NablusWeb
Baha's Murder - Report by Ewa Jasiewicz
The light-aircraft din of a tank and APC
vrooming past the UPMRC sees Myself, Hanneen (stunning and feisty
Palestinian/German girl here visiting family and doing volunteer work),
Al (pragmatic, cool-headed Welshman from the UK anarcho scene)and Carol
(no-shit taking or talking American woman with Polish Gypsy blood), get
up and make our way into the Old City to see what's happening. We were
accompanied by Baha. Baha is an energetic, vibrant local kid, 14
years-old, with twinkly green eyes. He's wearing his usual green and
black stripey cotton polo t-shirt, tucked into his jeans. He really
reminds me of my friend Tamsin's boy, Travis, who's half Jamaican, with
dimple cheeks, one of those insightful kids that can smell bullshit
from a mile.
Baha's always all 'mush mushkele - No Problems', and capable as an
adult, looking after international activists staying in the old city by
doubling up as guide and mediator between hostile kids and us. He takes
time out to explain who we are and why we're in their town when our
governments are funding the occupation. He's always accompanying
activists on their wanders round the city. Lisa, an ISM activist from
up North first met him 6 weeks ago when she was being sexually
harrassed by a youth on the darkened stairway of the internet cafe
building. She'd been really really scared. Baha drove the offending
creep away. She'd called him her 'guardian angel' ever since. We made
friends the first time I came to do some checkpoint monitoring
opposite the Mukhata. After that he was always calling my name and
waving with a great big grin 'Aeva! Aeva! Haow arr you!?
So we go out on the tank-hunt. Baha in tow. It's the usual. The APC and
tank out on curfew patrol. We stay back at a street corner on our way
into the old city, next to the wrecked bus (engine scalped, windows
smashed). The old city is a warren of sandy big-rocked houses,
archways, and piles of rubble (bulldozed ex-homes, factories,
workshops) some from last month, some left over from the April
incursion. The April attack saw 25,000 soldiers, approx. 400 tanks, an
unkown quantity of APCs and multiple apache rocket-fire hit the city
and surrounding camps. The 4th strongest army on the planet doesn't
fuck about when it goes in for the kill. 87 Nablus residents were
slaughtered within 4 days. Over 200 people were used as human shields.
Back to the present...The APC soldier gets on his phone. We think he
might be calling the military Plod. Nablus was declared a closed
military zone about an hour ago. We could be nicked and dumped in Tel
Aviv or deported. Whatever. We stay put. Kids pelt the APC with stones,
a couple, chucked over from behind the safety of a wall, clop the
soldier on the top. He responds with a round of live ammo. Bullets ping
off the wrecked bus. No casualties. The kids move off down the street
leading into the old city, stones in hands. We follow. The tank and APC
rumble along up on a higher road, the streets below still visible to
them. The tank stops at the top of the street up ahead which leads down
to the old city. Kids throw and throw, from round the corner. The tank
is about 80 metres up. The stones barely make it. Shots ring out.
Noone's hit. A family wants to cross the road, right in front of the
tank's line of fire. They're in a hurry and looking fraught, mother
father, and four kids. Al thinks it's way to risky with all the
stone-throwing kids about. But Baha helps them across. We rush up to be
in front of him and them at once. Baha's brave, just goes straight
across, head-on, by their sides, defiant. Nothing happens. Baha then
shows us up a dusty flight of slab steps. He knows the city like the
back of his hand. In the aftermath of the April incursion he was one of
the most plucky volunteers, clearing rubble, running around, helping
the sick. He had wished he could have had been in Jenin too, his mother
will tell us, later. We make our way down the street to where we
expect the APC and Tank to be. It's empty. A few kids are moseying
about, the odd stick or stone in their hands. But it seems like they've
rumbled off. Just curfew enforcement we think. No big deal. Later we'll
find out that its illegal for the Israel Army to use anything stronger
than teargas to enforce curfew. Definately not Live ammo. They do what
they want anyway though. The entire occupation is illgegal under the
Oslo Accords, The Geneva Convention, multiple United Nations directives
etc etc etc
We sit on the Kerb for a bit. Where to? Internet cafe? UPMRC?
Checkpoint watch? We get a call from people at the UPMRC. The tank and
APC are outside. We decide to just check out what they're doing and
after that Haneen's going back to her aunt's in Balata. As we make our
way down the road we hear the sound of the two vehicles whurring
towards us. We get to the side of the road. I'm in front, Carol a bit
behind, Haneen behind a bit and Al and Baha at the back. The tank veers
into view and then turns down a side street, 120 metres or so away. The
APC looks like its going to turn but shudders to a halt. It's blazing
hot. the sun's burning down. The street is clear at this point. Nothing
is being thrown. The APC's too far away, the road is long, no hiding
places, bad vantage point to throw from. Kids loiter to the sides, not
far from the burned out bus, out of sight. I see the soldier in the APC
take aim. I think it's with his M16 but it could be the mounted gun.
I'm not afraid. Tanks and APCs always look like theyre aiming at you
here. Guns are constantly being pointed at Palestinians in the
territories - at their backs, in their faces, up at their windows, from
the middle of the street, from the mountains. A shot rings out, whizzes
straight past me. I feel the air rush and duck down instinctively.
'FUCK that was so close', I say, turning round. Al is looking about,
'okay, is everyone alright' he says, 'is...Oh my God, Oh-oh My God'.
Baha is lying on his back in the porchway of a closed shop. Blood is
blooming from the right side of his chest. His eyes are bulged back in
shock. Al is immediately beside him holding his shoulder, Haneen is by
his other side, holding his hand. A Palestinian man is instantly above
him, administering CPR, pumping his chest with short sharp thrusts of
his crossed hands. 'It's his arm', says Al, 'No it's not it's his
chest', says Haneen. The Palestinian man quickly 'corrects' her, 'no
no, it's not it's not'. He knows Baha can still hear him. Blood is
welling up in baha's mouth, flowing freely, it streams fast from his
nose, his ear. 'Turn his head, turn his head, he's going to choke' I
yell. It's too late though. We all know. Im on the phone, calling an
ambulance, along with several other local people who have all come out.
There's a crowd around Baha. I talk desperately, in English and way too
fast to the operator, he can't understand me, I have to hand the phone
to someone else. Everything just seems to slide. Within about a minute
an ambulance is on the scene. Medics lift Baha up swiftly and take him
away. A thick pool of blood is left behind. I never knew blood was so
thick. Haneen's hand and sandals are covered in Baha's blood.
Aftermath
The examining doctor at El Ethad Hospital in Nablus said the following
about Baha's killing: "...shot under the axila passed through the left
lung to right lung and heart. There was an accumulation of blood in
thoraxcavity. Died of Haemo-Thorax. X-Ray showed multiple fragments in
chest. Main injuries in left lung and the heart." He said that the
location of the shot in the upper torso and massive internal damage
caused by the "dum-dum" bullet was consistent with an intentional kill.
Dum-dum's explode and fragment on impact, a bit like landmines, causing
maximum multiple injuries.
The Isaeli army initially stated that Baha was carrying a bomb at the
time of his assassination. This is not true. It does however prove that
the shot was fired to kill, not to stun or frighten but to kill. The
statment then changed to accuse Baha of carrying a molotov cocktail.
This was supposed to have exploded in his hand. Setting him on fire and
Killing him. 'It was his fault'. This is what the IDF said about the
boy they shot in the head in Balata the night before. 17-years-old. He
died when the ambulance carrying him was refused entry through a
checkpoin to the hospital. A double killing. They said he killed
himself, shot himself. This a common statement released after the Army
murders people here. All armies and police do it. Blame and demonise
the victim. It's a pattern consistent with the murder of humdrerds of
people in police custody in the UK too. 'They were mad, they were drug
addicts, uncontrollable, suicidal'. Here, it's because 'they're
terrorists'.
328 children have been murdered by the Israeli army or armed sttlers
(the Israeli State's bought-off reserve force) since September 2000.
The next day I went to Israel, to the pristine air-conditioned studios
of Canal 2 in Jeruslem. They put make-up on my face, sat me down
infront of a sleek-haired news presenter and I told the story. Don't
know how they translated me but there appeared to be sympathies. 'I
don't know what goes through their heads', the presenter had said
afterwards. Did 2 radio interviews. Stoney faces. Brusque technique.
'Very convincing' said the Radio 4 interviewer. Heard it went well.
Told and retold the story, told and retold the story. To United Presss,
The Guardian, The Scotsman, The Telegraph, B'Tselem, the Palestine
Monitor, my sister, friends, countless friends, the Bushkar Family, it
never got easier.
Yesterday we went to see Baha's mother and father. It was somewhere in
the old city. We went into a big carpeted, ornate looking room,
plush-er than the grieving room I walked into in Tubas, when the IDF
rocket-attacked and killed five children. Baha's father was a trim
looking man, white crochetted round cap on his head. His eyes were
wide, too wide. 'Ham Du Allah (said Hamdulullah) Ham Du Allah' he said,
smiling when he greeted us. He shook my hand warmly, up and down, up
and down, all the while 'Ham Du Allah'. It means Praise be to God,
Thanks be to God. Baha was with his God, he was in heaven. He kept
saying it, even when we sat down. Dates were passed down, we all, the
three of us who were there with Baha when we died (Haneen we couldn't
get hold of but went later) just stared straight ahead. He spoke,
translated through Hussein, a close close friend of Baha, of how much
Baha loved to help the International volunteers and how happy he was,
how much he loved Lisa.
We then went to where his mother was. She was sat in a room full of
other female relatives. She was wearing black, a long black dress and
Hejab. Her face welcomed us. The room was full. The first question she
asked us was hard for her, full of doubt but quietly, almost urgently
asked, 'Was Baha carrying anything? Was he? Did he really have this
bomb or something?'. She was confused. No. We explained. She nodded,
firm mouthed but her eyes still full of pain. Al began to explain what
actually happened. Right from the beginning, from when we all left the
UPMRC that day. When he got to the part about Baha helping the family
across the road in front of the tank, she covered her face with her
hands and let out a long low moan, which turned into a sob and more
sobs and tears. 'Habibti, Habibti' she kept saying, crying, 'My love,
my love'. She cried and cried, cried harder when Al told her how we all
came to know Baha, when he met Lisa on the stairs of the internet cafe.
An older relative began to chastise her. 'Stop, enough, stop your
crying, he is with God, he is in a better place, he is with God, he is
safe, take heart, enough'.
When we leave, she shakes our hands, absent, his father shakes our
hands, he's still got that same wide eyed energy, the kind that comes
from shock and grief, the riding of the shockwave that is sudden, torn
away from you death, and which you crash through at some point,
privately. 'HamDulAllah, HamDullallah'.
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