The Terrorist Attack on the Hatuel Family

It was nearly 19 years ago today. May 2, 2004. The day before my birthday. 

It was a usual day on the base, with the same tiresome guard shifts taking place, the same meal time schedule. The same tasks, and the same monotony. We were deployed in Gaza along the Kissufim road, and while we from time-to-time saw some intense moments, things today were relatively calm. 

And then the call came in. 

Two Palestinian terrorists. Armed. Rushing to the road. They have opened fire on a passing vehicle. We need support. Now. 

My friends in the post called it in. From the base, we were alerted and then put on alert. I rushed to the radio room and command center where we could hear what was coming in, as well as see from the cameras around the area. It was horrific. 

The terrorists – although depraved animals is more apt a description – who were spiked up on cocaine, meth, and God-only-knows what else in order to help them in their depravity and make them physically and psychologically impervious to pain and fear in order to carry out their task that much more successfully – hit the driver of the vehicle, causing it to slow and veer off the road. With speed and what can only be described as glee, they pounced upon the vehicle, surrounding it, with one animal on one side and other opposite his accomplice, and while circling the vehicle in a 360 degree motion, fired repeatedly into the windows, riddling the occupants with untold and uncounted number of bullets, murdering everyone in the automobile. The victims? Four young girls, Merav, Roni, Hadar, and Hila, ages 2, 7, 9, and 11. And their mother, Tali, the driver, age 34, who was in her 8th month of pregnancy. 

The barbaric and horrific murder of the Hatuel family is an event that has been seared into the mind and psyche of not only myself and my cohort of friends who were on duty that day, but to tens of thousands who lived and bore witness to one of the most disgusting murders we had ever seen. To this day I have friends who have not lived down the incident and carry it with them constantly. Each of us feeling personally responsible for the attack and the ultimate pain it unleashed into the world. 

In the immediate aftermath of the attack, I was called up from the base with three others from my unit to relieve my four friends who were on post during the incident. When we entered to relieve them and oversaw the change of the watch, the appointed soldier in charge of the post, my friend Micho’el, reviewed the events with us and explained what they had done to try and prevent the attack. I was to learn that my friends were not sleeping at the job. Not at all. That they had seen the barbarians immediately when they sprang from a nearby Palestinian home built close to the road, a house which we had *repeatedly* requested be demolished for it posed a distinct threat to the Israeli commuters with its conspicuously close proximity (less than 100 meters) to the road. Our requests were routinely denied by the high court of Israel on account of “humanitarian” reasons. 

Within the mere 13 seconds that transpired from the moment the animals made their dash to the road and carried out their attack, Michoel immediately called it in over the radio. Without hesitating, my other friend Chai immediately managed to empty the entirety of his M-16 magazine clip – all 29 rounds (not fired on automatic) – and jump up onto the roof of the post and seize the FN-MAG heavy machine gun (which was not mounted) and begin firing it in earnest at them at a distance of nearly 600 meters. Despite the MAG not being secured to the guard rails above our post (it was never used), nor featuring the bipods or feet that would help stabilize it from the ground (they had been removed), my friend managed to get within just a few meters of the feet of the terrorists, but alas could not reach them in time. 

As someone who was trained extensively on the MAG (I was the heavy machine-gunner in our platoon), I related to my friends who were cycling back to the base that to have accomplished this feat at that distance, under pressure, and with virtually no hands-on experience firing this weapon, let alone firing it under pressure, and without it being secured to a fixed position, as well as the bipods having been completely removed from this MAG it was downright miraculous, if not impossible, for him to fire as accurately as he did. 

My words were of little comfort to my friends who returned to base feeling dejected and traumatized for having been eye-witnesses to the brutal carnage they had just witnessed just short while earlier and which, despite their efforts, they could not prevent. Two of our friends who were in the jeep patrol who arrived seconds after the attack were too late to prevent it, but not too late to neutralize the terrorists. Only later did I learn that my friend Yaniv, who was the mefaked (sergeant) in the jeep at the time of the attack and who took out the terrorists, lives to this day with regret and remorse and holds himself to blame for not having been able to arrive sooner and perhaps saved Tali and her daughters’ lives.

Taking over the post and relieving my friends after the incident was a sobering experience. I remember taking second watch, and during my initial downtime trying to adjust and get my bearings in the new position and environment. I was on my bed trying desperately to get some rest before my upcoming watch would begin. As I lay my head back against the inside padding of my vest, which I was using as a makeshift pillow, my cellphone rang. I sat up and observed the number – it was from overseas. Despite my not wanting to really talk to anyone, I answered the phone. “Hello?” 

“Hey! Happy Birthday! Well, early birthday, kiddo.” 

It was my older brother calling from the States to wish me an early happy birthday. 

“I figured I’d be the first and beat the others to the punch. Am I first?” he lovingly and playfully inquired.

“You sure are.” I answered. 

“How are things? You doing ok?”

“We’re a little stretched at the moment. We just had a major incident and I’m still trying to recover from it so I’m a bit out of it so I’m sorry if I don’t sound too excited on the phone. I’m glad you called. I’m just a little tired right now.” 

“Hey, don’t worry about it. Listen, Happy Birthday. Be safe over there. Love you.”

“Thanks. Love you too. Thanks for the call.”

I remember that phone call like it was yesterday, just as I remember the incident like it was yesterday, talking with my friends in the tower as we relieved them from their post to cycle back to the base. I had no idea that I, let alone my friends, would be carrying the weight and the burden of this attack on our consciences and on our shoulders for years and years to come. Indeed not one of us as it turns out does not often think about that day and what transpired. 

Aftermath

Exactly one week later while still at my post, the Shiva had concluded. Our Company Commander had arranged the security to enable a roadside memorial service to be held at the site of the attack. As one of the nearest posts, we were all on notice and we watched as family and friends of the Hatuels as well as other residents of the nearby settlements began to arrive and line up their cars to be present for the ceremony. I remember the radio chatter during the event, the sounds of high ranking officers coordinating the placement of vehicles and security and the higher-ups over the radio publicly praising my Company Commander for the way in which he arranged the event and the security. From my post I pulled out my disposable camera (I always had at least one handy to snap photos) and carefully aimed it through one of the pairs of binoculars to record a picture of the ceremony. 

Moments after having snapped three photos, we heard the unmistakable sound of a Kalachnikov rifle being fired. We couldn’t believe that we were possibly about to witness and take part in another terrorist attack at the very same site! 

Without hesitation the soldiers in my post immediately spring into action taking up defensive positions as I scrambled onto the roof to man the heavy machine gun. We could hear the direction of the fire coming from the very same house the terrorists had used just last week to carry out the previous attack! I radioed our CO letting him know our position and that we were ready to engage if they needed our support. I still will never forget the images I saw and what I was watching. Israelis running for cover behind their vehicles as our troops began to secure positions, advance towards the terrorists, and return fire. 

Immediately, as if coordinated in advance, about half a dozen Palestinians started to leave the house from where the firing was taking place. They were dragging suitcases with them, almost all of them women. We couldn’t believe it, but it seemed that they knew that after this incident their home was going to be demolished and it seems that they were clearly ready for it. 

About 30 minutes after the initial opening of fire upon our residents, the area was completely secure. We could hear the orders coming through over the radio to direct the D9 bulldozers to take down the house. The work would take all evening but it would ultimately be completed. The house that posed the threat was finally neutralized. 

We later learned that the Palestinians who opened fire on the memorial service were themselves disguised as Arab women in order to blend into the crowd of those evacuating the house. At least one of the terrorists was killed as we returned fire. The second is believed to have been killed in the second stage of the advance. Despite my having a clear view of the house from which the terrorists were stationed, behind the house was a shallow valley and to avoid possibly firing over our own forces, we held our response from our position in check. I recall staying perched behind the MAG, guns at the ready, for over an hour while my friends below kept a careful ear to the radio in case we were asked to engage. 

The memorial service ended thank God with no casualties or injuries other than the terrorists themselves. But we were nevertheless left stricken by how close we came to yet another ambush.

I think back to the attack that ended the lives of the four Hatuel daughters and their mother Tali quite often. Not just because of the horror, but because in some respects, it’s not possible to celebrate my birthday without first thinking about it. As it turns out, exactly five years later, on the 11th of Iyar, the exact Hebrew date of the attack, my son Ezra would be born, thus sharing a birthday with the Hatuel family’s yahrzeit. This connection never occurred to me until this year, when I did something I never thought I’d be able to do, and that was make contact with David Hatuel, Tali Hatuel’s husband, and finally speak to him face to face. 

For years in the aftermath of the attack, I had never sought to engage with or even research what happened to David. I knew that he had gotten remarried a year later, as the news of his marriage was headlined around Israel at the time. I also know that he now had a new family, his wife having given birth to four children.  

David Hatuel, who lost his entire family in an instance, somehow summoned the courage to move on from this incident. How he did this, I have no idea, and neither do my friends. Yet about a week ago a close friend of mine from the army, Benayah, informed me that the new Yishuv, the new settlement of Karmei Katif where David and his family reside would be holding a special inaugural event where they will be dedicating the new synagogue in Tali and her daughters’ names. In addition they would be dedicating a brand new sefer Torah in their memory. I couldn’t explain why but I felt I simply had to be there. It had been 19 years since the attack and both for the Hatuels, and the community (and for myself) it was time for some kind of closure. 

Simcha – The New Synagogue Dedication

I arrived a little late to the festivities but I quickly joined in as the Torah was marched down the street. David Hatuel who I recognized immediately was holding and dancing with the new Torah, the names of his four daughters adorning the beautiful covering in shimmering silver. As I approached the procession and joined in, dancing with the crowd, coming as close as I dared, I could feel the emotions welling within me. Here I was, 19 years later, and I was celebrating with this man who had lost everything and yet somehow found the strength to continue on. And here we were celebrating life as the community was about to not just dedicate a new synagogue in Tali’s and their childrens’ honor, but also dedicate a new sefer Torah. 

I began to cry. 

They weren’t just tears of pain, as I relived the horrors of that day. They were tears of joy as life somehow found a way to move forward and carry on. My entire being was begging to be closer to this simcha, and with all my heart I simply wanted to dance with that Torah, to hold it and feel as though that day, in its infamy, could somehow be rebranded to something lasting with joy and life. I moved closer to the procession and found my friend Benaya and embraced him, joining with him as we danced behind the chuppah, the canopy, escorting this new and beautiful Torah to its new home. And there was David Hatuel! Dancing right alongside us. His children dancing alongside him. All of us celebrating this incredible convergence of such profound and sublime significance.  Suddenly, as if in slow motion, one of the community rabbis who was overseeing the handling and passing of the Torah, noticed me dancing behind him and turned and asked: “Would you like to hold the Torah?” 

He didn’t have to ask twice.  

I took the Torah and held it close, my mind racing, unable to find words or meaning or expression. It was 19 years later, and here I was, in a wholly different place, in a wholly different location, in my mind reliving a day of horror in history, yet being present in this moment aware that I was dancing alongside the father of those murdered girls, celebrating with him the profundity and power and strength of Am Yisroel, and the continuation and sacredness of life and Godliness. 

I danced and I danced and I danced. I held the Torah and tried to imagine I was holding those young girls, in my mind apologizing for not being able to have done more to save them. Promising and reassuring them that they will never be forgotten. That their memories would forever be etched in the hearts of those around us, and within this sacred scroll that would forever stand as a testament to their being and to the eternality of our People. 

I cannot recall how long I was holding and dancing with the Torah but before I knew it we had arrived at the new synagogue. There was to be an unveiling ceremony and as a speech was made, the curtain was removed from the front facade and the shul’s new name – Tal Orot – appeared. Following the dedication ceremony, new mezuzot were placed upon all the doorframes and we entered into the main sanctuary where there was a public reading from the new Torah. At last, David Hatuel took the Torah and danced with it to the Aron Kodesh as we sang and placed it in its new home. 

The evening continued with speeches and dedications. Tali Hatuel’s father, Shlomo Malka, spoke. The Chief Rabbi of Ramat Gan, Rav Yakov Ariel spoke. A few other rabbis. And finally, David Hatuel. His remarks were beautiful and he spoke about the horrors of that day 19 years ago, and the long journey and process of moving forward. He praised his community, and then he did something I will never forget. He took the opportunity to address the current political climate in the country concerning the Judicial Reform and stressed that the most important thing that was needed was achdut – unity. And that as their community was one that was evicted from Gaza itself and suffered through the disengagement from Gaza in 2005, one of the most difficult civil upheavals in our young nation’s history, that it was their community that was uniquely placed to help teach this important lesson of achdut to the rest of the nation at this time, and he implored those who were present to do their best to find common ground with those who they disagree with in order to strengthen our connections with each other and not weaken them through division. I could not believe what I was hearing. A man who suffered so much at this personal level encouraging his community to be even more accepting of others was something I had never witnessed. What was even more remarkable was seeing the faces of the people around me smiling and nodding their agreement and assent. I can’t remember being more moved.

When the speeches had concluded and the community finished reciting Maariv, the evening prayer, they went downstairs to the social hall and back patio to begin the seudat mitzvah – the festive meal. It was 10 o’clock, and yet families with their young children stayed, enjoying the meal and each others presence, celebrating the new additions to their community. 

All night, my friend Benaya had been imploring me to go say hello to David Hatuel, but something in me just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Whether it was guilt, or fear, I couldn’t tell. Just that every time I tried to approach his table, I found myself hesitating and retreating. At around 10:30pm I said farewell to Benaya and left my table and started making my way to my car. I got about halfway there when something in me just couldn’t rest. I stopped and realized that I couldn’t let this opportunity pass. I turned back, re-entered the dinner, summoned the courage and went over to his table. 

David Hatuel was seated with one of his older sons and with the head rabbis who had made the speeches. Yet when ee saw me approaching, something made him stand up and move to greet me. Though I had imagined this conversation in my mind for years I couldn’t imagine where it would go. I introduced myself and explained that it was my division that was overseeing the security of the road that fateful day 19 years ago and that we truly tried to prevent what happened but alas we had failed terribly. He swatted away my words with his hand and said “Shtuyot” – “Don’t be silly. I have the greatest respect and honor for you and your friends. You have no idea how much we value you and your service and what you did for us while we were living in Gaza.” 

I didn’t expect this response and became very emotional. I told him that there are so many of my friends who still live with the events of that day and feel a personal responsibility and blame for what happened. He told me that no one was to blame with the exception of those who carried out the attack. I began to open up. “You know, I’ve wanted to reach out to you for years but never knew how to do it. I’ve felt so guilty.” 

“You can always reach out to me,” he responded.

“I never knew what to say.” 

He hugged me and said, “Please know that you can always reach out to me. I have the greatest respect for you and would be happy to get to know you better and have you get to know our family.” I smiled and thanked him and then he introduced me to his son. We made chitchat for another minute or two and then I made as if to leave. Before I did though, I turned back to him one last time and said: “You know, I have several friends who it would also probably do them good to speak with you and just get to meet you face to face.”

He smiled even brighter and said, “Please, please tell them, they are welcome anytime. It would be our pleasure to meet with them, even in our home. Please tell them from me, they are always welcome.”

I left the event feeling lighter than I had in years. It’s hard to describe what this event meant to me, and how 19 years after an event it was possible to come full circle and find a way to express both the pain and the sorrow yet the unmatched and profound sense of sublime joy and pride of knowing that Am Yisrael Chai – our nation still lives and is stronger than ever. 

We are a nation that values and sanctifies life at every step of our journey. To see how this man was able to summon the strength to not let horror, darkness and sadness destroy his spirit and values was something that moved me to my core. I hope we all can somehow find the means to summon the strength to keep us going during the darkest hours. One thing is for sure, having others there with us to help us through it is without a doubt one of the most important things. 

Postscript: Since returning to Israel, I’ve become far more aware of just how many former soldiers suffer from trauma and PTSD. I had no idea it was so rampant here in Israel but the effects and the reality of this condition trail those who suffer with it on an almost constant basis. I myself was suffering with it, not even realizing what the excruciating pains I was feeling were until I figured it out and sought help. There are organizations here and abroad that work with soldiers who have seen combat and traumatic events but here in Israel it is a relatively new field and people in this tough society people are expected to just “toughen up” and “deal with it”. This is easier said than done. While the government has begun to recognize the reality and the broad impact it has on its citizens, unfortunately there is still much more that needs to be done. 

If you are interested in helping other soldiers get the help they need, please reach out to me and together perhaps we can get our brothers and sisters the help the so desperately need and deserve.