic
Infidel Blogger's Alliance
Muqata
New Book May Further the Rift Between Israeli Arabs And Jews
Jerusalem (CNSNews.com) - An Israeli Arab organization distributed at Arab schools throughout northern Israel on Wednesday 20,000 copies of a booklet aimed at promoting Arab unity around the popular idea that the establishment of the modern State of Israel in 1948 was a catastrophe, or what is widely referred to in Arabic as the "nakba."
The booklet contains stories written by 150 Arab children in Israel, the Palestinian Authority-controlled territories, Syria and Lebanon that are harshly critical of and even hostile toward Israel.
It was produced by the Ibn Khaldun Association in northern Israel, whose director Asad Ghanem told Israel's Ha'aretz newspaper that he hoped the booklet would "reaffirm Palestinian consciousness, and maintain and reinforce it among future generations" of Israeli Arabs. Ghanem is also head of the political science department at Israel's Haifa University.
In remarks to Cybercast News Service, Israeli Arab affairs expert Dr. Mordechai Kedar, a research associate with the Begin-Sadat Center, stressed his view that Ghanem and other Israeli Arabs like him do not view the booklet as a threat to Israel.
"They see this book as designed to strengthen national awareness and to promote a connection between Palestinians who are Israeli and those living in other Arab countries in order to consolidate the Palestinian spirit," said Kedar.
That national awareness and struggle is more commonly known as the "Palestinian cause," which today is largely taken to mean the effort to establish a sovereign Palestinian Arab state in the Gaza Strip and the areas known collectively around the world as the "West Bank," but which many Israelis refer to by their biblical names of Judea and Samaria.
The problem for most Israelis is that the Palestinian cause as formulated by late PLO founder Yasser Arafat does not stop with Judea and Samaria. Even after signing the so-called "Oslo Accords" with Israel, Arafat repeatedly told Arab media that the PLO's "phased plan" remained in effect, and that the establishment of a Palestinian state in Judea and Samaria would be only the first step toward the destruction of Israel.
Despite the threat inherent in the Palestinian cause and the "nakba" narrative that fuels it, Kedar said he remains convinced most Israeli Arabs and Jews want to "live together instead of fight each other." Unfortunately, Ghanem's booklet is poised to widen the rift between the two communities by further antagonizing the more hardened elements in Israeli society, whose reaction will be used by Islamists to further radicalize Israeli Arab youth.
This book "will definitely pour more oil on the fire against the Arabs within certain Israeli circles, which will in turn pour even more oil on the fire created by extremist elements on the Arab side," said Kedar.The publication of Ghanem's booklet comes at a time of already markedly increased tension between Israeli Arabs and Jews, a phenomenon that was highlighted last month as Israeli Jews and a slew of visiting foreign dignitaries celebrated Israel's 60th Independence Day while most of the nation's Arabs spoke out against the state or were cowed into silence by extremists.
Israeli media commentators have asserted that national ethnic divisions can be at least partially blamed on an Israeli government establishment that has beholden itself to the principles of political correctness and now refuses to be seen as interfering with its Arab minority by countering negative trends in that community.
Jerusalem Post columnist Carolyn Glick wrote earlier this year that "the natural pull of Israeli Arabs is toward the Palestinians," and that Israel has to make a concerted effort to win the hearts and minds of its Arab citizens, or risk facing an internal explosion in addition to numerous regional threats.
So the Israeli establishment wants to stick to politically correctness and allow free circulation of this piece of inflammatory propaganda (150 stories) rather than interfere (provoke riots) with our ever so hostile and treacherous Arab minority. But the same Israeli establishment does allow the Arab minority to interfere with the Israeli majority in a blatant attempt to shut us up. Said Israeli establishment has just given in to the extortion of a Yaffo-based terrorist sympathiser going by the name of Ibrahim Abu-Shindi, who regularly appears on Israeli TV in order to bash the State of Israel while pretending to work for peace. The man is even the director of an Arab-Jewish Community Center. Well, if it's peace he wants, I'll accept nothing less than the publication of the "bone of contention" poem written by one ten-year-old Israeli boy from Ness Ziona. Please also note that the State of Israel can only afford to publish 500 copies of the poetry contest booklet, while an Israeli Arab organization has the funds to come up with 20,000 copies of their revised "Arabian Nights". Good grief! Fortunately, I am not bound by any multi-crappy-culti PC nonsense. So here's the offending poem:
Ahmed's bunker has surprises galore: Grenades, rifles
are hung on the wall. Ahmed is planning another bomb!
What a bunker Ahmed has, who causes daily harm.
Ahmed knows how to make a bomb. Ahmed is Ahmed, that's
who he is, so don't forget to be careful of him.
We get blasted while they have a blast!
Ahmed and his friends could be wealthy and sunny, if only
they wouldn't buy rockets with all their money.
Anyway, in an extraordinary instance of poetic justice, a mishap seems to have befallen one of Ahmed's bunkers and it is no longer operational. Nor are the houses around it habitable.I am pleased to see that the saga of Ahmad's bunker, the innocent little poem, has made it to several blogs:
B'nai Elim
Double Tapper
Esser Agaroth
Freerepublic
Infidel Blogger's Alliance
Muqata
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Martyrdom Better than Peace with Israel
From the Palestinian Media Watch a spine-chilling dialogue, proof of criminal brainwashing of innocent children. How can there be any hope of peace between Israel and the Arabs when they so twist their young ones' minds? Notice how obscenely pleased the anchor is when these little girls express their wish to blow themselves up just to kill a few Jews. Where is UNICEF?
Q: You spoke highly of martyrdom. Do you still think that becoming a martyr is good?
Walaa (11 years old): Martyrdom is very, very beautiful. Everybody wishes to become a martyr. What can be better than going to heaven?
Q: What would you prefer: peace with full recognition of the rights of the Palestinian people, or martyrdom?
W:: Martyrdom. (Anchor nods with obvious satisfaction). I will enjoy all my rights after martyrdom. We will not be children for ever.
Q: Good, Yousra, do you agree?
Yousra (11 years old): Martyrdom is clearly good (sweet), because we want the next world, not this one, and because we will benefit from the next world, not this one. This is why Palestinian youngsters are different from other youngsters. Palestinian youngsters are hot-blooded and they choose martyrdom, because they are Palestinians. The children of Palestine have adopted the idea of martyrdom because it is very good to die a martyr's death. Every, say, 12-year-old Palestinian child prays: "Please, Allah, grant me martyrdom."
Q: You spoke highly of martyrdom. Do you still think that becoming a martyr is good?
Walaa (11 years old): Martyrdom is very, very beautiful. Everybody wishes to become a martyr. What can be better than going to heaven?
Q: What would you prefer: peace with full recognition of the rights of the Palestinian people, or martyrdom?
W:: Martyrdom. (Anchor nods with obvious satisfaction). I will enjoy all my rights after martyrdom. We will not be children for ever.
Q: Good, Yousra, do you agree?
Yousra (11 years old): Martyrdom is clearly good (sweet), because we want the next world, not this one, and because we will benefit from the next world, not this one. This is why Palestinian youngsters are different from other youngsters. Palestinian youngsters are hot-blooded and they choose martyrdom, because they are Palestinians. The children of Palestine have adopted the idea of martyrdom because it is very good to die a martyr's death. Every, say, 12-year-old Palestinian child prays: "Please, Allah, grant me martyrdom."
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Religion of Peace Kills 73-year-old Physicist in Dimona
The murder of a distinguished scientist in a shopping mall calls for celebrations in Gaza. It is not unusual to see Reuters sacrificing their professional integrity, ethical standards and neutrality on the altar of terrorist propaganda. 
A Palestinian boy distributes sweets to people in the southern Gaza Strip after a Palestinian suicide bomber blew himself up in southern Israel February 4, 2008. A Palestinian suicide bomber blew himself up and police shot dead his accomplice in an attack in a shopping centre in southern Israel on Monday that killed at least one Israeli, emergency services said. REUTERS/Mohammed Salem (GAZA)
An Israeli man injured in a suicide bombing is brought to the hospital in Beersheba, southern Israel, Monday, Feb. 4, 2008. A suicide bomber on Monday blew himself up in Dimona, the southern town that houses Israel's secretive nuclear reactor, killing at least one Israeli and wounding six, one critically, Israeli authorities said. Police said they killed a second attacker before he had a chance to detonate his explosives belt. (AP Photo/Diego Mitelberg)
A Palestinian boy distributes sweets to people in the southern Gaza Strip after a Palestinian suicide bomber blew himself up in southern Israel February 4, 2008. A Palestinian suicide bomber blew himself up and police shot dead his accomplice in an attack in a shopping centre in southern Israel on Monday that killed at least one Israeli, emergency services said. REUTERS/Mohammed Salem (GAZA) An Israeli man injured in a suicide bombing is brought to the hospital in Beersheba, southern Israel, Monday, Feb. 4, 2008. A suicide bomber on Monday blew himself up in Dimona, the southern town that houses Israel's secretive nuclear reactor, killing at least one Israeli and wounding six, one critically, Israeli authorities said. Police said they killed a second attacker before he had a chance to detonate his explosives belt. (AP Photo/Diego Mitelberg)For a supposedly starving people, it is amazing how quickly Palestinians can produce sweets and candy to celebrate death and injury inflicted on innocent civilians by their suicide bombers. The saintly Poles who saved my family during the Holocaust would have been shot dead by the Germans for smuggling a rotten cabbage or potato to feed the Jewish mother and child hidden in their cellar, yet we are now being considered worse than the Nazis. Apparently, the bombers, Hamas and PLFP terrorists, were dispatched from the West Bank. Initially there was some confusion over the identity of the perpetrators (yes, several terror groups were competing for the honor), as the spokesman of the al-Aqsa Brigades (military wing of Fatah) released a videotaped message from martyr wannabes, whose pictures did not quite match the mugshot of the failed bomber (the one who in the throes of death was still trying to reach for the belt, leaving the police officers at the scene no choice but to put enough rounds in his head to neutralize him). This however did not deter the shameless members of the media from rushing to Gaza to immortalize weeping and sobbing relatives (mostly females hiding behind their veils) holding pictures of the vile monsters as young children. I wonder whether a correction would be coming soon, if at all. Not to mention the practically lack of coverage of the 47 injured and their evacuation. Injured Jews don't make the news. Tearful relatives of psychopathic terrorists do.
In any case, the wounded bomber was initially taken for a victim of the attack (and although I mourn the loss of an innocent lady and worry over the fate of her mortally wounded husband and the other victims - such as a 42-year old single mom who was left to fend for herself while the wounded terrorist was being dealth with, wondering all the while whether her 11-month-old daughter was safe, as she couldn't quite remember whether she had taken her baby to the mall or not - all innocent people enjoying a lovely sunny morning at the mall, I cannot hide the fact that I rejoice at the thought that he was, honestly), and was given first aid by the medical team who rushed to the scene: a doctor and nurses from a clinic right across the street from the Dimona mall. They were in fact the ones to discover the unexploded bomb strapped to the monster's body, when they unzipped his jacket to look for wounds. Surprised by the suicide vest attached to a portable gas tank, they stepped back. The sapper and the police officer who shot the bomber took extra care not to set off the device themselves, as the brainwashed piece of human waste, severely wounded though he was, kept trying to reach for the detonating switch, in a last effort to secure his 72 virgins in heaven. Well, I hope he gets 72 Arafats, George Habashes, Ahmad Yassins, Rantisis, and other assorted terrorists. Alternatively, 72 camels would do just as nicely.
Revital Biton and Marina Shaban from the World Pizza at the mall recognized the failed bomber, as some ten minutes prior to the attack he walked in for a last cup of coffee. Lucky gals, to think that he could gave chosen to go off in a "blaze of glory" right there and then and taken them along as well.
Anyway, it appears that one of the bombers was depressed: his auntie reveals that the poor "baby" was in pain because his parents' divorce and his father's married another woman. Although he had a job and was able to visit his relatives in Jerusalem quite often (huh? despite the closures and the roadblocks and the JOOOOOS slowly but surely isolating the West Bank residents, oppressing them, and generally murdering them and trying to get them to leave their ancestral home, and villages and destroyed olive tree groves? I am in shock!!!), if I am to understand correctly, he could think of no better cure for his depression than to blow himself up among Jews, as befits a normal Hammas supporter yearning to make it to jihadi heaven.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Oooops, I did it again and again
Last night's news almost had me pity the poor poor children of Gaza, forced to burn their books and notebooks to avoid freezing to death because our evil army cut fuel supplies to Gaza. We were once again treated (by Israeli TV, not some BBC, CNN or other terror supporting news agency, no sir, by our own) to heart breaking footage of Gaza in the dark, Gaza drowned by the noise of the generators (only a lucky few can avail themselves thereof), Gaza this, Gaza that and the other thing. But my pity was short lived and proven quite unnecessary, because tonight's news sounded more optimistic: Gaza is no longer bankrupt! Gaza has pulled itself out of its bitter predicament: Gaza has fuel, electricity, food, medicine, can treat its own sick, can teach its own aspiring academics. Gaza can afford to import explosives:
2 tons of explosives found amongst humanitarian aid en route to Gaza
Terror groups take advantage of Israeli permit allowing humanitarian goods into impoverished Gaza Strip, attempt to smuggle two tons of fertilizer in truck transporting aid in second such incident this week.
Three weeks ago potassium nitrate was being passed as sugar. Six and a half tons of it, allegedly provided by the European Union.
Yes, poor Gazan kids. What with the evil Yahood oppressing them and such and denying them their inalienable rights to rocket science, fireworks and suicide bombing. But look on the bright side, perhaps those kids burning books might not need their books any more, after armed thugs practically destroyed a private American school: "We don't need no education..." gains a whole new meaning in Gaza. So does "our daily bread": Allah, you're listening? Forget about our daily bread. Give us our daily explosives, you hear?"
2 tons of explosives found amongst humanitarian aid en route to Gaza
Terror groups take advantage of Israeli permit allowing humanitarian goods into impoverished Gaza Strip, attempt to smuggle two tons of fertilizer in truck transporting aid in second such incident this week.
Three weeks ago potassium nitrate was being passed as sugar. Six and a half tons of it, allegedly provided by the European Union.Yes, poor Gazan kids. What with the evil Yahood oppressing them and such and denying them their inalienable rights to rocket science, fireworks and suicide bombing. But look on the bright side, perhaps those kids burning books might not need their books any more, after armed thugs practically destroyed a private American school: "We don't need no education..." gains a whole new meaning in Gaza. So does "our daily bread": Allah, you're listening? Forget about our daily bread. Give us our daily explosives, you hear?"
I hear Hamas is condemned the attack. I say Hamas did it. Why? I suspect the American owner wouldn't let them shoot mortars (please watch video) at Israel from the premises, fearing IAF retaliation. "Oh, yeah?" said Hamas, "you think WE can't retaliate?"
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
I wanted my unborn son to be a shaheed
Like I said, Jewish mothers want their sons to be doctors, lawyers, engineers, painters, pianists, or something like that when they grow up. I thought Palestinian mothers wanted their sons to be terrorists or suicide bombers when they grow up. I was wrong: they don't want their children to grow up. In fact they don't want them to be born at all. There is no way, no way we did to them what the Nazis did to us, yet we would never send our children, mothers or ourselves to kill innocent civilians in Germany. There is something very wrong with the Palestinians, something bordering on severe mental disease. Plus they lie through their teeth like there is no tomorrow. Please watch out for: physicians in Gaza issue fake medical documents for human bombs. Nursing staff in Ramallah hospital assist and support terrorist activities. Arabs residing in Jerusalem and Beer-Sheva are willing to assist suicide bombers. The two devils' whores never said anything about being relieved that they didn't kill Israelis, civilian or military.
Shimon Iphargan
Maariv, June 29, 2007
Fatma Zeck, a 39-year-old mother of eight, and pregnant with her ninth child, lives in Sajjaiyah, Gaza. Her niece, Roda Habib is 30 years old and a mother of four. They were on their way to a double suicide bombing in Israel. They left Gaza for Ramallah where suicide belts would be waiting for them. Then they were to blow themselves up in Tel-Aviv and Netanya, respectively.
Luckily the Shabak arrested them at the Erez crossing, in the nick of time. Suit has been filed against them in the Beer-Sheva District Court.
Zeck and Habib and are not the first Islamic Jihad women activists to be apprehended minutes before the carnage. The transcript of their interrogation provides a good insight into the reasons why Gaza women, married with children, are eager to sacrifice themselves for the Palestinian struggle. In addition, the two also revealed how they forged medical documents to gain passage into Israel, and also how they recruited other suicide bombers, mainly female students.
"Two months ago, my son Mahmoud came to me and told me that he wanted to martyr himself in Israel", Zeck told the police and the Shabak. He was planning to infiltrate Israel from the Sinai. He drilled crawling and other military skills. At the same time a student from Zeitoun told me she was interested in becoming a suicide bomber in Israel. I referred her to one of the Islamic Jihad activists. He took pictures of her and promised to get back to her. I was planning to blow myself up 4-5 months ago. I wanted to kill Jews as allah ordered us, that is by sacrificing myself to allah. I contacted Hisham al-Ajla from Sajjaiya, who is in charge of Islamic Jihad public relations in Gaza. I had met him four years earlier, when I worked in the Islamic Jihad employment office for women in Gaza. He is a friend of Mahmoud. My niece Roda also wanted commit a suicide bombing in Israel. Four months ago I took Roda to see a doctor whose name I forget, so he could give us letters to enter Israel. We asked the doctor to help us blow ourselves up. We sent the letters to the authorities and obtained entry permits via the Erez crossing for medical treatment. Then we met with Mahmoud and Hisham. Hisham videotaped me and Roda, separately and together, holding hand grenades, shotguns and korans. We recited our last will in front of the camera, we said our names and declared that we wanted to martyr ourselves. Then we went home."
Zeck goes on to say how Islamic Jihad handlers trained her and her niece for the "operation": "Hisham told me about two months ago that I have to learn how to shoot, so that I won't be afraid. I practiced on an M-16 rifle and a Kalashnikov. He also showed me how to assemble and dismantle them. Roda and I also learned how to shoot rockets. Then Abu-Sajjad showed us how to detonate an explosives belt. He told us that the belt looks like a zipper vest. He had already sent a suicide bomber into Israel, but he failed because he didn't know how to detonate it. He also said that the vests were made of cotton, they were very light and easy to put on and take off. He showed us how it was wired, and how to connect the wires in order to detonate it. We were to look at the "on" and "off" buttons. He advised us to wear long sleeved dresses, so that the wires wouldn't show. Then he videotaped us again, and I urged the people of Gaza, Hamas and Fatah, to stop killing one another, to unite and behave like brothers. There was a young man there, Abu-Abdallah. He said that if we had any trouble with the vests, his relatives in Jerusalem would help us ready ourselves for the bombing. Abu-Sajjad instructed us to say we were going to Ram-el-Arabiyah hospital in Ramallah, where two nurses (male and female) would assist us. Also a business man, whose name I don't know, was to take us to a hotel after we did some x-rays. The plan was that the business man would drive us to where we would blow ourselves up.
Abu-Sajjad said we didn't need to know the names of those who were to assist us. When we left for the Erez crossing, I put a small prayer book in my purse along with some money and some clothes. After that we were arrested by the Shabak. They ordered us to take our clothes off and to wear clothes that they gave us. They treated us well. We told them the whole truth."
Zeck told the investigators that she came up with the idea of the double bombing, in Tel-Aviv and Netanya, at the entrance to a shopping mall, in a restaurant or a soldiers' hitchhike post. The operators gave the two women 3,000 NIS (~700 USD) for food and taxi fare. She also revealed how the Islamic Jihad appointed her head (princess) of the propaganda (preaching) committee of the organization. The investigators asked Zeck whether she wanted an abortion, so as not to be delivered as a prisoner. Zeck: "My friend and I wanted to go to heaven as soon as possible. There is nothing more for us in this world. When my son is born, he will also be a shaheed."
Habib, the second terrorist, admits that she dreamt of commiting a suicide bombing in Israel for a long time, because of Israeli actions against the residents of Gaza: "Fatma called and told me that Abu-Sajjad agreed to dispatch me on a suicide mission in Israel. My cover for gaining entry into Israel was the need to undergo urgent surgery in the Ramallah hospital. He took me to a doctor friend of his who drew up forged documents. The next day my aunt Fatma and I received SIM cards from the activists, so that we could call when we reached the hospital. Abu-Sajjad said that someone was going to meet us at the hospital, give us the vests, and explain to us once again how to detonate them. I took my kuran so I could pray on the way. I agreed to blow myself up on behalf of the shaheeds and prisoners held in Israeli jails. Abu-Sajjad also told us that another girl he had sent to Israel had failed and had to return to Gaza. Fatma is a coordinator between the Islamic Jihad terror wing and the girls willing to martyr themselves. A 20-year-old mother of a little child volunteered for a suicide mission, but the organization rejected her because she was too young. Abu-Sajjad assured us that in case we failed, we would be able to return to Gaza without any problem. My husband wouldn't hear about the bombing. He pleaded with me to stay home, for the sake of the children, but I told him I my mind was made up."
Habib told the investigators that she was instructed to travel to Beer-Sheva where someone would be waiting with the vests: "Abu-Abdallah's relatives in Beer-Sheva were willing to assist suicide bombers, and they would give us the vests. Abu-Sajjad claimed responsibility for the Eilat bakery bombing where three people were killed in a suicide bombing. Fatma and I were instructed to blow ourselves up in a restaurant, market, cafe, bus stop, or wherever we saw crowds of Jews. Fatma suggested we go to Tel-Aviv, because there would be many soldiers. Fatma's son wanted to shoot at soldiers near the Sinai. Abu-Abdallah instructed us to be faithful to the organization and not divulge secrets of te organization or betray our handlers. He explained that the vests contained liquid explosives and ball bearings and promised that we would go to heaven. We had to blow ourselves in different locations. Our operator had to decide which of us was to go first."
During the interrogation, the two said they regretted their deeds.
Habib: "The members of the organization made cynical use of us. I am sorry about what happened".
Zeck: "When in court I asked the judges to forgive me for what I did and I thank allah that I am alive. I made a big mistake. I am the one to blame. I am very happy that my niece and I are alive and that our children are not motherless."
How humane do I have to be? A couple of hundred of Palestinians are stranded in the Erez crossing sleeve or tunnel. They want Israel to let them travel to Ramallah. How? How? Young Palestinian men = terrorists.
Palestinian women (even pregnant ones) = terrorists
Palestinian children = we all saw their kindergarten horror shows.
Palestinians working for Doctors without Borders = terrorists.
Palestinian doctors and nurses = terrorists.
Why should we let them travel to Ramallah? So they can pick up explosives vests and blow themselves up in Israel?
Shimon Iphargan
Maariv, June 29, 2007
Fatma Zeck, a 39-year-old mother of eight, and pregnant with her ninth child, lives in Sajjaiyah, Gaza. Her niece, Roda Habib is 30 years old and a mother of four. They were on their way to a double suicide bombing in Israel. They left Gaza for Ramallah where suicide belts would be waiting for them. Then they were to blow themselves up in Tel-Aviv and Netanya, respectively.
Luckily the Shabak arrested them at the Erez crossing, in the nick of time. Suit has been filed against them in the Beer-Sheva District Court.
Zeck and Habib and are not the first Islamic Jihad women activists to be apprehended minutes before the carnage. The transcript of their interrogation provides a good insight into the reasons why Gaza women, married with children, are eager to sacrifice themselves for the Palestinian struggle. In addition, the two also revealed how they forged medical documents to gain passage into Israel, and also how they recruited other suicide bombers, mainly female students.
"Two months ago, my son Mahmoud came to me and told me that he wanted to martyr himself in Israel", Zeck told the police and the Shabak. He was planning to infiltrate Israel from the Sinai. He drilled crawling and other military skills. At the same time a student from Zeitoun told me she was interested in becoming a suicide bomber in Israel. I referred her to one of the Islamic Jihad activists. He took pictures of her and promised to get back to her. I was planning to blow myself up 4-5 months ago. I wanted to kill Jews as allah ordered us, that is by sacrificing myself to allah. I contacted Hisham al-Ajla from Sajjaiya, who is in charge of Islamic Jihad public relations in Gaza. I had met him four years earlier, when I worked in the Islamic Jihad employment office for women in Gaza. He is a friend of Mahmoud. My niece Roda also wanted commit a suicide bombing in Israel. Four months ago I took Roda to see a doctor whose name I forget, so he could give us letters to enter Israel. We asked the doctor to help us blow ourselves up. We sent the letters to the authorities and obtained entry permits via the Erez crossing for medical treatment. Then we met with Mahmoud and Hisham. Hisham videotaped me and Roda, separately and together, holding hand grenades, shotguns and korans. We recited our last will in front of the camera, we said our names and declared that we wanted to martyr ourselves. Then we went home."
Zeck goes on to say how Islamic Jihad handlers trained her and her niece for the "operation": "Hisham told me about two months ago that I have to learn how to shoot, so that I won't be afraid. I practiced on an M-16 rifle and a Kalashnikov. He also showed me how to assemble and dismantle them. Roda and I also learned how to shoot rockets. Then Abu-Sajjad showed us how to detonate an explosives belt. He told us that the belt looks like a zipper vest. He had already sent a suicide bomber into Israel, but he failed because he didn't know how to detonate it. He also said that the vests were made of cotton, they were very light and easy to put on and take off. He showed us how it was wired, and how to connect the wires in order to detonate it. We were to look at the "on" and "off" buttons. He advised us to wear long sleeved dresses, so that the wires wouldn't show. Then he videotaped us again, and I urged the people of Gaza, Hamas and Fatah, to stop killing one another, to unite and behave like brothers. There was a young man there, Abu-Abdallah. He said that if we had any trouble with the vests, his relatives in Jerusalem would help us ready ourselves for the bombing. Abu-Sajjad instructed us to say we were going to Ram-el-Arabiyah hospital in Ramallah, where two nurses (male and female) would assist us. Also a business man, whose name I don't know, was to take us to a hotel after we did some x-rays. The plan was that the business man would drive us to where we would blow ourselves up.
Abu-Sajjad said we didn't need to know the names of those who were to assist us. When we left for the Erez crossing, I put a small prayer book in my purse along with some money and some clothes. After that we were arrested by the Shabak. They ordered us to take our clothes off and to wear clothes that they gave us. They treated us well. We told them the whole truth."
Zeck told the investigators that she came up with the idea of the double bombing, in Tel-Aviv and Netanya, at the entrance to a shopping mall, in a restaurant or a soldiers' hitchhike post. The operators gave the two women 3,000 NIS (~700 USD) for food and taxi fare. She also revealed how the Islamic Jihad appointed her head (princess) of the propaganda (preaching) committee of the organization. The investigators asked Zeck whether she wanted an abortion, so as not to be delivered as a prisoner. Zeck: "My friend and I wanted to go to heaven as soon as possible. There is nothing more for us in this world. When my son is born, he will also be a shaheed."
Habib, the second terrorist, admits that she dreamt of commiting a suicide bombing in Israel for a long time, because of Israeli actions against the residents of Gaza: "Fatma called and told me that Abu-Sajjad agreed to dispatch me on a suicide mission in Israel. My cover for gaining entry into Israel was the need to undergo urgent surgery in the Ramallah hospital. He took me to a doctor friend of his who drew up forged documents. The next day my aunt Fatma and I received SIM cards from the activists, so that we could call when we reached the hospital. Abu-Sajjad said that someone was going to meet us at the hospital, give us the vests, and explain to us once again how to detonate them. I took my kuran so I could pray on the way. I agreed to blow myself up on behalf of the shaheeds and prisoners held in Israeli jails. Abu-Sajjad also told us that another girl he had sent to Israel had failed and had to return to Gaza. Fatma is a coordinator between the Islamic Jihad terror wing and the girls willing to martyr themselves. A 20-year-old mother of a little child volunteered for a suicide mission, but the organization rejected her because she was too young. Abu-Sajjad assured us that in case we failed, we would be able to return to Gaza without any problem. My husband wouldn't hear about the bombing. He pleaded with me to stay home, for the sake of the children, but I told him I my mind was made up."
Habib told the investigators that she was instructed to travel to Beer-Sheva where someone would be waiting with the vests: "Abu-Abdallah's relatives in Beer-Sheva were willing to assist suicide bombers, and they would give us the vests. Abu-Sajjad claimed responsibility for the Eilat bakery bombing where three people were killed in a suicide bombing. Fatma and I were instructed to blow ourselves up in a restaurant, market, cafe, bus stop, or wherever we saw crowds of Jews. Fatma suggested we go to Tel-Aviv, because there would be many soldiers. Fatma's son wanted to shoot at soldiers near the Sinai. Abu-Abdallah instructed us to be faithful to the organization and not divulge secrets of te organization or betray our handlers. He explained that the vests contained liquid explosives and ball bearings and promised that we would go to heaven. We had to blow ourselves in different locations. Our operator had to decide which of us was to go first."
During the interrogation, the two said they regretted their deeds.
Habib: "The members of the organization made cynical use of us. I am sorry about what happened".
Zeck: "When in court I asked the judges to forgive me for what I did and I thank allah that I am alive. I made a big mistake. I am the one to blame. I am very happy that my niece and I are alive and that our children are not motherless."
How humane do I have to be? A couple of hundred of Palestinians are stranded in the Erez crossing sleeve or tunnel. They want Israel to let them travel to Ramallah. How? How? Young Palestinian men = terrorists.
Palestinian women (even pregnant ones) = terrorists
Palestinian children = we all saw their kindergarten horror shows.
Palestinians working for Doctors without Borders = terrorists.
Palestinian doctors and nurses = terrorists.
Why should we let them travel to Ramallah? So they can pick up explosives vests and blow themselves up in Israel?
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
World Cancer
Ben-Dror Yemini
Ma'ariv, May 25, 2007
Many a newspaper editor around the world is having a hard time trying to figure out how to present the images pouring in from the Middle East. How to explain the "heavy shelling of militant strongholds". How to explain the dismal reality revealed by every picture: thousands of Palestinian refugees - yes, they are refugees once again - fleeing their refugee camp because of the bombardment. This is a very difficult task, because the same sentence, the same headline, the same news piece, must justify somehow these "hard measures" taken again the inhabitants of those refugee camps, i.e. turning homes into piles of rubble and forcing men and women to pack their belongings and run for their lives.
I have no doubt that the legions of enlightened leftist liberal editors are facing a difficult task these days. Up until a few days ago everything was neatly black and white. If there are piles of rubble as a result of shelling, and if the Palestinians are moaning and groaning, there's the habitual culprit: Israel. Only Israel, always Israel. Except a few days ago, the International Herald Tribune front page sported the usual picture of a Palestinian woman weeping inside the remains of her Palestinian home after it was destroyed by a wicked Israeli attack (much like this one). Yes, the favorite deceiving picture. Those who failed to read the small font caption, and I guess the majority of readers did fail, will never know that in fact the woman was weeping due to the reaction to a Qassam salvo. A reaction to the Israeli homes that have been reduced to piles of rubble. A reaction to the thousands of Israelis who have become refugees. Their photographs - people and homes - never make any page of the major newspapers. Only the Israeli reaction gets published. Just like the spontaneous generation, Israelis suddenly fancy destroying Palestinian homes. A peculiar kind of delight favored by a state that is gradually being perceived by most Westerners as "the greatest danger to peace on earth". Except this perception has been generated by an industry of lies, not by reality.
Except now the plot is getting thicker. The long rows of refugees seen during the past days and weeks and the scores of bodies they left behind are Palestinians alright. But they are not from Gaza. And now this is becoming really confusing. Because at long last, on prime time, money time, the Palestinians are involved in two conflicts: in Gaza and in Naher-el-Bared, a refugee camp close to Tripoli, Lebanon. In both instances, messengers of the islamist cancer are the cause of continuous suffering. In both cases those who get hurt must react. Therefore, surprise, surprise! Despite the incessant rocket salvos raining on Israel, despite thousands of Israeli refugees, our response is moderate and restrained. Very restrained, even. In Lebanon, on the other hand, where there are no Lebanese refugees, where state sovereignty is not being threatened, where there is no damage to write home about, in Lebanon the response is brutal. Civilian centers are being shelled just because a handful of terrorists have taken refuge inside. Many pay the price for the crimes of few. Houses turn to dust. Civilians become refugees.
We feel no pleasure seeing so many Palestinians suffer. But we have the right to remind everyone that this the islamist cancer at work, a cancer that cancer knows no boundaries. Let us not forget that the vast majority of victims of this islamist cancer are Muslims themselves.
And the West? The industry of lies will keep pointing its finger at Israel. Israel must be scapegoated somehow. Once it was the Jew responsible for all the evils in the world. Now the onus is on the State of Israel. Does it matter that radical islam preceded Zionism and is in no way connected to Israel? Make no mistake, anti-semites never let facts get in their way. Neither do those who want to destroy Israel.
It cannot be empahsized strongly enough: Muslims are the majority of victims caused by the islamist cancer. Most Muslims, according to every conceivable study, oppose radical islam. But they tend to understand its reasons, an even justify its actions sometimes. Just like their friends in the academia, deceiving mass media and industry of lies, both in the Arab world and in the West. Take for instance the Muslim communities across the USA - their live better than any other Muslims in the world. They have integrated, they have good incomes, yet 60% of them don't believe that Muslims were behind 9/11. And if not Muslims, then it is not hard to guess whodunit. Needless to say how these crazy opinions are born.
The industry of lies can be proud of itself, no doubt. The enlightened liberal media may not have been prepared for this result, but they are responsible for it. They are the wheels that set it in motion.
Ma'ariv, May 25, 2007
Many a newspaper editor around the world is having a hard time trying to figure out how to present the images pouring in from the Middle East. How to explain the "heavy shelling of militant strongholds". How to explain the dismal reality revealed by every picture: thousands of Palestinian refugees - yes, they are refugees once again - fleeing their refugee camp because of the bombardment. This is a very difficult task, because the same sentence, the same headline, the same news piece, must justify somehow these "hard measures" taken again the inhabitants of those refugee camps, i.e. turning homes into piles of rubble and forcing men and women to pack their belongings and run for their lives.
I have no doubt that the legions of enlightened leftist liberal editors are facing a difficult task these days. Up until a few days ago everything was neatly black and white. If there are piles of rubble as a result of shelling, and if the Palestinians are moaning and groaning, there's the habitual culprit: Israel. Only Israel, always Israel. Except a few days ago, the International Herald Tribune front page sported the usual picture of a Palestinian woman weeping inside the remains of her Palestinian home after it was destroyed by a wicked Israeli attack (much like this one). Yes, the favorite deceiving picture. Those who failed to read the small font caption, and I guess the majority of readers did fail, will never know that in fact the woman was weeping due to the reaction to a Qassam salvo. A reaction to the Israeli homes that have been reduced to piles of rubble. A reaction to the thousands of Israelis who have become refugees. Their photographs - people and homes - never make any page of the major newspapers. Only the Israeli reaction gets published. Just like the spontaneous generation, Israelis suddenly fancy destroying Palestinian homes. A peculiar kind of delight favored by a state that is gradually being perceived by most Westerners as "the greatest danger to peace on earth". Except this perception has been generated by an industry of lies, not by reality.Except now the plot is getting thicker. The long rows of refugees seen during the past days and weeks and the scores of bodies they left behind are Palestinians alright. But they are not from Gaza. And now this is becoming really confusing. Because at long last, on prime time, money time, the Palestinians are involved in two conflicts: in Gaza and in Naher-el-Bared, a refugee camp close to Tripoli, Lebanon. In both instances, messengers of the islamist cancer are the cause of continuous suffering. In both cases those who get hurt must react. Therefore, surprise, surprise! Despite the incessant rocket salvos raining on Israel, despite thousands of Israeli refugees, our response is moderate and restrained. Very restrained, even. In Lebanon, on the other hand, where there are no Lebanese refugees, where state sovereignty is not being threatened, where there is no damage to write home about, in Lebanon the response is brutal. Civilian centers are being shelled just because a handful of terrorists have taken refuge inside. Many pay the price for the crimes of few. Houses turn to dust. Civilians become refugees.
We feel no pleasure seeing so many Palestinians suffer. But we have the right to remind everyone that this the islamist cancer at work, a cancer that cancer knows no boundaries. Let us not forget that the vast majority of victims of this islamist cancer are Muslims themselves.
And the West? The industry of lies will keep pointing its finger at Israel. Israel must be scapegoated somehow. Once it was the Jew responsible for all the evils in the world. Now the onus is on the State of Israel. Does it matter that radical islam preceded Zionism and is in no way connected to Israel? Make no mistake, anti-semites never let facts get in their way. Neither do those who want to destroy Israel.
It cannot be empahsized strongly enough: Muslims are the majority of victims caused by the islamist cancer. Most Muslims, according to every conceivable study, oppose radical islam. But they tend to understand its reasons, an even justify its actions sometimes. Just like their friends in the academia, deceiving mass media and industry of lies, both in the Arab world and in the West. Take for instance the Muslim communities across the USA - their live better than any other Muslims in the world. They have integrated, they have good incomes, yet 60% of them don't believe that Muslims were behind 9/11. And if not Muslims, then it is not hard to guess whodunit. Needless to say how these crazy opinions are born.
The industry of lies can be proud of itself, no doubt. The enlightened liberal media may not have been prepared for this result, but they are responsible for it. They are the wheels that set it in motion.
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