Washington Report, November 2005, pages 14-16

Portrait of Palestine

An Eyewitness Account of the Murder of Muhammad “Niinu” Al-’Assi

By Anne Gwynne

	Niinu full of life, and in death (Photos by A. Gwynne).

EDITORS’ NOTE: This is a rare eyewitness account of one of Israel’s hundreds of illegal “targeted murders” of young Palestinian men, members of the legal resistance. It is the only eyewitness account of this particular brutal murder. The author was part of a team from ITV Wales which made two films in Balaata/Nablus, shown in the UK in January 2004 and January 2005. The second featured Muhammad Al-’Assi. Gwynne was gathering material for a follow-up to that interview, to piece together the story of the Al-’Assi family’s suffering since 1948, when they were driven from their home near Jaffa by well-armed, invading Jewish colonists.

I felt that I must put the record straight, as so many lies have been written and spoken about this murder (see, for example, box on p. 16).

What follows is the only true account of what really happened on the night of Wednesday/Thursday, July 13/14, 2005 at my home in Sharra’ Imreij—a quiet street of villas in the leafy Nablus residential neighborhood of Raffidiya—a happy place where I have lived contentedly for months. Its peace was shattered on an idyllic summer evening by up to 100 Israeli “soldiers” who, without warning, attacked my small villa, brutally murdered an unarmed man within minutes, and abducted a student to the dreaded Petakh Tikfah torture center.

At the moment of the attack by Israelis dressed as Palestinians, who poured out of unmarked vehicles bearing Palestinian license plates, there were many people in the street, including groups of children. Some were playing, some sitting and talking, on one of the lovely, cool eventides which have usually followed the exceptionally hot days of this particular July.

11 p.m. [all times may be plus or minus five minutes]: I had been out walking, and returned home to continue chronicling the story of a member of the resistance, Muhammad “Niinu” Al-’Assi. Our interpreter was Mutassim Adel ‘Ayl, a student with an exceptionally deep understanding of English who has fulfilled the role of interpreter for me on many occasions. I am a very close friend of both families, having known Mutassim for nearly three years and Niinu’s sisters for more than two years, since the murder of a second brother, Faaris. Niinu was incarcerated at that time, and we met in November 2004.

Contrary to the wild stories in the press, we three were the only people in the home, and we were talking in the reception hall off the veranda. We actually were discussing Niinu’s need for a hearing aid, since he had lost all hearing in his left ear, and 50 percent in his right, as a result of a June 14, 2004 Israeli missile attack on the car in which he was traveling with a close friend, the esteshaad (hero) Khalil Marshoud. Khalil and the taxi driver were killed, and Niinu grievously injured. On this very day Niinu had said he would announce his engagement and, to his joy, Mutassim had arranged funding for him to get the precious hearing device.

11:15 p.m.: Suddenly we heard an unusually large motor stopped in the street. I went to look out the window, and saw a huge, very long white truck or bus (I could see only the roof) outside the gates, and the street full of Israeli soldiers dressed as Palestinians. Shooting and shouting erupted.

11:16 p.m.: There were prolonged volleys of Israeli shooting in all directions, and much shouting and screaming by the Israelis, via a megaphone, at fleeing children. I froze—“Oh my God! Special Forces”—but did not yet realize that my house was the target. Having witnessed firsthand the carnage they cause, however, I was absolutely terrified.

As I turned from the window, I caught just a glimpse of Muhammad as he ran out the side door, barefoot, wearing shorts and undershirt, into the garden on the left of the house. (Since we never walk on indoor floors wearing outdoor shoes, we were all barefoot, in fact.) Muhammad had no weapon, not even a handgun. Why would he? He had come to tell a story. The Israelis easily could have arrested him as he ran out the door—but they wanted him dead.

Mattloubiin and Muttaradiin

There are two categories of men hunted by the Israelis, al-mattloubiin and al-muttaradiin. The former generally are “wanted” for capture, although they often are killed. The names on the list change: it is possible for men to be on it for many years, constantly harassed and chased and repeatedly injured; they can even “drop off” the list when it grows too long. The muttaradiin (assassination) list, apart from being illegal, is different. Like the foxes Tony Blair has worked so hard to save in the UK, muttaradiin are for hunting to death and killing. Israeli vengeance is unrelenting and forever, and once a man or boy is on the list the only way off it is into the ground.

Because “Niinu” Al-’Assi was muttaarad—that is, on the illegal Israeli assassination list—there could be no escape for him, whatever he did. The Israelis were determined to kill him.

Mutassim Adel ‘Ayl is neither muttaarad nor mattloub. He is just a student—but then, scores of students around Nablus have been murdered, and hundreds incarcerated, on the road to learning.

Wanted Dead, Not Alive

The view from the veranda of the author’s house (Photo by A. Gwynne).

Someone—a collaborator, that most despised of people bred by occupation—had called the Israelis to tell them that Niinu was in the house. The Israelis do not mount a big operation like this unless they are quite certain of a kill. Like most of his fellow traitors, this collaborator will be found out, and will pay the ultimate penalty for his crime.

There were no warnings. I heard none, nor did Mutassim. He was slumped down on a sofa, muttering, “What can we do?”

“Nothing,” we despaired.

All the lights in the house were on, so while Mutassim was putting on his cargo pants, shirt, boots and socks I crawled under the line of fire to turn off at least those in the three front windows and the veranda. With them on, we were sitting ducks.

In a minute, four or five jeeps, a troop carrier, and a prison van arrived with much shooting and noise in the street, and the so-called “special forces” withdrew very quickly. They do not wish to be photographed, of course, and as soon as the legal, uniformed soldiers come they melt away as though they had never existed.

The Israelis used powerful beams of light to look for Muhammad, who was clearly caught in them several times. The soldiers saw that he was unarmed, and how he was dressed. They could have arrested him at any time without harm to themselves. Instead dozens of “soldiers,” with at least four dogs, were trampling over my beautiful, peaceful, tree-filled garden, firing their M16 assault rifles at Muhammad. The bursts of gunfire were coming from all directions.

About a minute after Niinu ran out the door there was sustained firing from the road at the rear of the house. I believe Niinu ran up the terraces to the rear wall and road and, finding that way closed as well, must have run back and to the other side of the house—because, in the glare of the Israelis’ brilliant lights, from a side window I saw him jump onto the garden wall. There he was cut down by multiple M16 bullets just above the ankle on the inside of his left leg, shattering bone, flesh and tendons—virtually severing his foot. Other bullets slammed into his body—at least one grievously wounded him in the groin, causing blood to pour from the severed artery, while three struck his right leg.

Wounded, but not fatally, Muhammad jumped down into the adjacent garden. His shattered leg folded under him, and he dragged himself about 20 feet to a small wall, where he collapsed onto his back. He could have been arrested here, too. Clearly, escape no longer was a possibility.

I repeat, because this is important: These shots did not kill him. He still could have been arrested at any time.

11:30 p.m.: An Israeli soldier then proceeded to fire multiple shots from hisM16 into Muhammad’s head at very close range—“much less than 10 meters,” according to the pathologist—causing severe injury and instant death. The scalp and bone of the crown above Niinu’s right eye and behind were completely destroyed, and most of his brain was blown onto the garden. Dr. Samiir Abu Zaghour surmised that the soldiers fired between four and seven bullets into Muhammad’s defenseless head, but he could not be sure, because the horrifically damaged head did not hold the bullets, which had fallen somewhere with the brain. In pathology, the term used to describe an injury so massive that a part of the body—for example the skull, bone and brain—is completely destroyed is “crush injury.” 

Contrary to subsequent Israeli army reports that its soldiers had “warned militants in the house” and attacked “some hours later,” Niinu was dead only 10 to 12 minutes after the uniformed Israeli soldiers arrived.

Niinu al-’Assi had a very beautiful, level gaze emanating from large, wide-set eyes. At the moment of his death his eyes were wide open, looking straight into the eyes of his executioner, a small smile parting his lips over very white teeth. Without screaming or pleading, he met his death with supreme courage, asking for no mercy; not with hatred, anger and fear, but with the quiet softness of the love in which he had lived.

But it was not over. While looking into the direct, clear gaze of Niinu’s lifeless eyes, an Israeli officer found in himself enough hatred to fire seven more bullets from his handgun into Muhammad’s right rib-cage and upper-arm (already defiled by the scars, shrapnel and proudflesh of previous attacks). Two more bullets were found in Niinu’s back. The entry wounds are tiny, indicating extremely close range—the X-rays showed the bullets in his body beside many bright pieces of shrapnel, the remnants of the extensive surgery following his miraculous escape from the earlier missile attack.

With that smile, and his soft eyes still open—we could not close them—Niinu’s body now lies in the earth of the beautiful, tragic maqbarra of Mukhayyam Balaata, the Cemetery of Balata Refugee Camp. Beside him lie family martyrs—his younger brother Faris, and older brother Khaled—and around him the hundreds of his beloved friends, the shuhadda (martyrs) who have given their lives for Palestine in this intifada and before.

My pictures show what seem to be several other points of entry of bullets in Muhammad’s body, along with extensive, parallel abrasions, indicating that he was dragged some distance over a hard surface. No report on these exists, for there really was no purpose to be served by further disturbing the “soft flesh of the young fighter” (Fadwa Tuqaan) to investigate any more wounds. He had suffered enough.

12:15 a.m.: Not content with the execution-style killing of Muhammad, the Israelis then dragged to the street the body of this unarmed man, murdered in cold blood as he lay looking up at his killer. Dumping his body into a vehicle in an inhuman fashion, they took Niinu away, even though there were two ambulances outside my house—one driven by the brave Tony Ghratiit (Red Crescent), the other by the fearless Jareer Kanadillo (Palestine Medical Relief Society)—as well as doctors, including the courageous PMRS manager, Dr. Ghassan Hamdan. Some five hours later, the Israelis dumped Muhammad’s body back in Nablus. It is hard to see any reason for, or to excuse, this utter inhumanity.

The House is Besieged

The Israelis now turned their attention to my house, where, for the past hour, Mutassim and I had huddled together in a corner of the front bedroom, hoping we were out of the line of fire, our arms around each other for comfort. All the time we felt that we, too, would die here. I could hear Mutassim’s rapid, heavy heart beat on my ribs, and I’m sure he could feel mine.

There was intensified shooting from all sides, coupled with the explosions of grenades and “sound-bombs” all around the house, in addition to hundreds of rounds of M16 fire. Sound bombs are terrifying, as they mimic real bombs exactly, and cause multiple reverberations and explosions—especially when detonated from several sides—as well as severe nerve damage to the ears. Afterward I found the remains of four such bombs and one grenade in the garden—there may well have been more.

1 a.m.: By megaphone we were told to “come out or we will bomb the house.” We could hear a helicopter attack gunship, and it was not my house, so we agreed that we had to go out—and, in any case, if it was a choice between “death by crushing” or “death by shooting,” we definitely preferred the latter. This was the only warning we were given throughout the entire ordeal.

I knew that the moment Mutassim emerged the Israelis would kill him on sight, but felt that they might not be so ready to murder a sahaffiyya ajnabbiya—a foreign woman journalist—so I emerged first, repeatedly calling out, “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, I am a journalist.” I told them clearly, slowly and calmly that I was going to put on the veranda light and pull the screen aside, and asked them again not to shoot. Holding my hands vertically, palms facing the soldiers, I also took the precaution of raising my blouse up to my bra—as the Israelis seem to believe that everyone here sleeps wearing a commando belt.

Neither I nor Mutassim had committed a crime—other than being alive, that is. But here we were, two innocent human beings pleading for our lives with a hundred gunmen pointing their assault rifles at us!

When I felt confident that the soldiers had understood, I asked Mutassim to join me, but stand behind.

Hand in hand, we walked down the path and the steps. When I was unable to locate the correct key to the gates, Mutassim calmly took the ring from me and unlocked them.

With the exception of one family from the house next door, all the neighbors had been ordered into the street, The soldiers gestured to us to walk slowly forward, with our shirts pulled up to the neck. It doesn’t feel great walking like that up a street filled with people, believe me.

1:15 a.m.: An Israeli grunted something from the other end of an M16. I think he asked if I was English, and I replied with an emphatic “No.” (I am Welsh.)

“You don’t speak English?” he repeated.

But I didn’t need it anyway. Rapping out “there” and pointing to a “stalls seat” on the tarmac with his multi-purpose M16 rifle, he indicated that I should sit in the street with two of my neighbors, Suhayla and her daughter, a Christian family, from the basement flat in the Jaaber house next door.

Just as no one warned Muhammad or verified his identity, no one asked me my name or Mutassim his, or asked for ID. They just blindfolded Mutassim, pulled a hard plastic electrical cable tie painfully tight around his wrists, took him to the garden next door where Muhammad had been murdered, and manacled Mutassim’s ankles. That was all I could see. Like Muhammad, Mutassim did not beg or plead. He stood strong and proud and dignified, and he walked tall.

Taking their dogs, most of the soldiers, then went into my garden and surrounded my house, approaching it as though they believed it contained one of Israel’s 400 nuclear missiles ready to fire. After a while they all entered and ransacked my simple possessions.

1:45 a.m.: Having found nothing—since, of course, there was nothing there to find—they came out without speaking and hung about until 2:15, when the troop carrier returned. The soldiers all got in, putting Mutassim in the prison van and telling me, “You can enter house after five minutes.”

Then they all drove off, leaving more lives destroyed, more families devastated, more murder and mayhem, and an even more determined resistance in their wake.

As for the “soldier” who, at point-blank range, first pumped the bullets into Muhammad’s head as he lay grievously wounded, and the officer who later emptied his handgun into the soft flesh of the already dead young fighter, I cannot but wonder what will they see when they look into a mirror. Will they forever see the wide hazel eyes which continued to look into theirs for long after Niinu had left this life? Will they, and the rest of them, hear in their dreams the sickening squelches of Muhammad’s brain and lung, and duck from the sprays of blood? How will they be able to live with these pictures and sounds?

“Look upon your works, O Ye Israel and despair!” I pity your inhumanity.

Afterword: Since that night, two of Mutassim’s brothers, Ala’a and Dia’a, and Niinu’s cousin Tareq have been arrested in separate invasions of Balaata Refugee Camp, and both family homes have been ransacked and damaged by Israeli occupation forces.

Anne Gwynne, an elected member of the International Federation of Journalists and the National Union of Journalists (UK), writes from occupied Nablus. She can be contacted at <gwynne_anne@hotmail.com>. More photographs of Niinu in life and in death can be viewed at <http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/niinu_alassi/my_photos>.