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I try to count the bullet holes that riddle the side, bonnet and roof of the car but lose count at 36. The distraction of the blood, hair and brain matter that cover the passenger and back seat proves too much. It strikes me at that moment that it hardly matters, there were bullets enough to kill a man. The car has been left at the side of the road, bloody, shot up, every window gone and tyres flat. Now a harsh and uncompromising memorial, with roses placed on the bonnet and roof, a shaheed poster pasted on the passenger door.
I am at the Al Shuhada road junction, just outside Jenin. This is the site of the death of Ahmed Abdel Qader Ahmed Nazal, 28, killed by Israeli soldiers as he drove home in the early hours of Friday 13th February 2004. Showing me the car is local charity worker Ahmed Marshaqa. His home is around 400 meters from this spot, perched within sight on the hill above the village of Shuhada. He tells me that he had been having trouble sleeping the night of the shooting when a sound caught his attention at about 1.20 am. A few seconds later four or five shots ran out, then he heard the sound of a man screaming and a car being reversed. Then came more heavy fire, Ahmed estimates around one hundred shots in total. There was no more screaming. After around half an hour he says four or five Israeli army jeeps arrived at the junction. Since then he has learnt that Palestinian paramedics made three attempts to approach the scene before being allowed to remove the body at around 3 am. I ask him if he knows why the soldiers attacked Ahmed, shrugging he says "even with all the reasons the army has no excuse to shoot anyone, if they want him they can arrest him."
In the village of Qabatiya a kilometre south of Shuhada I attend the Ahmeds's wake. The guests file past grieving relatives shaking hands and expressing sympathy before seating themselves on the plastic chairs that ring the bare reception hall. From the walls the dead man stares out from shaheed posters that bear his photograph, name, age and date of death. Ahmed's father comes to talk to us as we drink the bitter coffee and eat the dates that are traditional at these times of mourning. As we talk in broken English and translation his grief is obvious and his anger contained but nether the less clear.
We talk about Ahmed. Born in Saudi Arabia, raised in Jordan he had come to live in Qubatiya in order to work as a mechanic and farmer. He had family and friends here including a sister in a nearby village but lived alone in on his farm near Shuhada. He drove regularly the main roads back from Qabatiya to his farm, the night of his death no different to many others. He had drunk tea and coffee with friends after work before making his way home. There was no curfew, no road closure, no indication of the fatal risk he was taking that night. "He was a peaceful man,,,there was never any problems with the Israelis", his father says. He tells us that Ahmed had been working in order to build a stable and peaceful future but "they [Israeli army] killed the aspirations that he had - they killed him in cold blood". We are joined by Ahmed's brother in law, he had identified the body, and tells me that he saw over 40 bullet wounds, his face ashen as he relives the experience. Ahmed's father says that maybe he will try and pursue the case of his son's murder through the Israeli courts, "not for money but for justice". His son in law shakes his head, "there is no justice from the Israelis; what happened to Ahmed will happen daily to others"
The family's shock is obvious; again and again they say that Ahmed was a peaceful man and not involved in the armed resistance to the Occupation. His death both senseless and unjustifiable. Ahmed finally takes his leave of us, more mourners have arrived to pay their respects. Amongst his last words, a question, "Why this? We speak of a civilised world but where is it?"
