Joe Carr was one of few to witness
an Israeli sniper shoot British Activist Tom Hurndall.
Tom died after
Not Again
Please
not again. We heard the shooting, we always hear shooting, but
repeated sniper fire like that is especially disturbing. I
heard the shot,
I heard a scream, and turned
to see the fluorescent orange lump lying on
the ground, blood coming from his head. I moved back and
forth a bit not
knowing what to do, and within seconds my medical training
clicked in. The
Palestinians lifted him to
move him from the area. ''Set him down!''
Alice, the other medic, and
I screamed. Finally we got him down on
the
pavement, I had my safety pads out and was trying to stop the
bleeding.
One doesn't consider rubber
gloves at times like these. Blood was poring
out of the back of his head. I couldn't get it to stop. Seconds later he
was lifted again and pulled into a taxi. ''Wait for the
ambulance!'' We
tried to convince them, but they were hysterical, and he
was torn away
from us and rushed to the hospital in a brown Mercedes.
The ambulance
arrived on the scene minutes later, but it was too late, he
was gone. I
looked down to find the bloody safety pad still in my
hand. I had a brief
instinct to throw it down, like one does any trash on these
streets, but
was unable to let go of
it. I held onto it while in the taxi on the way
to the hospital, and still clutched it as I slouched on
the ground against
the stone walls surrounding his operation room.
He
was dead to me from the moment he was set on the ground for us to
administer treatment.
pointless. He was dead
to me when he was pulled from our hands and put
into the car. Even
when he was wheeled out of N'jar Hospital and taken
to
on life support in
breathing. No matter
how constantly his heart still beats, I continue to
speak of him in the past.
It took me awhile to accept that Rachel was
actually gone, and I think my mind is compensating for that
loss by
preparing itself for another in advance.
His
name was Thomas Hurndall and he was from
already had an English guy named Tom so he chose the name
Tab, and that is
how I knew him.
Tab was incredibly passio
when and where they needed it most. We were in Yibna, a Rafah refugee camp
right on the Egyptian border, because he was aware of the
constant Israeli
gunfire to which this n
about the two brothers who'd been shot the previous
morning, and was
dedicated to maintaining a presence there. He said that he'd gotten
extremely angry and determined after listening to gunfire
while lying in
his bed at the doctor's house Rachel died
protecting. He wanted to be in
the most dangerous areas, not out of some martyr complex
to die but simply
because he knew that that is where internationals are most
needed. He was
prepared to stay in the house most targeted, and helped us
hang large
banners on it. He was
all about placing a tent in an area in front of a
mosque, used every night by an Israeli tank for terrorizing
the
n
was shot, but had abandoned the project due to
Palestinian discomfort with
gunfire.
The
tank was already in its parking spot when we arrived, and was shooting
into the area. A nearby security tower had also joined
in, and was firing
the scary sniper shots.
We were positioned behind a large roadblock
deciding what to do, and Laura had gone forward with some
Palestinians to
take a look. She was wearing our trademarked florescent
orange jacket with
reflective stripes, and was clearly an international. Despite,
or possibly
because of this, they shot around her. She said that shots
were b
on both sides of her, making it rather difficult for
her to move. She had
just rejoined us, when the sniper fire from the tower
turned onto the
roadblock behind which we were standing. There were children
playing on
it, as they often do, and many scattered due to the
gunfire. There was one
boy, however, that Tab noticed was too frightened to
move. Instinctually,
he quickly removed him from the area, as he observed
shots land around the
small and fragile innocent. After successfully evacuating him, he was
about to leave when he noticed two small girls down in
front of the
roadblock, right in the line of fire. He was going to help
them escape
when the Israeli soldier in the tower took his aim, and
fired a large
caliber sniper bullet directly into Tab's head. He was in full view of
the tower, and like Laura was wearing the
high-visibility gear. Our
embassies had been informed of our presence in the area, and
they had
informed the Israeli military.
They
knew who he was, they knew what he was, and they knew what he was
doing. They knew
that he was no threat to th
likely understood the international attention his presence
was attracting,
and knew how our human shield work had prevented them
from adequately
terrorizing the Palestinian civilians and demolishing th
this way, he was a threat to them, a threat to the image
of
portrayed to the world.
He was a threat to the validity of the
occupation, and a threat to th
nothing but inhuman terrorists. The sniper couldn't tolerate this kind of
challenge, and took lethal measures to end it. We'll only have
to see how
such an act will backfire.
I
didn't know Tab all that well. He'd only
been here a week, but planned
to stay the full month of his visa. He'd just spent a week doing refugee
work in
shield and documentation work. He was a brilliant photographer, and was
passio
perpetrated on the Arab people.
It was his first trip to the middle east,
but his previous three weeks had made him rather
well-versed in this type
of work. He was
mature and laid back about it all, but incredibly
passio
only 21 years old, born the same year as I.
I
had spent a few hours that day taking him around Rafah to take pictures.
We were trying to compile
photo images of the city and our presence here
for documentation and promotional purposes. The children here love a
camera, and would crowd us endlessly. This bothers and overwhelms most
people, but Tab thought it a little funny, and would
chuckle at the
rambunctious children shouting ''What's you're name'' and ''How
are you''.
He mentioned that he'd
learned some tricks already, like not pulling out
his camera until the absolute last minute.
We
had even had a conversation that day about the dangers of this place,
and how none of us really understood them or we wouldn't
be here. I said
that I still felt confident with my international status
even after the
recent violence against us. I believed that it was not a
calculated
targeting of internationals, just an increased amount of
recklessness and
hostility brought on by the increased effectiveness of our
work. I said I
wouldn't really be intimidated until they openly target an
obvious
international. Not until they very intentionally kill one of us
would I
feel the terror experienced by Palestinians. Fate works in mysterious
ways.
I
don't know if I can stay here now. I
believe that internationals need
to stay here, and that the Israeli military cannot
learn that they can
intimidate ISM with such violence. I believe that it only shows how
effective our work has become, and that now is the time to
stay and
establish an even stronger presence. But I only have so much energy left.
Rachel's death took a lot
out of me, but also inspired me to stay longer
and throw myself into the
direct action against the Israeli occupation of Rafah. I had planned to
stay through the end of May to accomplish these goals,
and knew that I had
at least that left in me. But this incident has aged me quickly, and
makes me question if I can now handle this place and this
type of work.
Who
knows what's going to happen to him now.
It seems likely that his
family will have to make that dreaded decision about
whether or not to
take him off life support. I have to leave here if he dies, I can't do
the whole shahid thing
again. I also cannot participate in
another
military investigation.
There were plenty of Palestinian and
international witnesses willing to cooperate. I'll continue media and
legal work regarding Rachel's death, but I can't handle
two. I just
can't. Learning my
limits has been a crucial part of my personal
development here. I have
learned to say no, and I'm saying it now.
This
statement may be used for any media or legal processes, but
that's it,
hallas!
What
a privilege it is for me to be able to say that. How lucky I am that
I can just leave when I've
had enough, and catalogue the experience in my
mental register of intense events. I can only leave on the condition that
I return with a longer-term
commitment, as my solidarity with these
amazing people has only just begun.
4/15/2003
Update on Tom Hurndall’s Condition
This was written in a joint
effort between me and Laura Gordon.
I am too strong and normal
here in Be'er Sheva Soroka Medical Center,
which is far away from Rafah and visiting hours are
scattered and fleeting
and we only see Tom for a few minutes, only have to deal
with reality for
a few minutes every day and outside of that it's
hospital halls and
fluorescent lights, counting the tiles laid out in floor
patterns and
making frequent trips to the cafeteria and the lawn
outside, which makes
the whole thing look like a college campus. Yesterday, some college
student reporters came to interview me and Joe, videotaped
me writing in
my journal from four angles and I don't know how many
of Joe smoking a
cigarette just so, I hate journalists. I really don't want to deal with
this vulgarity, where my friend Tom gets a bullet through
the head and
then lies in a coma for days, his whole body swollen and
white. It is too
easy to look at pictures of him from before and fold them
up into some
dark corner where people sleep for ages as they were, or
keep traveling
while you stay where you are.
We have been staying in a
house in Kibbutz Shuval, a little north of Be'er
Sheva, with an amazing family who has laid out for us a
room full of
mattresses and blankets and a space heater and a computer, and
drives us
to and from the hospital and feeds us loads of tea and
hummus and cheese
made fresh on the kibbutz. The kibbutz is beautiful with curved paths to
get lost on and great expanses of green and flowers and
the most adorable
apartments that feel safe like strong arms rocking... it is
really
disorienting to commute between the hospital and here, this is my
only
view of Be'er Sheva ever and mostly I am so used to Rafah, where beauty
is
harder to find and precious like rare stones. In Hebron, in Jerusalem,
there is beauty in the hills and the homes scattered like
a monopoly board
and the sun setting, and it's easy to let your eyes
settle on the
surface... the Gaza Strip resembles a wasteland to those who
have never
seen it before and it takes longer to find the beauty but
you find it in
the core of things, some deeper reality.
We barely knew Tom. He was here a few days only, which is nothing
at all
when everyone is scattered doing projects in all corners
of the Gaza
Strip. Only now we are piecing together some kind of
coherent impression
of who he was.
He spent two weeks in Iraq doing some human shield work
but mainly documentation, working closely with Michelle,
who is a
documentary maker and came with him to the middle east and was
working
with ISM Nablus until now and
is spending most nights in the hospital,
sleepless. Nathan was
there with him as well, and had been working in
Jenin till he heard the news and bolted to the hospital with Michelle. The
three had wanted to work as human shields in Iraqi
hospitals, but Iraqi
officials wouldn't let them in, so they went to Jordan to do
some refugee
work for a week before coming to work with ISM here in
Palestine. Tom has
been everywhere, speaks all kinds of bits of languages...
we look through
pictures his brother Billy has brought of him and his eyes
shine like to
burn the paper. We
remember him with a half smile all the time chuckling
at the kids and taking pictures... oh god could he take
pictures.
It is unspeakably wrong to
see him in the hospital, his life monitor
beeping while he breathes on a machine. They taped his one
eye closed, as
it was horribly disturbing to see it half open, glaring
at nothing, no
life in it whatsoever. The swelling of his face has gone
down and he is
more recognizable now, but his bandages hide a good
portion of his head. I
ask Michelle if there is any notion of his presence, if
she can feel any
part of his spirit still with us, and she says no. I must
admit I can feel
nothing, but it is somewhat encouraging to see his body
still alive. All
we can do is pray for the miracle it will take to bring
him back.
The doctors have been
ridiculously evasive. Even his family has had a hard
time rec
Rights came and visited
yesterday, and he was able to corner a doctor and
speak to him in Hebrew. He reported that only the very
basics of his brain
are still functioning. His reflexes work enough to allow
the machines to
keep his lungs and heart working, but there is no other
activity besides
that. I believe
that this is the definition of brain dead. The doctor was
not hopeful and n
be, they have nothing else to be. Michelle and Nathan
say they'll stay as
long as he stays, and go wherever he goes, until he
leaves for the place
to which no one can follow him.
The Israeli military have
yet to come up with a decent story. Most
articles I read say, "IDF refuses to comment." Some imply that he may
have been armed, and there are rumors that they were
trying to assassi
our Palestinian coordinator, as if a Palestinian
involved in non-violent
civil disobedience is a more legitimate target. A
Jerusalem Post article
quoted some IDF commander as saying he was a member of some
random
Egyptian terrorist group
that uses internationals as fighters, and he was
attacking the soldiers when they shot him in self-defense. I
guess this
armed militia finds it intelligent to dress fighters in
high-visibility
fluorescent gear. Indeed,
the weapon Tom had was much more dangerous to
the IDF than a gun, he had a camera.
One doctor is trying to cast
doubt on whether it was really a bullet that
so severely injured him. One doctor came out positively that it was,
but
was quickly pulled into a private room with two other
doctors, and came
out saying that it's possible the wound was inflicted by
a harsh blow to
the head, like from a baseball bat. It shouldn't be that
surprising that
they'd say something like that, as Billy puts it,
"He's b
the same bastards that shot him".
Outside the respiratory ward
currently keeping Tom alive, we hang out
mostly with Palestinians. Israeli Palestinians mainly, but
there is this
lovely fellow named Sahd, who's
actually from
shot in the shoulder, chest and side over a month ago,
and is now in a
similar condition as Tom.
It took many negotiations to allow him and his
brother to be at this Israeli hospital. The Palestinian
Authority is
paying 3500 Shekels a day to keep him there, and Sahd is not allowed to
ever leave that ward of the hospital. He's been there for
44 days, and
lives in a small, partially enclosed corner, formerly the
smoking room.
Friendly Israeli
Palestinians bring him food and other necessities, and he
is quickly greeted by an armed guard if he so much as
tries to go out into
the courtyard. He
is truly a Palestinian, and has treated us with the
hospitality indicative of a Gazan. He
lets us sit and sleep on his
mattresses, and makes us tea and coffee, and always tries to
share his
limited food supply.
The place really reminds me of
cramped, enclosed and choked of its resources. We joke that
the situation
is all too representative, as the rest of the huge,
beautiful, western
hospital is reserved only for Israelis, and the Palestinian
is given a
tiny little box with no resources and is tightly
controlled. The fact
that it used to be the smoking room only makes it all the
more
appropriate.
Tom's mother and father went
to visit the Gaza Strip yesterday. They
drove down to Rafah, armed with a convoy of bulletproof
jeeps and armed
guards from the PA and the British embassy and were back by
evening. His
parents look tired mostly but not distraught, all of us do
our own
compartmentalizing. They went to
the place where it happened, they saw
the stream of his blood tracing the street and the
bullet holes in the
door of the next building. As for his brother, Billy, he is withdrawn
and
angry at the world and has it in for journalists and
Israeli soldiers
passing by. His face
is a mirror of Tom's face, but he wears his hair
long, in a ponytail, and hides in the shadow of his
cap. Before this, he
was working in carpentry to save up some money to go
traveling, like his
brother.
Anyhow, I feel really
disconnected all the time, not only now, and I
wonder how much of it has to do with living in Rafah. Everyday there is
tragedy and you come frighteningly close to death and if you
want to be
productive you have to dissociate, swallow your grief in
teaspoonfuls and
not watch Al Jazeera too
closely. And now Tom is wavering on the
line
between life and death and it all kind of accumulates, his
hospital bed
underlines the experience of his many weeks in
question in all of our heads... this can't be happening? This happened.
It was. This happens. It is.
Today we are staying here on
the kibbutz almost all day after sitting
straight through
last day, we will say goodbye to Tom and then leave
tomorrow morning for
Once we were slaves, now we
are free? What does it mean for someone
who
has never wanted for choices or freedom, but a glimpse
into some for
meaning in history of my own roots... I don't know, maybe it's something
you understand better as you age and the pains you have
endured
accumulate.
In Dec 2004, Joe was
forced to testify at the military trial of the soldier accused of shooting Tom
Hurndall.
Speaking Truth to Power
By Joe Carr
John (my CPT support person)
and I were late to the courthouse because we missed the bus stop. I asked about
four Israelis if it was the right one and none would answer me. Finally,
someone told us it was the stop we just passed, so we got off and walked back
about two kilometers.
The trial prosecuting the
soldier accused of killing Tom Hurndall took place inside a military compound,
and felt quite fascist with everyone in uniform. The court’s character is
indicated by its emblem: a Star of David in the middle of a sword, out of which
extend the scales of justice. “Can justice be combined with religion and
violence?” I thought.
As I took my place at the
witness stand, I looked into the eyes of the three old, skeptical military
judges, probably officers who’ve killed th
The prosecutors weren’t much
older than me, they had zitty
faces and looked like they’d rather be playing video games. The young blond
male prosecutor sat and said nothing, while a fiery young female indignantly
objected and argued to the judge.
The vast majority of my
three-hour testimony was not me talking, but translation and arguing in Hebrew.
The prosecution would object to one of the defenses’ questions before it had
been translated to me, so I never even got to know what some of the questions
were.
They primarily asked me
about the location, as I understand there are some geographic discrepancies in
the confessions the defendant signed. I avoided sounding totally positive, especially
with the unclear arial photographs. The prosecution
made sure there was clearly a line-of-site between the tower and the location
where Tom was shot. This I was sure of, and r
Guilty or not, I am troubled
by the idea of prosecuting one man for following a military policy that origi
All in all, it was a good
experience. It was emotionally difficult to revisit the event in such detail
and especially hard to look at pictures. But I kept breathing and tried to not let
the images sink in; I shouldn’t have to re-do my trauma therapy. I stood my
ground and did not let them intimidate or bully me. In the face of power, I
spoke the truth, and I was not afraid.
Eye to Eye
read allowed on Joe’s CD Plant the Olive Branch
I came face to face with the
man who killed my friend
Eye to eye we stood
And this time there was
nothing to hide behind
No guard tower with tinted
windows
No fluorescent jackets and
megaphones
No Palestinian children
No commander’s orders
Eye to eye we stood
And I wondered if I looked
different through the scope of a sniper rifle
I wondered if the children
looked different
He only wanted to play
But now his bullets are real
Tom fell so he could feel
Like part of the game
Three young boys in a war
zone
One down, two to go
How did we get here?
Two young boys in a
courtroom
N
Who am I, white boy from
To testify
against this poor young Arab boy?
Who am I?
Eye to eye I faced him
Distaste erased, I wanted to
embrace him
We should be drinking and
flirting
Not playing with guns and
fluorescent jackets
Sinking and Hurting
And hurting
“After the trial ya wanna go
out for a beer?”
Oh yeah, your stuck here
“Well maybe the next time
we’re in
See if our humanity is still
within reach
Eye to eye we stood
He seemed ashamed and afraid
The sad game he’s played
Won by so many but somehow
he lost
Now he pays the cost for the
tax dollars I paid
And the landmines my
government laid
I bought the gun and he
pulled the trigger
How does it figure that I’m
not on trial?
Perhaps I will be
Perhaps we all will be
One boy down, another in
prison
The third boy tryin to be forgivin’
I testify to try to the test
of livin
The trial to try all the
truth I’s given
The truth you want?
It is in this young boy’s
Face to face we stood
Eye to eye, forgetting eye
for an eye
For in this young boy’s eyes
I
Saw myself