The Circuit (7 page)

Israel’s technical surveillance was so pervasive, in fact, that I had reason to believe it extended to my clients. Before entering Gaza, we were stopped at an Israeli-controlled checkpoint and led away from our vehicle to be questioned. Normally, we’d be questioned inside or near our vehicle. I was 95 per cent certain that while CNN’s Land Rover was out of our line of vision it was daubed for surveillance, probably with colourless paint only visible to a night vision camera attached to a drone or helicopter. After the checkpoint, I scrubbed the roof and bonnet of the Land Rover and re-arranged the large TV stickers just in case. I also stripped the vehicle to search for technical surveillance equipment that could have been hidden inside while we were being questioned.

I had no doubts that if we went ahead with the story, the Israelis would be watching all right; if not CNN then certainly Hamas. The concern therefore was whether the surveillance would lead to an attack. I really couldn’t see the Israelis deliberately whacking a missile into a CNN crew. Even if they pleaded ignorance, it would be a huge PR headache for the IDF. Frankly, I didn’t see why they would go to all the trouble. But I couldn’t dismiss the possibility completely. Journalists don’t wear body armour in Gaza and the West Bank because it’s fashionable. If the Israelis did go after Hamas and – by default – us, the easy option would be for them to position an attack helicopter two or three kilometres away; close enough to target our position with surgical precision but far enough that we might not hear it hovering.

I finished my coffee and felt much better for it. I decided that as long as we limited the number of people on the ground and kept our ears and eyes open – wide open – we could go ahead with the story.

Noor arranged a RV for the following evening at ten. Two Hamas members would wait for us up the road from our hotel and then escort us to the area where they planned to lay the anti-tank mines.

I wanted to recce the operational area in advance but obviously Hamas wouldn’t disclose it beforehand. So the next morning I took a detailed drive around Gaza. It was a stab in the dark, but I thought if I familiarized myself with enough landmarks and buildings then I might recognize something when we got to the operational area. If I could determine where we were, then I’d know where to move to cover if the need arose.

The next evening, before leaving our hotel, I gave Margaret and Noor a thorough security brief. I told them to keep an ear open for aircraft, and to wrap the shoot as quickly as possible; the sooner we moved off the ground the better. I then distributed three radios among us. If things went pear-shaped and we got separated, I didn’t want to lose contact with my clients. We loaded our gear into the Land Rover and waited for the militants to show. I drove, Noor rode in the passenger seat and Margaret sat in the back, camera as always at the ready. As usual I was unarmed. If the Israelis found a weapon on me or in the vehicle, they’d classify my clients as combatants and lump them in with Hamas.

The militants arrived on schedule at ten o’clock. After a brief word with Noor, they beckoned me to follow them into Gaza’s narrow, winding streets. It was soon apparent they were trying to disorientate us rather than lead us directly to our destination. After thirty minutes of twisting and turning we arrived at a track junction surrounded by fifteen-foot-high sand mounds. One quick scan of the area and I was delighted to discover that I knew exactly where we were; the entrance to a refugee camp on the outskirts of Gaza City. My recce that day had paid off handsomely. We were only about twelve minutes from our hotel.

The Hamas car switched off its lights. I did the same. As we slowed up, six hooded figures stepped out of the darkness. They were all carrying AK47s and backpacks; three with RPG rounds sticking out the top. I presumed the other three backpacks contained anti-tank mines. Two of the hooded men wore military helmets with sprigs of foliage coming out the top. It struck me as really amateur, especially as there’s very little foliage on the streets of Gaza.

The Hamas car turned down a side street and parked up. I followed their lead, only I turned our car around to face out. I couldn’t see through to the end, but I knew from my recce that we were in a cul-de-sac. Should a situation arise, I didn’t want to be facing a dead end. I cut the engine and got out of the vehicle. Normally, I would have kept the engine running but I was keen to listen for Israeli drones flying above us in the darkness. As far as I could tell, the skies were clear as was the immediate area. I told Noor and Margaret they could get out, but asked them to hold off on shooting until I was certain the area was reasonably secure. The details of the street which I’d committed to memory that morning took shape in the moonlight. There were a couple of empty buildings on either side and the concrete shell of a partially built petrol station near the corner.

Noor introduced me and Margaret to the escorts and the group of hooded men. The formalities sorted, I had Noor ask one of the militants to keep an eye out for any Israelis patrolling the area. By that point, we’d taken every possible precaution. Our aim now was to get the story and get out of there.

From what I could tell, the militants were laying anti-tank mines in the hope of stopping Israeli armour from bulldozing through the sand mounds at the entrance to the refugee camp. They started with the mound at the top of the cul-de-sac where we’d parked up. Working in pairs – one man to handle the explosives, the other to give cover – they pulled a round-shaped anti-tank mine approximately nine inches in diameter from one of the backpacks. I couldn’t be sure but the mine looked like it was Russian made. The militants dug a hole in the back of the mound about one foot off the ground, placed the mine inside and covered it over with sand. They finished by brushing over their footprints with leafy twigs before moving on to the next mound.

The militants were working swiftly, which eased my mind a bit. Then, as they finished laying the second mine, my ears picked up the sound of something in the distance. My brain switched into high alert; it was the low purr of an attack helicopter and it sounded like it was heading in our direction.

The Hamas militants ignored it and continued working. I called Margaret over in a low voice. I knew from previous assignments that she is partially deaf in one ear and oblivious to anything happening outside her lens when the camera is rolling. I told her about the advancing helicopter. She was worried about it as well. I wasn’t there to be an adviser to Hamas, but in the interest of keeping my clients safe I decided I’d better share my concerns with the hooded men. I grabbed the one closest to me and told him in Arabic that an Israeli helicopter was hovering nearby.

‘Mafi mushkila’ (No problem), he said. ‘Shoufna tayara kullyawm’ (We see aircraft everyday).

I told him this helicopter was heading towards our position and could very well be targeting us.

‘Mafi ashoof tayara. Mafi mushkila’ (I can’t see the helicopter. It’s not a problem), he said.

I couldn’t believe it. They really were that naïve. My Arabic wasn’t good enough to explain the danger and I didn’t want anything lost in translation through Noor, so I asked the hooded men if any of them spoke English.

‘What’s the problem?’ one of them asked.

‘Your English is good?’ I asked.

‘I studied English at University in Cairo,’ he said.

I explained to him that even though the helicopter was a long way off, it could still see us. ‘You’ve got to realize they can catch you picking your nose two kilometres away – at night,’ I said.

‘No way,’ he said laughing.

‘I’m serious. Just because you can’t see or hear them doesn’t mean they can’t see you. We have to be careful,’ I said.

I suggested we take cover in the half-finished petrol station at the entrance to the cul-de-sac. The concrete shell would block our heat signatures from the helicopter’s thermal imaging equipment. We waited under the shell until the helicopter moved off. When I was satisfied it had flown further away, as opposed to higher up, I let Margaret resume shooting.

The militants worked quickly laying the third and final anti-tank mine. When they finished, I told Noor it was time to say our goodbyes. I had Noor and Margaret get in the vehicle ahead of me. I wanted a moment’s silence to listen again for drones. The skies were still clear.

As I climbed into the driver’s seat, one of the militants told me to wait a minute and he’d lead us back to our hotel.

I started the engine. ‘No worries,’ I said. ‘I know the way.’

CHAPTER 6

Meeting the Hamas militants in the flesh was a real eye-opener. I had thought the movement’s foot soldiers would be nothing more than a gang of ignorant street kids. Not so. At least one of the hooded men laying anti-tank mines was university educated. I also thought they’d be somewhat savvy when it came to guerrilla tactics. Wrong again. Far from a group of formidable insurgents, what I saw that night was nothing more than a band of militarily clueless youths playing with explosives, trying to get a little of their own back.

Put simply, Hamas wasn’t the highly trained insurgent organization I imagined it to be – which made them even scarier in my book. What those hooded youths lacked in skill they more than made up for in determination. I’m sure in their hearts they knew they’d be lucky to throw a track on an Israeli tank with those mines, yet they were willing to put themselves at risk to lay them.

The IRA had displayed similar resolve when the Regiment operated against them in Northern Ireland. But Hamas took the terror game into a realm where even the IRA wouldn’t go. Hamas used suicide bombers.

I wanted to – and, given my line of work, needed to – understand what had led Hamas down that path. A lot of my curiosity was fuelled by my own fear. Forget smart bombs and laser-guided missiles; in my view, nothing is more terrifying than a suicide bomber with a crude, homemade explosive device.

Many people have the false impression that suicide bombers are crazy, drugged up or brainwashed and that they are exclusively male, young, poorly educated and fanatically religious. I learned during my time in the West Bank and Gaza that suicide bombers come from all walks of life: male, female, rich, poor, young, old, ignorant, well educated, religiously moderate, fundamentalist. The question in my mind, therefore, was not what kind of person commits such a heinous act. I wanted to know what was driving such a diverse group of people to the same violent end.

I got the chance to find some answers, thanks to Noor. As if the anti-tank mine story weren’t enough, while I was in Gaza she pulled off another major coup for CNN: an interview with the mastermind of the Palestinian suicide bombing campaign against Israel; Sheikh Yassin, co-founder and spiritual leader of Hamas.

Sheikh Yassin was a reclusive figure who rarely gave interviews to western journalists. A nearly blind quadriplegic, Yassin may have been physically weak but he was a towering figure among Palestinians disillusioned with the peace process. Yassin inspired dozens of Palestinians to ‘martyr’ themselves in suicide bombing missions that killed hundreds of Israelis.

Needless to say, Yassin was a prime target for the Israelis. My major concern with the interview was that CNN could find itself in the wrong place at the wrong time, so two days before the shoot was scheduled to take place, I went with Noor to recce the location. It was rather unremarkable: a sleepy hollow with one-storey buildings and no proper roads. I checked to see if there were any IDF patrols snooping around or undercover agents. I also determined a safe place to run to in the event of an attack.

Two days later a Hamas escort led us back to the same area. I expected things to look less sleepy this time around. Surely the security surrounding Yassin would be airtight. But instead of a beefed-up cordon, the only security we encountered was a group of bodyguards sitting outside Yassin’s house playing backgammon. They were so switched off they didn’t even see us until we were within twenty yards of them.

After a cursory check of our bags and equipment the guards led us inside the house. I knew then that Yassin was living on borrowed time. Good thing he was a religious man; given the poor security surrounding him, Yassin’s fate really was in the hands of Allah.

We were shown to a large tiled room and told to set up for the interview. The room was sparsely furnished with four bed frames at one end and a bookcase at the other. It reminded me of a giant loo; not what I expected as the backdrop for an interview with a notorious militant leader.

Twenty minutes later, Yassin was wheeled in by one of his bodyguards. He looked the same in person as he did in the posters plastered around Gaza. He reminded me of a wizard with his long thin nose and flowing white beard. I’d read that he’d been paralysed in a sporting accident during his youth. Even after all those years, you could see how he’d once been physically strong.

Yassin greeted us in the thin, soft voice of someone with limited lung capacity. I couldn’t imagine him delivering a sermon his followers could hear, let alone one that would inspire them to commit suicide. Once the interview got under way, however, I started to understand how Yassin could appeal to the disillusioned, frustrated and hopeless.

Yassin’s self-belief was the exact opposite of his physical state; powerful and unyielding. He spoke with tremendous confidence and I could see how desperate people would gravitate to him. When he was asked why he sent out suicide bombers, Yassin answered without skipping a beat that the Palestinians had their backs against the wall. The Israelis had attack helicopters, fighter aircraft, tanks and artillery while the Palestinians had nothing. The suicide bomber, he argued, was the only way to even things up.

When he was asked why he condoned the killing of innocent civilians, Yassin answered that there were no civilians in Israel. In his view, every Israeli was a legitimate military target; the old had served in the military, the young people were in the military and the children would be one day. Yassin also justified his actions by arguing that the Palestinians had no superpower backing on the world stage; in his words, the west is quick to condemn a suicide bombing in Israel but nothing is said when the Israelis bomb a Palestinian neighbourhood.