Brilliant piece of writing from Elder of Ziyon:
JERUSALEM, December 26 (FMN) - The UN today stepped up its pressure on the Arab world to send humanitarian aid to the besieged residents of Sderot, suffering under years of constant rocket bombardment from Iranian-backed Arabs.
"The brave people of the Negev are being forced out of their homes, in what can only be called ethnic cleansing," stated UN General Assembly President Miguel d'Escoto Brockmann. "This slow genocide is being ignored by the world at large, and the Arab world is responsible.
"The Arab world have been enforcing a siege on Israel for over sixty years. Basic humanitarian items are not allowed into Israel from most Arab countries, and Israel is likewise banned from selling its own goods to its neighboring states, hurting the economy of the tiny nation."
Legally, Israel is suffering under occupation, as the Arab states control all of Israel's land borders," stated Brockmann. "In addition, there are hundreds of Arab settlements in Israel itself, which have been the major obstacle to peace for decades."
"The Arab treatment of Jews and Israelis can only be described as a form of apartheid," said former US president Jimmy Carter as he visited Ashkelon in a solidarity visit. "Israel, one of the most crowded nations in the world, has been forced to give more and more land to the expansionist Arabs over the past decades, and it gets nothing in return. Peace requires full normalization, and I am disappointed that even Egypt and Jordan continue to incite against Jewish national self-determination."
"Israel has turned into an open-air concentration camp," asserted peace activist Lauren Booth last month. "The Israeli economy is being constrained by the Arab boycott of Israel, which is still largely in force. The occasional 'peace' treaties and tiny trickle of trade is just a facade by the Arab world meant to cover up their humanitarian crimes against the peaceful people of Israel and their aims to shrink Israel's land area into nothingness."
While all of Israel suffers from the Arab blockade, it is the residents of Sderot who are suffering the most lately from indiscriminate rocket attacks by the Iranian-funded Arabs of Gaza.
UN Human Rights investigator Richard Falk called the rocket attacks "a crime against humanity" and demanded that "the Arab states, flush with oil money, must provide Sderot residents with basic needs, like rocket shelters, psychologists and medical professionals."
"For sixty years, the Arab nations have conspired to block Jews from being able to return to their land. They have started overt and covert wars against the only Jewish state. The few Jews who remain in Arab countries suffer from official and unofficial discrimination.
"Hundreds of resolutions against the systematic Arab attempts to destroy Israel have been ignored by these expansionist states, and Israel remains besieged even after so many years. How long will the world remain silent?"
Academics such as John Mearsheimer and Stephen Walt have also noted that world opinion tends to support the so-called "Arab Lobby" even as the genocidal intent of the Arab world is explicitly stated in their media and mosques. "The Arab influence on world governments is directly proportional to power of the Arab economy, which influences businesses and politicians in ways that can only be described as insidious. As a direct result, simple moral values become muddled as the Arab world works hard to influence the agendas of Western nations, to remarkable success," stated Walt in a lecture in Munich last Sunday.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Separated at birth
At the request of one my rare visitors, I give you the Iguanarafart (begging forgiveness from all the iguanas, snakes and crocodiles, and all the rest of God's beautiful and innocent creatures).
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
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Saturday, November 01, 2008
National Poet or Cannibal?
Mahmoud Darwish has been reunited with his forefathers. He left a legacy of hatred, bitterness and nightmarish visions of cannibalism. Take, e.g., his poem "Identity Card":
I do not hate people
Nor do I encroach
But if I become hungry
The occupier's flesh will be my food
Beware..
Beware..
Of my hunger,
Of my anger!
It seems that he became hungry (perhaps even hungry and angry), ate the occupier's flesh and choked on the occupier's bone. Oh dear, oh dear! Or maybe he succumbed to the bitterness and hatred gnawing away at his heart. He was 67-years-old. He fled Israel as a young man. Had he chosen to stay in Israel, he might have benefited from the ever improved longevity our beleaguered little country is blessed with. Other, no less (perhaps even a tad bit more) respectable, Arab intellectuals stayed put under the "occupier", and despite claims of genocide, ethnic cleansing, systematic, indiscriminate yada yada, managed to live to a ripe old age: e.g. Emile Habibi, who died in 1996 at the age of 76, or 86-years-old Tawfik Toubi, may he live to be 120.
However, let it be known, that the national poet of Palestine, Le poète de la résistance, the voice of the Palestinian whoryssey, opened his identity card poem with these controversial lines: "Record! I am an Arab!" Good grief! Isn't this proof from the oracle's mouth that Palestinians are Arabs and that all the brouhaha around their being the descendants of the ancient peoples of Canaan (some even go as far as to claim that they are in fact the descendants of the Israelites, perish the thought!) is just another lie aimed at denying us our right to live in the land of our forefathers? Not only that, but lo and behold, the honorable Independent in the UK quotes literary editor Iyad Rajoub that by 1996, Darwish "was no longer the poet of resistance, he was soft, he was living a luxurious life. I was shocked. I could not imagine that he was the one who had written 'Record! I am an Arab'." Much like Suha Arafat living la vida loca to the tune of hundreds of thousands of American dollars a month.
The other honorable mouthpiece in the UK, the Guardian (of anti-semitism and anti-Zionism, no doubt) also publishes a tearjerker for the intellectual who grew up in a house where "there were no books." But most of all, the Guardian and other mourners claim that Darwish was a "poet, author and politician who helped to forge a Palestinian consciousness after the six-day war in 1967".
Thus, while distinguished scholars cannot agree whether Jewish history in the Land of Israel can be traced back to the 7th century BCE or the 13th century BCE or in between, Palestinians, the "rightful owners of the land", are still arguing whether their national aspirations go back to 1919 (well, yes, barely 90 years ago), when the First Palestinian National Congress was held in Jerusalem, demanding an independent Palestinian government in federation with Syria and rejecting Zionist political claims, or 1948 (The Creation of the State of Israel) or 1967, the Six Day War. Their claims are legitimate, we are usurpers, occupiers. All within the grand span of 90 years. I mean, what is 2,500 – 3,500 years compared to 90? Or even better, compared to 40, as the mighty Guardian itself proclaims. Darwish helped forge a Palestinian consciousness after the Six-Day War. I suppose that has nothing to do with the fact that he studied in Moscow for some time (as did Abu Mazen, by the way) and were undoubtedly recruited and trained by the KGB and also here.
So I guess, yeah, one has to admit The Guardian got it right this time. The continuing humiliation of the Arab puppets and their Soviet handlers by a tiny (but top notch) Hebrew army helped forge (make that invent) the Palestinian consciousness, which has brought more than enough misery to the Palestinian themselves, seeing as they are right now engaging in savage tribal bloodshed.
As one Arab whose name escapes me, but who is basically in charge of the Moslem Holy sites in Israel, put it: the Temple Mount mosques became precious for all the 1.5 billion Moslems worldwide as soon as Israel occupied Jerusalem in June 1967. Why? you may well ask. Well, because they no longer had access to it, except those who do have access to it. Did it mean anything to them before 1967? Not much, since one has never heard of a compulsory pilgrimage to Jerusalem for Moslems, such as the Hajj to Mecca. Besides, they didn't care much for the mosques as weeds were growing all over the compound at the turn of the century. "As long as you are mine you can rot into oblivion, but you become the apple of my eye the minute you fall into the dirty hands of the invading Zionist gangs." Mind you, there was no road to write home about from Yaffo to Jerusalem until the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869. The "road" was repaired to allow the Austrian Emperor his pilgrimage to Jerusalem en route to Suez for the official opening ceremony of the Canal. One might think that the Moslem rulers of the land (the Ottoman Empire), having the best interests of the "fidels" at heart, would have maintained some kind of thoroughfare to this the third holy place in Islam. One might, but then one would be wrong. The only way to travel from Yaffo to Jerusalem was on horse or camel back (or maybe donkey). The Austrian Emperor and his companions were expecting to travel by coach.
Anyways, in Palestinian parlance "occupier" has nothing whatsoever to do with the Six-Day War. The occupied territories are not Judea, Samaria and Gaza (which has become un-occupied in the mean time). Nope, what they mean is the Yahood, the Jewish State. According to sixth grade history textbooks published by the PA (PLO) - "The Modern History of Palestine" – the Green Line is an imaginary line which separates between lands occupied before 1967 and those occupied thereafter (could it be that this is what Yuli Tamir meant when she suggested teaching about the Green Line to Israeli students?
The Adoration of a Racist
Dan Margalit
August 11, 2008
Instead of mourning the loss of our national sovereignty on Tisha b'Av, the people of Zion were fussing over the coffin of Mahmoud Darwish, the Palestinian national poet, expressing their adoration for he who repeatedly called for the expulsion of the Jewish people from the Land of Israel and Judea: "Go away and taken the bones of your dead with you!". A Judenrein land with Judenrein graveyards. Ahmadinejad turned poet. A sort of "Nakba" to be visited on the Jews in Hebrew.
In order to remove all doubt: I could have agreed to the Israelis celebrating the poet of the enemy if he had raised the Palestinian flag and called the young men of his country to fight for their sovereignty, culture and even separatism. I could have even accepted his pan-Arabism. But Darwish supported the expulsion of an entire nation. Had he been a Jew and written the same words in Hebrew, he would have been branded a war criminal, a racist and a fascist.
Dr. Rafi Kishon reminded me the other day that the Ministry of Education tried to include some of Darwish's poetry in our textbooks, even before they even considered recommending a single line written by his own father, Ephraim Kishon. This evil spirit found a way to express itself as well.
It is part of our collapsing method of education for values. Ehud Olmert has national feelings, yet his government manages to remove 100 Jewish and Zionist definitions from the civic education curriculum. It readily allows any teacher to choose what to teach. Some teach about "Hear, oh Israel" and about the doctrines of David Ben-Gurion and Ze'ev Jabotinsky, while others teach about the "Nakba" and Darwish.
Democracy on liquidation sale. About a fortnight ago, at the end of Tamuz, Limor Livnat met with Ehud Olmert and Ze'ev Boim because the PM's office rejected the publication of a brochure on Jabotinski's death anniversary on the grounds that it quoted fragments from some of his articles, such as "The Iron Wall". She showed them what was deemed unsuitable for publication by the committee for preserving Jabotinsky's legacy which is subordinated to the PMO (which took Olmert by surprise), but nothing was done to remedy this idiotic blunder.
Still, the government would not allow Darwish to be buried in the Galilee. He will be laid to rest in Ramallah. But the sights and sounds [of the funeral] will not be forgotten too soon. Yesterday Israel went back 100 years in time, to the days of dancing "Oh, how beautiful you are, my beloved" before the landlord in Eastern Europe.
And last but not least, a few points made by Menachem Ben in his article Not Edible, published on August 15, 2008, in the culture supplement of Ma'ariv:
Darwish is lying when he accuses the Israelis of stealing his ancestral orchards and fields. There is no soul searching, no admission of guilt. No mention of the bloodthirsty gangs that started all the wars, beginning with 1948. Such a shame that no Israeli poet should stand up and speak out against this despicable propaganda.
Perhpas, Menachem, but thank heavens for journalists and bloggers.
I do not hate people
Nor do I encroach
But if I become hungry
The occupier's flesh will be my food
Beware..
Beware..
Of my hunger,
Of my anger!
It seems that he became hungry (perhaps even hungry and angry), ate the occupier's flesh and choked on the occupier's bone. Oh dear, oh dear! Or maybe he succumbed to the bitterness and hatred gnawing away at his heart. He was 67-years-old. He fled Israel as a young man. Had he chosen to stay in Israel, he might have benefited from the ever improved longevity our beleaguered little country is blessed with. Other, no less (perhaps even a tad bit more) respectable, Arab intellectuals stayed put under the "occupier", and despite claims of genocide, ethnic cleansing, systematic, indiscriminate yada yada, managed to live to a ripe old age: e.g. Emile Habibi, who died in 1996 at the age of 76, or 86-years-old Tawfik Toubi, may he live to be 120.
However, let it be known, that the national poet of Palestine, Le poète de la résistance, the voice of the Palestinian whoryssey, opened his identity card poem with these controversial lines: "Record! I am an Arab!" Good grief! Isn't this proof from the oracle's mouth that Palestinians are Arabs and that all the brouhaha around their being the descendants of the ancient peoples of Canaan (some even go as far as to claim that they are in fact the descendants of the Israelites, perish the thought!) is just another lie aimed at denying us our right to live in the land of our forefathers? Not only that, but lo and behold, the honorable Independent in the UK quotes literary editor Iyad Rajoub that by 1996, Darwish "was no longer the poet of resistance, he was soft, he was living a luxurious life. I was shocked. I could not imagine that he was the one who had written 'Record! I am an Arab'." Much like Suha Arafat living la vida loca to the tune of hundreds of thousands of American dollars a month.
The other honorable mouthpiece in the UK, the Guardian (of anti-semitism and anti-Zionism, no doubt) also publishes a tearjerker for the intellectual who grew up in a house where "there were no books." But most of all, the Guardian and other mourners claim that Darwish was a "poet, author and politician who helped to forge a Palestinian consciousness after the six-day war in 1967".
Thus, while distinguished scholars cannot agree whether Jewish history in the Land of Israel can be traced back to the 7th century BCE or the 13th century BCE or in between, Palestinians, the "rightful owners of the land", are still arguing whether their national aspirations go back to 1919 (well, yes, barely 90 years ago), when the First Palestinian National Congress was held in Jerusalem, demanding an independent Palestinian government in federation with Syria and rejecting Zionist political claims, or 1948 (The Creation of the State of Israel) or 1967, the Six Day War. Their claims are legitimate, we are usurpers, occupiers. All within the grand span of 90 years. I mean, what is 2,500 – 3,500 years compared to 90? Or even better, compared to 40, as the mighty Guardian itself proclaims. Darwish helped forge a Palestinian consciousness after the Six-Day War. I suppose that has nothing to do with the fact that he studied in Moscow for some time (as did Abu Mazen, by the way) and were undoubtedly recruited and trained by the KGB and also here.
So I guess, yeah, one has to admit The Guardian got it right this time. The continuing humiliation of the Arab puppets and their Soviet handlers by a tiny (but top notch) Hebrew army helped forge (make that invent) the Palestinian consciousness, which has brought more than enough misery to the Palestinian themselves, seeing as they are right now engaging in savage tribal bloodshed.
As one Arab whose name escapes me, but who is basically in charge of the Moslem Holy sites in Israel, put it: the Temple Mount mosques became precious for all the 1.5 billion Moslems worldwide as soon as Israel occupied Jerusalem in June 1967. Why? you may well ask. Well, because they no longer had access to it, except those who do have access to it. Did it mean anything to them before 1967? Not much, since one has never heard of a compulsory pilgrimage to Jerusalem for Moslems, such as the Hajj to Mecca. Besides, they didn't care much for the mosques as weeds were growing all over the compound at the turn of the century. "As long as you are mine you can rot into oblivion, but you become the apple of my eye the minute you fall into the dirty hands of the invading Zionist gangs." Mind you, there was no road to write home about from Yaffo to Jerusalem until the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869. The "road" was repaired to allow the Austrian Emperor his pilgrimage to Jerusalem en route to Suez for the official opening ceremony of the Canal. One might think that the Moslem rulers of the land (the Ottoman Empire), having the best interests of the "fidels" at heart, would have maintained some kind of thoroughfare to this the third holy place in Islam. One might, but then one would be wrong. The only way to travel from Yaffo to Jerusalem was on horse or camel back (or maybe donkey). The Austrian Emperor and his companions were expecting to travel by coach.
Anyways, in Palestinian parlance "occupier" has nothing whatsoever to do with the Six-Day War. The occupied territories are not Judea, Samaria and Gaza (which has become un-occupied in the mean time). Nope, what they mean is the Yahood, the Jewish State. According to sixth grade history textbooks published by the PA (PLO) - "The Modern History of Palestine" – the Green Line is an imaginary line which separates between lands occupied before 1967 and those occupied thereafter (could it be that this is what Yuli Tamir meant when she suggested teaching about the Green Line to Israeli students?
The Adoration of a Racist
Dan Margalit
August 11, 2008
Instead of mourning the loss of our national sovereignty on Tisha b'Av, the people of Zion were fussing over the coffin of Mahmoud Darwish, the Palestinian national poet, expressing their adoration for he who repeatedly called for the expulsion of the Jewish people from the Land of Israel and Judea: "Go away and taken the bones of your dead with you!". A Judenrein land with Judenrein graveyards. Ahmadinejad turned poet. A sort of "Nakba" to be visited on the Jews in Hebrew.
In order to remove all doubt: I could have agreed to the Israelis celebrating the poet of the enemy if he had raised the Palestinian flag and called the young men of his country to fight for their sovereignty, culture and even separatism. I could have even accepted his pan-Arabism. But Darwish supported the expulsion of an entire nation. Had he been a Jew and written the same words in Hebrew, he would have been branded a war criminal, a racist and a fascist.
Dr. Rafi Kishon reminded me the other day that the Ministry of Education tried to include some of Darwish's poetry in our textbooks, even before they even considered recommending a single line written by his own father, Ephraim Kishon. This evil spirit found a way to express itself as well.
It is part of our collapsing method of education for values. Ehud Olmert has national feelings, yet his government manages to remove 100 Jewish and Zionist definitions from the civic education curriculum. It readily allows any teacher to choose what to teach. Some teach about "Hear, oh Israel" and about the doctrines of David Ben-Gurion and Ze'ev Jabotinsky, while others teach about the "Nakba" and Darwish.
Democracy on liquidation sale. About a fortnight ago, at the end of Tamuz, Limor Livnat met with Ehud Olmert and Ze'ev Boim because the PM's office rejected the publication of a brochure on Jabotinski's death anniversary on the grounds that it quoted fragments from some of his articles, such as "The Iron Wall". She showed them what was deemed unsuitable for publication by the committee for preserving Jabotinsky's legacy which is subordinated to the PMO (which took Olmert by surprise), but nothing was done to remedy this idiotic blunder.
Still, the government would not allow Darwish to be buried in the Galilee. He will be laid to rest in Ramallah. But the sights and sounds [of the funeral] will not be forgotten too soon. Yesterday Israel went back 100 years in time, to the days of dancing "Oh, how beautiful you are, my beloved" before the landlord in Eastern Europe.
And last but not least, a few points made by Menachem Ben in his article Not Edible, published on August 15, 2008, in the culture supplement of Ma'ariv:
Darwish is lying when he accuses the Israelis of stealing his ancestral orchards and fields. There is no soul searching, no admission of guilt. No mention of the bloodthirsty gangs that started all the wars, beginning with 1948. Such a shame that no Israeli poet should stand up and speak out against this despicable propaganda.
Perhpas, Menachem, but thank heavens for journalists and bloggers.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Happy Birthday to Me
Happy birthday to me, happy birthday, dear busywolf, happy birthday to me!
Therefore, fellow bloggers, whoever and wherever you are, although I nowadays frequent mostly Jewish and Israeli pages, dear talented and devoted people, although I am a frequent visitor and even leave an occasional comment on your blogs, please understand why I don't have a blogroll or "favorite links" list: I fear I might put a jinx on you. Even Barbara's blog was vandalized after she mentioned me and I understand that Soccer Dad had to help her put it up again. I was also linked by other blogs, although I can't locate those mentions any more, but I remember however that a talkbacker on none other than the Guardian's Comment is Free (or rather Cheap, but that's a different story) recommended a post I wrote about Azmi Bishara. (Unfortunately the anti-Semitic Guardian remains immune to my noxious influence). Oh, and last but by no means least, I got to be mentioned by someone whom even the Grand Master Lizard quotes ever so often: Brian at snappedshot.com.
I lack the discipline to post daily, and I still haven't made up my mind about the topics I want to cover. But I am working on it. However, my daily dives into the blogosphere (contributors whom I admire and look up to as sources of inspiration) reveal that my role models also dwell on a variety of subjects, which suits me just fine, because the way I see it, human beings resemble chemical elements: multiple valences yearning to form bonds that satisfy our intellectual curiosity and our need to communicate. So perhaps I won't work too hard on it and I'll blog about whatever takes my fancy or drives me mad. We'll see.
By the way, I got the NC-17 rating for content because of my wanton choice of vocabulary. Yeah, right! But be warned anyway!
Still, it only proves that I am Passion-ate about blogging for Israel (yes, I registered to attend the Nefesh b'Nefesh Jewish Bloggers Convention in person, yet I only managed to watch it online. So I apologize if I prevented anyone from taking part). Which means that I have to focus more on Ingenuity and Fusion as soon as I work out a coherent way to integrate them into my rants.
I also learned that it might be a good idea to post about personal issues, such as children (did anyone say pets?). So I will consult my children and my pets and write something about them when I've obtained their informed consent.
So that's it for now. Welcome and enjoy!
One last word: I would not have been able to put up this blog and many things on it without a special someone who would probably rather remain anonymous, and whom I love very much.
This blog has just turned two (years old). The stats are nothing to brag about: roughly 6,000 hits. I know, the counter says fewer, but for the first few weeks I didn't have one, due to my reduced (make that totally absent) technical prowess. Although I have gained some skills since, I am still not very good at it.
Most visitors just touch down and go, but every now and then someone takes the time to read a few pages and even leave a comment. Somewhere down the line I decided to moderate comments because of the spammers. Those are the "deleted by administrator" comments.
I made Haveil Havalim once, and I thank Barbara('s Tchatzkahs) for the mention. Also Elaine over at Aaron's rod linked me as a favorite, but she stopped blogging almost a year ago. I hope she's busy doing other (good) things. She even sent me a meme, but I wasn't exploring other people's domains at the time (i.e. I wasn't reading eight blogs), so I let it go. I mean I was, but how does one tag LGF, Mypetjawa or Eureferendum? The one blogger who really got me considering my own space and who was very kind to me and replied almost instantly whenever I wrote to him was Randy at Rightwinged.com, whose blog seems to be no longer online. I hope he is doing fine and I want him to know that I miss him and I am in his debt blogwise.Therefore, fellow bloggers, whoever and wherever you are, although I nowadays frequent mostly Jewish and Israeli pages, dear talented and devoted people, although I am a frequent visitor and even leave an occasional comment on your blogs, please understand why I don't have a blogroll or "favorite links" list: I fear I might put a jinx on you. Even Barbara's blog was vandalized after she mentioned me and I understand that Soccer Dad had to help her put it up again. I was also linked by other blogs, although I can't locate those mentions any more, but I remember however that a talkbacker on none other than the Guardian's Comment is Free (or rather Cheap, but that's a different story) recommended a post I wrote about Azmi Bishara. (Unfortunately the anti-Semitic Guardian remains immune to my noxious influence). Oh, and last but by no means least, I got to be mentioned by someone whom even the Grand Master Lizard quotes ever so often: Brian at snappedshot.com.
I lack the discipline to post daily, and I still haven't made up my mind about the topics I want to cover. But I am working on it. However, my daily dives into the blogosphere (contributors whom I admire and look up to as sources of inspiration) reveal that my role models also dwell on a variety of subjects, which suits me just fine, because the way I see it, human beings resemble chemical elements: multiple valences yearning to form bonds that satisfy our intellectual curiosity and our need to communicate. So perhaps I won't work too hard on it and I'll blog about whatever takes my fancy or drives me mad. We'll see.
By the way, I got the NC-17 rating for content because of my wanton choice of vocabulary. Yeah, right! But be warned anyway!
Still, it only proves that I am Passion-ate about blogging for Israel (yes, I registered to attend the Nefesh b'Nefesh Jewish Bloggers Convention in person, yet I only managed to watch it online. So I apologize if I prevented anyone from taking part). Which means that I have to focus more on Ingenuity and Fusion as soon as I work out a coherent way to integrate them into my rants.
I also learned that it might be a good idea to post about personal issues, such as children (did anyone say pets?). So I will consult my children and my pets and write something about them when I've obtained their informed consent.
So that's it for now. Welcome and enjoy!
One last word: I would not have been able to put up this blog and many things on it without a special someone who would probably rather remain anonymous, and whom I love very much.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Miss Piggy
Fadwa Barghouti was there celebrating Samir Kuntar's release. She is now campaigning (not that she ever stopped) for the release of arch-terrorist husband, who masterminded quite a number of terrorist attacks against Israelis. Was she born looking like a celeb, or is it a case of life imitating art/nip 'n' tuck? Inquiring minds want to know (as Carl would put it).
Sunday, August 24, 2008
The Good News and the Bad News
The good news is that Sir Paul McCartney is scheduled to perform in Israel on September 25th 2008. The bad news is that Salem Fayyad might think that the ex-Beatle's visit to Israel is undermining the Palestinian dream of destroying the Jewish State. Left with practically nothing to do with his time, the Prime Minister of the now defunct Palestinian authority is crafting a new career as an epistle-writer. Whenever someone announces their intention to visit Israel or pursue some joint project with Israel, Mr. Fayyad can be counted on to produce a letter of protest. That is when he is not diverting international aid to fund Hamas.
More good news is that the Ships of Fools have reached Gaza. Or is it the bad news?
The bad news is that the "people of Gaza" were disappointed that the boats were carrying only useful idiots instead of the free lunch anticipated by the local populace. Or is it the good news? I can't make up my mind. But I like it! Me likes it, bwana, because the "people of Gaza" have turned their backs on the pathetic bunch of peaceniks and made them look like the complete fools that they are. I mean they braved the waves and the Israeli Navy warships, for crying out loud, only to be abandoned on the beach by the object of their affection? That's some anticlimax!
So here is an idea for future Gaza solidarity campaigns: buy them gift baskets and save face!
Hamas, on the other hand, might consider smuggling food items through the tunnels, instead of the usual traffic of ammunition, explosives and exotic animals for their squalid zoos.
This might be a good time for Ms. Lauren, nee Sarah, Booth to throw her weight about a bit and demand that the moneys showered on the Palestinians be put to better use. In addition, she might also ask permission to interview Gilad Shalit in captivity. Well, let's not get carried away...
Still, can't say I'm sorry to see the blockade runners embarrassed and thrown under the bus (or under the boat, I should say) by their ungrateful proteges. Disappointed, that's what they were, seeing the anemic solidarity show but no chow. Coooool...
More good news is that the Ships of Fools have reached Gaza. Or is it the bad news?
The bad news is that the "people of Gaza" were disappointed that the boats were carrying only useful idiots instead of the free lunch anticipated by the local populace. Or is it the good news? I can't make up my mind. But I like it! Me likes it, bwana, because the "people of Gaza" have turned their backs on the pathetic bunch of peaceniks and made them look like the complete fools that they are. I mean they braved the waves and the Israeli Navy warships, for crying out loud, only to be abandoned on the beach by the object of their affection? That's some anticlimax!
So here is an idea for future Gaza solidarity campaigns: buy them gift baskets and save face!
Hamas, on the other hand, might consider smuggling food items through the tunnels, instead of the usual traffic of ammunition, explosives and exotic animals for their squalid zoos.
This might be a good time for Ms. Lauren, nee Sarah, Booth to throw her weight about a bit and demand that the moneys showered on the Palestinians be put to better use. In addition, she might also ask permission to interview Gilad Shalit in captivity. Well, let's not get carried away...
Still, can't say I'm sorry to see the blockade runners embarrassed and thrown under the bus (or under the boat, I should say) by their ungrateful proteges. Disappointed, that's what they were, seeing the anemic solidarity show but no chow. Coooool...
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Who Is the Israeli Government Working for?
I have to congratulate the Israeli government for a job well-done. Today our democratically elected rulers managed to get together, overcome their differences and unleash 200 terrorists on us and the world at large. Some, not all undoubtedly, are hardened criminals, responsible for many deaths. In other countries, Jordan, e.g., they would have been executed a long time ago. Not in Israel, though. We are merciful: we keep them alive so they can be released and resume their activities.
I am glad that our honorable ministers have performed this additional "confidence-building" and "goodwill" gesture towards the moderate terrorists of the Palestinian Authority, who except giving us the finger in return, have not much else to do except instruct us and the rest of the world on a great variety of issues: here, here, here, here, here, and here. And there must be other examples, taking into account that these people have no country to rule and nothing to do except steal the aid money and undermine Israel.
It is common knowledge that Israel literally saved PA representatives by the skin of their teeth when Hamas conquered Gaza, and this is how they see fit to return the favor. Imagine de Gaulle in exile writing letters and encouraging the "world" to boycott or otherwise harm England. This may be twisted Arab logic, but it seems to work nicely on the twisted minds of our rulers. An old Romanian proverb says: "He whom you won't let die won't let you live."
I am glad, therefore, that our government has this important and significant Palestinian-appeasing step out of the way, as they might find some time and energy to engage in such insignificant activities as passing the budget. That is if they can take a few moments to separate themselves from one another's throats, and if they are not too busy evading police investigations, lining their pockets with money of dubious provenance, arranging Israeli citizenship for enemies of the state and generally running this country into the ground.
When they have done that, I suggest next time they consider releasing more convicted terrorists from our prisons, they send them where they are welcome: Italy or other coveted travel destinations. Alternatively, they may be offered as a goodwill gesture to Condi Rice or Tony Blair, who seem so enamoured of them. Mr. Blair is out to pasture soon to be joined by his colleague Ms. Rice, and this looks like a useful project to keep them from getting bored with life.
And while at it, throw their leaders, all those Abu's, into the bargain. Let us not forget that Abu-something is not just a nickname, it's a nomme de guerre, as Abu-Kuntar was so kind to let us know.
So I am left with this question: who on earth is the Israeli government working for?
I am glad that our honorable ministers have performed this additional "confidence-building" and "goodwill" gesture towards the moderate terrorists of the Palestinian Authority, who except giving us the finger in return, have not much else to do except instruct us and the rest of the world on a great variety of issues: here, here, here, here, here, and here. And there must be other examples, taking into account that these people have no country to rule and nothing to do except steal the aid money and undermine Israel.
It is common knowledge that Israel literally saved PA representatives by the skin of their teeth when Hamas conquered Gaza, and this is how they see fit to return the favor. Imagine de Gaulle in exile writing letters and encouraging the "world" to boycott or otherwise harm England. This may be twisted Arab logic, but it seems to work nicely on the twisted minds of our rulers. An old Romanian proverb says: "He whom you won't let die won't let you live."
I am glad, therefore, that our government has this important and significant Palestinian-appeasing step out of the way, as they might find some time and energy to engage in such insignificant activities as passing the budget. That is if they can take a few moments to separate themselves from one another's throats, and if they are not too busy evading police investigations, lining their pockets with money of dubious provenance, arranging Israeli citizenship for enemies of the state and generally running this country into the ground.
When they have done that, I suggest next time they consider releasing more convicted terrorists from our prisons, they send them where they are welcome: Italy or other coveted travel destinations. Alternatively, they may be offered as a goodwill gesture to Condi Rice or Tony Blair, who seem so enamoured of them. Mr. Blair is out to pasture soon to be joined by his colleague Ms. Rice, and this looks like a useful project to keep them from getting bored with life.
And while at it, throw their leaders, all those Abu's, into the bargain. Let us not forget that Abu-something is not just a nickname, it's a nomme de guerre, as Abu-Kuntar was so kind to let us know.
So I am left with this question: who on earth is the Israeli government working for?
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Tisha B'Av
1938 years after the destruction of the temple they are still plotting against us
Dan Margalit
Tisha b'Av, August 10, 2008
Israel Today
Today we mark the destruction of the Temple 1938 years ago. We reflect on the national and moral contents of this day rather than the religious and ceremonial ones, while our Jewish sovereignty is still being challenged with delicate and complex security issues.
The desire to destroy the Jews is as old as the hills and as stubborn as a mule.
Three years ago it had the Jews forcibly expelled from Gush Katif and was going to establish normal economic and trade relations with Pleshet. Except painful unilateral concessions were rewarded with Qassam and mortar salvos at the Negev, leaving the IDF with no choice but to return fire and slam shut the gates of commerce. In any other part of the world, Palestinian terror would have been met with a severe military and economic response.
But the world does not hold Israel up to equal and uniform standards, such as are acceptable in any other violent conflict. Thus Hamas was allowed to raise its head, overtake Gaza and recruit ill-wishing, perhaps naïve, elements who are now preparing to sail from Cyprus aiming "to break the siege" on Gaza and "bring Israel down on her knees."
While the Jewish State is raking its brains trying to find a way to stop the boat from running the blockade, Russia has attacked Georgia without any signs of mercy: 2,000 casualties in just two days. The land of the czars has been and always will be imperialistic.
The Russian State has imposed a cruel and unjust war and has pounded Georgia unrelentingly, until the latter had no choice but to beg for mercy and a ceasefire. When one goes to war – whether justified or not – one must not hesitate nor bat an eyelid. Not the way Israel went to war two years ago in Lebanon and was defeated.
Former US Secretary of State George Schultz once reminisced how upon joining the marines, his commander gave him a rifle and said to him: "Hold on to this weapon only if you are going to use it when necessary. Otherwise get a broom." In plain English. It sounds pretty clear in Russian as well. But for the time being it does not sound very clear in Hebrew.
The important lesson is that Israel must stand her ground and not lose sight of the objective. Israel must demand that this hostile world apply the same criteria that are in order when Russia unjustly invades Georgia.
1938 years ago today our second Temple was put to the torch. Today, more than ever, we call upon our rulers to focus on Jewish sovereignty. Even if it means a token focus.
On this Tisha b'Av our rulers need to stop the Hamas ship from reaching our shores. Perhaps those on board, Israelis included, had better steer for the bleeding shores of Georgia.
Dan Margalit
Tisha b'Av, August 10, 2008
Israel Today
Today we mark the destruction of the Temple 1938 years ago. We reflect on the national and moral contents of this day rather than the religious and ceremonial ones, while our Jewish sovereignty is still being challenged with delicate and complex security issues.
The desire to destroy the Jews is as old as the hills and as stubborn as a mule.
Three years ago it had the Jews forcibly expelled from Gush Katif and was going to establish normal economic and trade relations with Pleshet. Except painful unilateral concessions were rewarded with Qassam and mortar salvos at the Negev, leaving the IDF with no choice but to return fire and slam shut the gates of commerce. In any other part of the world, Palestinian terror would have been met with a severe military and economic response.
But the world does not hold Israel up to equal and uniform standards, such as are acceptable in any other violent conflict. Thus Hamas was allowed to raise its head, overtake Gaza and recruit ill-wishing, perhaps naïve, elements who are now preparing to sail from Cyprus aiming "to break the siege" on Gaza and "bring Israel down on her knees."
While the Jewish State is raking its brains trying to find a way to stop the boat from running the blockade, Russia has attacked Georgia without any signs of mercy: 2,000 casualties in just two days. The land of the czars has been and always will be imperialistic.
The Russian State has imposed a cruel and unjust war and has pounded Georgia unrelentingly, until the latter had no choice but to beg for mercy and a ceasefire. When one goes to war – whether justified or not – one must not hesitate nor bat an eyelid. Not the way Israel went to war two years ago in Lebanon and was defeated.
Former US Secretary of State George Schultz once reminisced how upon joining the marines, his commander gave him a rifle and said to him: "Hold on to this weapon only if you are going to use it when necessary. Otherwise get a broom." In plain English. It sounds pretty clear in Russian as well. But for the time being it does not sound very clear in Hebrew.
The important lesson is that Israel must stand her ground and not lose sight of the objective. Israel must demand that this hostile world apply the same criteria that are in order when Russia unjustly invades Georgia.
1938 years ago today our second Temple was put to the torch. Today, more than ever, we call upon our rulers to focus on Jewish sovereignty. Even if it means a token focus.
On this Tisha b'Av our rulers need to stop the Hamas ship from reaching our shores. Perhaps those on board, Israelis included, had better steer for the bleeding shores of Georgia.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Kuwaiti Journalist: Kuntar Should Drink to Israel's Good Health
Hat tip: GS Don Morris, Ph.D. at Doc's Talk
Fuad Alhashem, a senior journalist at the Kuwaiti newspaper Al-Watan, published an article on 21 July favorable to Israel, entitled "Prisoners of War – Ours and Theirs". The article points out that Samir Kuntar was incarcerated in an Israeli prison for 29 years and "they didn't cut off his ears, his hands weren't amputated, and he wasn't raped! He received three meals a day, watched television and read newspapers. He was given the chance to learn Hebrew, studied in the Open University in Israel and received a BA. The pictures published of him when he was released and returned to Lebanon showed him in good health. Now, he can see his mother and enjoy the various restaurants in Beirut, smoke a water pipe and get drunk and shout out loud: 'To the Israelis, who turned out better than Saddam and his party.'"In his article, Alhashem calls on Hizbullah and Kuntar's relatives to pray to the God that made Israel their neighbor and not Saddam's Iraq. If it had been otherwise, Kuntar would not have returned to his homeland walking on his own two feet and carrying 90 kg. of healthy weight. Instead, his body would have been returned in a little plastic bag – like the Kuwaiti prisoners who were returned from Iraq weighing three kilos each!
Alhashem reminds his readers that Saddam Hussein murdered 600 Kuwaiti POWs after they spent 24 months in prison. They were innocent and didn't spray Iraqi civilians with bullets like Kuntar did to the Israelis. Of course the Kuwaitis were tortured in the Iraqi prisons, ate bread harder than rock and drank polluted water. They were certainly not allowed to study in Iraqi universities, but were taken as a group to the desert, murdered using the Nazi method and buried in mass graves, without a trial and without a public appearance in the media.
Alhashem congratulates his brothers in Lebanon on Kuntar's release and also congratulates them on their proximity to the State of Israel. At the end of the article, Alhashem reminds his Arab readers that, according to the Jewish calendar, we are currently in the year 5768. In other words, the Jews have believed in God for 4000 years already, long before the Christians and the Muslims.
Fuad Alhashem, a senior journalist at the Kuwaiti newspaper Al-Watan, published an article on 21 July favorable to Israel, entitled "Prisoners of War – Ours and Theirs". The article points out that Samir Kuntar was incarcerated in an Israeli prison for 29 years and "they didn't cut off his ears, his hands weren't amputated, and he wasn't raped! He received three meals a day, watched television and read newspapers. He was given the chance to learn Hebrew, studied in the Open University in Israel and received a BA. The pictures published of him when he was released and returned to Lebanon showed him in good health. Now, he can see his mother and enjoy the various restaurants in Beirut, smoke a water pipe and get drunk and shout out loud: 'To the Israelis, who turned out better than Saddam and his party.'"In his article, Alhashem calls on Hizbullah and Kuntar's relatives to pray to the God that made Israel their neighbor and not Saddam's Iraq. If it had been otherwise, Kuntar would not have returned to his homeland walking on his own two feet and carrying 90 kg. of healthy weight. Instead, his body would have been returned in a little plastic bag – like the Kuwaiti prisoners who were returned from Iraq weighing three kilos each!
Alhashem reminds his readers that Saddam Hussein murdered 600 Kuwaiti POWs after they spent 24 months in prison. They were innocent and didn't spray Iraqi civilians with bullets like Kuntar did to the Israelis. Of course the Kuwaitis were tortured in the Iraqi prisons, ate bread harder than rock and drank polluted water. They were certainly not allowed to study in Iraqi universities, but were taken as a group to the desert, murdered using the Nazi method and buried in mass graves, without a trial and without a public appearance in the media.
Alhashem congratulates his brothers in Lebanon on Kuntar's release and also congratulates them on their proximity to the State of Israel. At the end of the article, Alhashem reminds his Arab readers that, according to the Jewish calendar, we are currently in the year 5768. In other words, the Jews have believed in God for 4000 years already, long before the Christians and the Muslims.
Hero able to murder four-year-old and father, but loses bowel control when apprehended
I have just came across this first-hand account of Kuntar's arrest. Apparently, the hero feted last week in Lebanon and on Al-Jazeera (why are they still allowed to broadcast from Israel?) was unable to contain his bowels when he was caught. That much for shattering the myth of the invincible IDF soldier. 27 years later, Hezboloonies captured by IDF (I guess those released toghether with Kuntar included) also had a heavy package in their pants. Way to go boys, malign us as you like, you're still full of shit! Both figuratively but mainly literally! Besides, hero Kuntar was sexually abused and sodomized by his father (which might explain the expensive presents lavished on him, as well as the raging volcano beneath the "quiet, thoughtful child" appearance) and by his Palestinian handlers (no pun intended. Besides, Arafat was a notorious pederast, as may have been some of his cronies and rivals. Although Kuntar was not affiliated with Arafat's gangs, I wouldn't put it past the others - Jibril, Abu-Abbas, Habbash the pediatrician - to have indulged on occasion in what the Arabs view as a legitimate leisure activity - wives for reproduction, animals for relief and boys for pleasure. And that is probably why Kuntar and the others' sphincters may have lost some muscle tone by the time they were ready for a suicide operation in Israel).
Yaakov Marks, an American-born Israeli living in the northern town of Maalot writes about his first-hand encounter with Kuntar:
" As you have seen in news reports from Israel, the majority of Israelis would rather pay an exorbitant price and deal with despicable enemies such as Hezbollah and Hamas to retrieve those who have fought and died for their country since we honor our fallen and captive soldiers.
Now we must pray for "our" Gilad Shalit. But our despicable foes have upped their price since the "victory". So the final question is,"How much are we willing to pay?" "What will be the limit?" This dilemma is tearing us apart. How much would you give if it where your son or daughter? What would you do?
My wife and I suffer this dilemma every Sunday morning, and have been for ten long years as we drop off our third son at the train station in Nahariyah on his way back to his IDF base.
My question to those people of good conscience all over the world and especially those who gleefully attack Israel with their hate filled propaganda is, "Why has the Red Cross never been allowed to visitIsraeli prisoners, especially Gilad Shalit and Ron Arad?" Here is some information to consider.
As to the truth concerning Samir Kuntar, a Druse, born on July 20, 1962 in Abey, Lebanon, please allow me to relate from first hand experience exactly who their brave hero really is. I met the 16.9 year old hate-filled, sexually abused, wild-eyed youth that murdered Dani Harran and his four year old toddler, Einat that night April 22nd, 1979 on the beach in Nahariyah.
I had gone to do my nightly volunteer shift as amember of the Civil Guard in the Meona Police station near Ma'alot in northern Israel. It was a cool night and we could clearly hear the radio communications from Nahariyah. Around 11:30PM, myself andShabbati Alon, the ex-commander of the police in Meona who was now commander of the Civil Guard of Ma'alot, went to visit an Arab acquaintance to drink some strong Arabic coffee. Around 12:10AM we heard Eli Shachar Z"L answer the call for a robbery on Rechov Jabotinsky in Nahariyah. Suddenly there were frantic calls. Alon decided to go towards the scene to clarify what was going on. As an experienced officer and veteran of the 101 unit and an 18-year veteran of the Israeli police he felt that in those first moments his expertise as well as mine as a senior medic were needed, so we drove to the area.
When we arrived on the scene, I witnessed first hand how Samir Kuntar viciously murdered Danny and then grabbed Einat by the arm and hair as he used the butt of his rifle to smash her little skull on the rocks.
Once he had surrendered, sniveling after three of his comrades were killed, he was taken into custody along with his comrade, Ahmed AlAbras. AlAbras would later be freed by Israel in the Jibril Agreement of May 1985.
Standing near Kuntar, I saw how from abject fear of retribution he defecated on himself, whimpered, cried and begged. We could have shot him but the officers said no, he surrendered, leave him alone. Kuntar was pitiful. Later, in order to hide his embarassment, he claimed that since he had been shot he could not have murdered Danny or Einat. I never saw any wound on him.
During my many years in the IDF Reserves, I served as an EMT Master Sergeant of a Medical Unit, unarmed and dressed in a medical white coat, that administered medic care under Red Cross regulations. Our doctors and medics served honorably under the severest conditions of abuse and threats from the prisoners. We served according to the best tradition of the Hippocratic Oath and the motto of the medical corps, "To save Life".
In the routine briefing while reviewing the cases of our prisoners who needed continual treatment, it was recorded in Kuntar's files that during the required pre-imprisonment psychological exam it was determined that he had been a sexually abused and beaten child. He voluntarily admitted the information without any force upon him, how his own father had sodomized him and how as a new young recruit he had repeatedly been sodomized by his friends in the Palestine Liberation Front (PLF) camp of Rashadiyah, Lebanon, near Tyre before the terrorist attack in 1979. Furthermore, we learned that as a young Lebanese Druse the Palestinians taunted him consistently as theyq uestioned his loyalty to the cause.
Later, while one of the doctors and I were administering treatment to Kuntar, he readily verified this information freely during treatment. His fair and conscientious medical care was in glaring contrast to how Israeli POWs are treated.
When we older reservists served in the prison we attempted to bring sanity to an insane situation. Many of us were against the occupation and the persecution of the Palestinians. From our code of treatment we were respected by the members of Fatah and the Democratic Front who argued and fought the Jihadists and Hamas. Many times they would warn us of attempts to harm us. We respected them and were respected inturn.
In the prison camps were we served there were cases of murder between rival gangs. Gang rape, brutal sodomy, torture and all forms of physical abuse by their own cellmates were a daily occurrence. Many times when homosexuals were discovered by their cellmates they would be abused and tortured to death, their screams muffled by socks filled with bread dough stuffed brutally down their throats by their torturers. The torturers comitted horrid atrocities against those they felt were spies. The worst was how they would treat young boys, just as they had done to Kuntar.
The hypocrites of Children`s Defense International (Palestine Section) imply that it is Israeli soldiers performing illegal acts and mistreating Palestinian prisoners. Just for their information, most of those guarding the Palestinians are reservists. If this human rights group had even the slightest knowledge of Israel they would know that 99.5%+ of all reservists are not interested in losing their personal freedom to even care about the Palestinians prisoners they are guarding. The reservists would sit in guard towers or patrol outside the fenced areas waiting to finish as soon as possible and go home.
The only ones allowed to touch prisoners were medics and doctors. Every week entire families would come to the prison to visit and bring food items. These same elementary rights that till today have always been denied our prisoners held by the Arabs, Hamas orHezbollah are a daily occurrence in Israeli prisons.
Let me state that many Palestinians in the camps suffered from multiple maladies before they were arrested. Many ofthem owe my medics and especially our doctors a deep debt of gratitude for the humanitarian care we gave them 24 hours a day, seven daysa week. We lived like them in the same sweltering conditions in the summer and in the freezing cold of winter. We treated and cared for them 24 hours a day, seven days a week and there where times where they even honoredus. So for these critics of Israel, they may tell their vicious lies that belittle me and my dedicated medical personnel. Yet it is these same doctors who in civilian life care for them and their families in our hospitals. These same hospitals in the area of Ashkelon in the south that have been threatened by Qassam rockets have unselfishly treated Gazans for years. Just like the hospitals in Nahariyah and Safed that treated Arab Israelis and Lebanese but were hit by Hezbollah Katyushas during the Second Lebanon War.
In conclusion, please note that though a captive in our Israeli prisons Samir earned a university degree, received medical care, Red Cross visits and privileges. He ate good food, as evidenced by his obesity and enjoyed his moments with his friends.
Years later, during another reserve duty stint I remember seeing the new hero of the Palestinians and Hezbollah. He was overweight, suffering from hyperuricema, diabetes mellitus, dyspnea and severe water retention from his hypertension. Some hero."
From: Yakov Marks, Maalot,E-Mail: big_yakov@bezeqint.net
Yaakov Marks, an American-born Israeli living in the northern town of Maalot writes about his first-hand encounter with Kuntar:
" As you have seen in news reports from Israel, the majority of Israelis would rather pay an exorbitant price and deal with despicable enemies such as Hezbollah and Hamas to retrieve those who have fought and died for their country since we honor our fallen and captive soldiers.
Now we must pray for "our" Gilad Shalit. But our despicable foes have upped their price since the "victory". So the final question is,"How much are we willing to pay?" "What will be the limit?" This dilemma is tearing us apart. How much would you give if it where your son or daughter? What would you do?
My wife and I suffer this dilemma every Sunday morning, and have been for ten long years as we drop off our third son at the train station in Nahariyah on his way back to his IDF base.
My question to those people of good conscience all over the world and especially those who gleefully attack Israel with their hate filled propaganda is, "Why has the Red Cross never been allowed to visitIsraeli prisoners, especially Gilad Shalit and Ron Arad?" Here is some information to consider.
As to the truth concerning Samir Kuntar, a Druse, born on July 20, 1962 in Abey, Lebanon, please allow me to relate from first hand experience exactly who their brave hero really is. I met the 16.9 year old hate-filled, sexually abused, wild-eyed youth that murdered Dani Harran and his four year old toddler, Einat that night April 22nd, 1979 on the beach in Nahariyah.
I had gone to do my nightly volunteer shift as amember of the Civil Guard in the Meona Police station near Ma'alot in northern Israel. It was a cool night and we could clearly hear the radio communications from Nahariyah. Around 11:30PM, myself andShabbati Alon, the ex-commander of the police in Meona who was now commander of the Civil Guard of Ma'alot, went to visit an Arab acquaintance to drink some strong Arabic coffee. Around 12:10AM we heard Eli Shachar Z"L answer the call for a robbery on Rechov Jabotinsky in Nahariyah. Suddenly there were frantic calls. Alon decided to go towards the scene to clarify what was going on. As an experienced officer and veteran of the 101 unit and an 18-year veteran of the Israeli police he felt that in those first moments his expertise as well as mine as a senior medic were needed, so we drove to the area.
When we arrived on the scene, I witnessed first hand how Samir Kuntar viciously murdered Danny and then grabbed Einat by the arm and hair as he used the butt of his rifle to smash her little skull on the rocks.
Once he had surrendered, sniveling after three of his comrades were killed, he was taken into custody along with his comrade, Ahmed AlAbras. AlAbras would later be freed by Israel in the Jibril Agreement of May 1985.
Standing near Kuntar, I saw how from abject fear of retribution he defecated on himself, whimpered, cried and begged. We could have shot him but the officers said no, he surrendered, leave him alone. Kuntar was pitiful. Later, in order to hide his embarassment, he claimed that since he had been shot he could not have murdered Danny or Einat. I never saw any wound on him.
During my many years in the IDF Reserves, I served as an EMT Master Sergeant of a Medical Unit, unarmed and dressed in a medical white coat, that administered medic care under Red Cross regulations. Our doctors and medics served honorably under the severest conditions of abuse and threats from the prisoners. We served according to the best tradition of the Hippocratic Oath and the motto of the medical corps, "To save Life".
In the routine briefing while reviewing the cases of our prisoners who needed continual treatment, it was recorded in Kuntar's files that during the required pre-imprisonment psychological exam it was determined that he had been a sexually abused and beaten child. He voluntarily admitted the information without any force upon him, how his own father had sodomized him and how as a new young recruit he had repeatedly been sodomized by his friends in the Palestine Liberation Front (PLF) camp of Rashadiyah, Lebanon, near Tyre before the terrorist attack in 1979. Furthermore, we learned that as a young Lebanese Druse the Palestinians taunted him consistently as theyq uestioned his loyalty to the cause.
Later, while one of the doctors and I were administering treatment to Kuntar, he readily verified this information freely during treatment. His fair and conscientious medical care was in glaring contrast to how Israeli POWs are treated.
When we older reservists served in the prison we attempted to bring sanity to an insane situation. Many of us were against the occupation and the persecution of the Palestinians. From our code of treatment we were respected by the members of Fatah and the Democratic Front who argued and fought the Jihadists and Hamas. Many times they would warn us of attempts to harm us. We respected them and were respected inturn.
In the prison camps were we served there were cases of murder between rival gangs. Gang rape, brutal sodomy, torture and all forms of physical abuse by their own cellmates were a daily occurrence. Many times when homosexuals were discovered by their cellmates they would be abused and tortured to death, their screams muffled by socks filled with bread dough stuffed brutally down their throats by their torturers. The torturers comitted horrid atrocities against those they felt were spies. The worst was how they would treat young boys, just as they had done to Kuntar.
The hypocrites of Children`s Defense International (Palestine Section) imply that it is Israeli soldiers performing illegal acts and mistreating Palestinian prisoners. Just for their information, most of those guarding the Palestinians are reservists. If this human rights group had even the slightest knowledge of Israel they would know that 99.5%+ of all reservists are not interested in losing their personal freedom to even care about the Palestinians prisoners they are guarding. The reservists would sit in guard towers or patrol outside the fenced areas waiting to finish as soon as possible and go home.
The only ones allowed to touch prisoners were medics and doctors. Every week entire families would come to the prison to visit and bring food items. These same elementary rights that till today have always been denied our prisoners held by the Arabs, Hamas orHezbollah are a daily occurrence in Israeli prisons.
Let me state that many Palestinians in the camps suffered from multiple maladies before they were arrested. Many ofthem owe my medics and especially our doctors a deep debt of gratitude for the humanitarian care we gave them 24 hours a day, seven daysa week. We lived like them in the same sweltering conditions in the summer and in the freezing cold of winter. We treated and cared for them 24 hours a day, seven days a week and there where times where they even honoredus. So for these critics of Israel, they may tell their vicious lies that belittle me and my dedicated medical personnel. Yet it is these same doctors who in civilian life care for them and their families in our hospitals. These same hospitals in the area of Ashkelon in the south that have been threatened by Qassam rockets have unselfishly treated Gazans for years. Just like the hospitals in Nahariyah and Safed that treated Arab Israelis and Lebanese but were hit by Hezbollah Katyushas during the Second Lebanon War.
In conclusion, please note that though a captive in our Israeli prisons Samir earned a university degree, received medical care, Red Cross visits and privileges. He ate good food, as evidenced by his obesity and enjoyed his moments with his friends.
Years later, during another reserve duty stint I remember seeing the new hero of the Palestinians and Hezbollah. He was overweight, suffering from hyperuricema, diabetes mellitus, dyspnea and severe water retention from his hypertension. Some hero."
From: Yakov Marks, Maalot,E-Mail: big_yakov@bezeqint.net
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
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