DEIR YASSIN - 9th APRIL 1948|
by Gerry Williams
Gerry Williams, a 57-year old English gentleman, wrote this piece for a course in occupational therapy, April 2002. Contact: Gerry
DEIR YASSIN - 9th APRIL 1948|
by Gerry Williams
Gerry Williams, a 57-year old English gentleman, wrote this piece for a course in occupational therapy, April 2002. Contact: Gerry.w@Virgin.Net
I was just 14, proud to be at the Mukhtar's meeting alongside my father. He told us slowly, deliberately, of that day's failed attempt to free Kastel. His eyes filled with tears as he solemnly announced the death of Abdel Kadir Husseini. Our hopes, our passion, our belief in Palestine died with his words. We sat or stood there, but the room was empty.
He said they would come soon. We must be ready. We must be prepared to die. He went, exactingly, through the plan to defend. All who were there knew it. All knew of our ditches and rocks on the eastern hillside leading down to the road. All knew they would attack from there. All knew they would come at night. All knew of our few old single shot rifles. All knew of our two ancient Bren guns. All knew of our small supply of ammunition. All knew of Kastel, 5 kilometres away. All knew of our agreement with Haganah in Jerusalem. We had all taken our prayer mats and we prayed for Allah's strength.
The men made their preparations. My father and I lay together on the roof of a house overlooking the road. Darkness fell, a starlight night with a crescent moon, a good omen. He had one of the rifles and I had ten bullets. I had to pass him one the correct way round after each shot he fired. We lay there in silence, listening, hearing nothing but the night sounds of our village. We waited. It grew colder. We waited and waited. Soon it would be dawn. Perhaps they wouldn't come tonight. My father whispered, "Go and make some tea for us and the others nearby". I returned home. My mother was awake but Sahar was asleep.
A single shot rang out echoing from house to house. Ringing on and on almost drowning my father's shout of, "Mahmoud!" I ran to him with all my speed but already there was answering fire from below and around. "Down, pass me a bullet", he ordered. He must have fired the shot and the flash had given them a target. Bullets whistled and whined around us, flying bits of stonework stinging us, as we lay unified in terror. No one in the village fired a shot. Slowly the shooting died away. We could hear the engine of a vehicle coming up the hill. We nervously raised our heads. The first streaks of day outlined an armoured car struggling in the first of our ditches. We watched in horror as it climbed out. Upward and onward it came. Our work was no match for its power. The rocks stopped it. A dim shape got out and tried to move one of the rocks. My father shot him. Answering fire seemed to surround us before I could pass him another bullet. I heard the Bren guns on the Mukhtar's roof give short bursts of fire, shots from roofs, shots from the ground, shots from below, shots from the right, shots from the left, unending flashes of lightning from a storm in the half light.
A rasping, crackling, unreal Arab voice started ordering, "Stop the fighting, retreat, run for your lives, put down your weapons". It repeated and repeated, on and on, like the firing. Our village was still secure. I still had bullets for my father's rifle and I knew that the other men would follow the plan. Shoot only when you can kill.
The voice stopped. The firing rose and fell like a vulture in the sky. The Jews were trying to enter the village from the East, the North and South. The escarpment to the West made attack from that direction very difficult. The Bren guns' placement was critical. In the centre of the village they could cover attack from all three sides, assisted by men on roofs. As Jews tried to enter the village, they were either shot or instantly repelled. They knew where my father and I lay, but we seemed to draw little fire. It was a sniping battle, but we were getting shorter and shorter of ammunition. Perhaps they didn't realise. I heard a muffled explosion from the hillside below. I heard a noise like the sighing of the wind through a crack in the door. It passed over my head and the Mosque exploded. Two more explosions and the Mukhtar's house lay in ruins. My father screamed, "Get your mother and Sahar out to the West. Go!"
I jumped from the roof and ran down the back street towards home. There was a Jew some way in front of me. I saw him reach Zahran's family house next door to mine. He 