Son of Hamas

Chapter Nine GUNS Winter 1995 — Spring 1996

After the Oslo Accords, the international community expected the Palestinian Authority to keep Hamas in check. On Saturday, November 4, 1995, I was watching television when a news bulletin broke into programming. Yitzhak Rabin had been shot during a peace rally in Kings Square in Tel Aviv. It sounded serious. A couple of hours later, officials announced that he was dead.

“Wow!” I said aloud to no one in particular. “Some Palestinian faction still has the power to assassinate Israel’s prime minister! That should have happened a long time ago.” I was very happy for his death and the damage it would do to the PLO and its watered-down capitulation to Israel.

Then the phone rang. I recognized the caller’s voice immediately. It was Yasser Arafat, and he asked to speak to my father.

I listened as my father spoke into the telephone. He didn’t say much; he was kind and respectful, and mostly he just agreed with whatever Arafat was saying on the other end of the line.

“I understand,” he said. “Good-bye.”

Then he turned to me. “Arafat has asked that we try to keep Hamas from celebrating the death of the prime minister,” he said. “The assassination was a very big loss for Arafat because Rabin showed such political courage in entering into peace negotiations with the PLO.”

We later learned that Rabin had not been killed by a Palestinian after all. Instead, he had been shot in the back by an Israeli law student. Many in Hamas were disappointed by this piece of information; personally, I found it amusing that Jewish fanatics had shared a goal with Hamas.

The assassination put the world on edge, and the world put more pressure on Arafat to get control of the Palestinian territories. So he launched an all-out crackdown on Hamas. PA police came to our house, asked my father to prepare himself, and locked him away in Arafat’s compound—all the while treating him with the utmost respect and kindness.

Even so, for the first time, Palestinians were imprisoning other Palestinians. It was ugly, but at least they treated my father respectfully. Unlike many of the others, he was given a comfortable room, and Arafat visited with him from time to time to discuss various issues.

Soon all of the top leaders of Hamas, along with thousands of its members, were locked away in Palestinian prisons. Many were tortured for information. Some died. But others escaped arrest, became fugitives, and continued their attacks against Israel.

Now my hatred had multiple focal points. I hated the Palestinian Authority and Yasser Arafat, I hated Israel, and I hated secular Palestinians. Why should my father, who loved Allah and his people, have to pay such a heavy price while godless men like Arafat and his PLO handed a great victory to the Israelis—whom the Qur’an likened to pigs and monkeys? And the international community applauded Israel because it got the terrorists to recognize its right to exist.

I was seventeen and only months away from my high school graduation. Whenever I visited my father in prison or brought him food from home and other things to make him more comfortable, he encouraged me, saying, “The only thing you have to do is pass your tests. Focus on your school. Don’t worry about me. I don’t want this to interfere with anything.” But life no longer meant anything to me. I could think of nothing else except joining the military wing of Hamas and taking revenge on Israel and the Palestinian Authority. I thought about everything I had seen in my life. Was all the struggle and sacrifice going to end like this, in a cheap peace with Israel? If I died fighting, at least I would die as a martyr and go to heaven.

My father had never taught me to hate, but I didn’t know how not to feel this way. Though he passionately fought the occupation, and though I don’t believe he would have hesitated to give the order to nuke the nation of Israel if he had had the bomb, he never spoke against Jewish people, like some racist leaders of Hamas did. He was much more interested in the god of the Qur’an than in politics. Allah had given us the responsibility of eradicating the Jews, and my father didn’t question that, though he personally had nothing against them.

“How is your relationship to Allah?” he asked me every time I visited him. “Did you pray today? cry? spend time with him?” He never said, “I want you to become a good mujahid [guerilla soldier].” His admonition to me as his eldest son was always, “Be very good to your mother, very good to Allah, and very good to your people.”

I didn’t understand how he could be so compassionate and forgiving, even toward the soldiers who came again and again to arrest him. He treated them like children. When I brought him food at the PA compound, he often invited the guards to join us and share in my mother’s specially prepared meat and rice. And after a few months, even the PA guards loved him. While it was easy for me to love him, he was also a very difficult man to understand.

Filled with anger and a desire for revenge, I started hunting for guns. Though weapons were available in the territories by this time, they were very expensive, and I was a student with no money.

Ibrahim Kiswani, a classmate from a village next to Jerusalem, shared my interest and told me he could get the money we needed—not enough for heavy guns, but enough for some cheap rifles and maybe a pistol. I asked my cousin Yousef Dawood if he knew where I could get some weapons.

Yousef and I weren’t really that close, but I knew he had connections that I didn’t have.

“I have a couple of friends in Nablus who might help,” he told me. “What do you want with guns?”

“Every family has its own weapons,” I lied. “I want one to protect my family.”

Well, it wasn’t exactly a lie. Ibrahim lived in a village where every family did indeed have its own weapons for self-defense, and he was like a brother to me.

In addition to wanting to take revenge, I thought it would be cool to be a teenager with a gun. I no longer cared much about school. Why go to school in this crazy country?

Finally one afternoon, I got a call from my cousin Yousef.

“Okay, we’re going to Nablus. I know a guy who works for the PA security force. I think he can get us some weapons,” he said.

When we arrived in Nablus, a man met us at the door of the small house and led us inside. There he showed us Swedish Carl Gustav M45 submachine guns and a Port Said, which was an Egyptian version of the same weapon. He took us to a remote spot in the mountains and showed us how they operated. When he asked me if I wanted to try one, my heart started to race. I had never fired a machine gun before, and suddenly I was scared.

“No, I trust you,” I told him. I purchased a couple of Gustafs and a handgun from the man. I hid them in the door of my car, sprinkling black pepper over them to throw off any Israeli dogs that might be sniffing for weapons at the checkpoints.

As I drove back to Ramallah, I called Ibrahim on the way.

“Hey, I got the stuff!”

“Really?”

“Really.”

We knew better than to use words like guns or weapons because there was a good chance that the Israelis were listening to everything we said. We set up a time for Ibrahim to pick up his “things” and quickly said good night.

It was the spring of 1996. I had just turned eighteen, and I was armed.

One night, Ibrahim called me, and I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was really angry.

“The guns don’t work!” he shouted into the phone.

“What are you talking about?” I shot back, hoping no one was listening to our conversation.

“The guns don’t work,” he repeated. “We were cheated!”

“I can’t talk now,” I told him.

“Okay, but I want to see you tonight.”

When he arrived at my house, I immediately lit into him.

“Are you crazy, talking like that on the phone?” I said.

“I know, but the guns aren’t working. The handgun is okay, but the submachine guns won’t shoot.”

“Okay, they’re not working. Are you sure you know how to use them?”

He assured me that he knew what he was doing, so I told him I would deal with it. With my final exams just two weeks away, I didn’t really have time for any of this, but I went ahead and made the arrangements to take the malfunctioning guns back to Yousef.

“This is a disaster,” I told him when I saw him. “The handgun works, but the machine guns don’t. Call your friends in Nablus so we can at least get our money back.” He promised to try.

The next day my brother Sohayb gave me some sobering news. “Israeli security forces came to the house last night, looking for you,” he told me with a worried strain in his voice.

My first thought was, We didn’t even kill anyone yet! I was scared, but I also felt a bit important, as though I was becoming dangerous to Israel. The next time I visited my father, he had already heard that the Israelis were looking for me.

“What’s going on?” he asked sternly. I told him the truth, and he became very angry. Through his anger, however, it was clear to me that he was mostly disappointed and worried.

“This is very serious,” he warned me. “Why did you get yourself into this? You need to be taking care of your mother and brothers and sisters, not running from the Israelis. Don’t you understand that they will shoot you?”

I went home, threw together some clothes and my schoolbooks, and asked some Muslim Brotherhood students to hide me until I could take my exams and finish school.

Ibrahim clearly didn’t understand the seriousness of my situation. He continued to call me, often on my father’s cell phone.

“What’s going on? What is happening with you? I gave you all that money. I need it back.”

I told him about the security forces that had been to my house, and he started to shout and say careless things on the phone. I quickly hung up before he could implicate himself or me any further. But the next day, the IDF showed up at his place, searched it, and found the handgun. They arrested him immediately.

I felt lost. I had trusted someone I shouldn’t have. My father was in prison, and he was disappointed in me. My mother was worried sick about me. I had exams to study for. And I was wanted by the Israelis.

How could things possibly get any worse?