In the summer of 1982, Israel invaded Lebanon. The Israeli ground forces were supported from above by the fighter pilots of the powerful Israeli Air Force. Among them was a pilot called Hagai Tamir. While they were flying over the town of Saida, Tamir was ordered from the ground to bomb a large square-looking building. It was a secondary school for boys. Tamir refused.
Years passed. Tamir told no one about his act of conscientious objection apart from his close friends and family. It was only twenty years later that he finally told the Israeli newspaper Haaretz what had happened. "We flew in tandem above the place, " he said. "The liaison officer who was with the ground forces informed me of the target, a large building on top of a hill. I looked at it and to the best of my judgement the structure could have only been one of two things - a hospital or a school. I questioned the officer and asked why I was being given that target. His reply was that they were shooting from there. There were a thousand reasons why I didn't think I should bomb the building. I asked him if he knew what the building was. He said he didn't. I insisted that he find out. He got back to me with some vague answers. "
Tamir, who once hitchhiked to his air base in long hair and beads, had joined the air force to be a bird rather than a bomber. This may sound na ve coming from the mouth of a fighter pilot but it also sounds genuine when one hears the passion with which he talks about the thrill of flying a plane. In the same Haaretz interview, Tamir said he belonged to the generation of "lyric pilots" raised on the traditions of European rather than American aviation, which stressed aerodynamics over firepower. "They taught us to fly in an elegant manner and this really suited me, since I'd come to pilot training out of a love for flight, " he said. "I wanted to feel like a bird. The whole idea of the plane as a war machine was much less appealing to me. The concept of a plane as a platform for weapons was foreign to me so I enjoyed the aerobatics much more than I did dropping ordnance. Even during my compulsory service as a young pilot, I didn't derive any pleasure from it. "
In the case of the Lebanon war, he had his reservations from the start. "I must say that I felt a strong inner opposition even before I was called up, " he said. "From the outset, I smelled the manipulation and the deceit at its base. " He told his fellow young officers, "Who knows better than me, an architect, how hard it is to build a city? So at least, don't rejoice when you destroy houses. It takes a lot longer to build a city than it does to strike a target. " The incident was later investigated by the squadron;when questioned, Tamir explained that he would never bomb a school or a hospital.
Tamir is in the spotlight this year thanks to the Lebanese artist Akram Zaatari, who is representing his country at the 2013 Venice Biennale. Zaatari's film-and-video installation memorializes Tamir's act of courage. The installation "Letter to a Refusing Pilot" takes its title taken from Albert Camus' essay "Letters to a German Friend, " from which it also takes the quote: "I should like to be able to love my country and still love justice. " For Zaatari, this is a deeply personal story. His father founded the school in question and ran it for twenty years. Zaatari grew up in Saida hearing various versions of the story - how an Israeli pilot had dropped his bombs into the sea instead of bombing the school;how he had refused to bomb the school because he had grown up in Saida, and so on. It was only when he finally met Tamir in a bar in Rome - since neither man could meet in the other's country - that he found out what really happened.
As for the school, it did not survive - nor did most of Sadia. Another pilot bombed the school immediately after Tamir refused to do so. What has survived though is the true story of how one man in the sky refused to blindly obey orders and bomb a school.
Years passed. Tamir told no one about his act of conscientious objection apart from his close friends and family. It was only twenty years later that he finally told the Israeli newspaper Haaretz what had happened. "We flew in tandem above the place, " he said. "The liaison officer who was with the ground forces informed me of the target, a large building on top of a hill. I looked at it and to the best of my judgement the structure could have only been one of two things - a hospital or a school. I questioned the officer and asked why I was being given that target. His reply was that they were shooting from there. There were a thousand reasons why I didn't think I should bomb the building. I asked him if he knew what the building was. He said he didn't. I insisted that he find out. He got back to me with some vague answers. "
Tamir, who once hitchhiked to his air base in long hair and beads, had joined the air force to be a bird rather than a bomber. This may sound na ve coming from the mouth of a fighter pilot but it also sounds genuine when one hears the passion with which he talks about the thrill of flying a plane. In the same Haaretz interview, Tamir said he belonged to the generation of "lyric pilots" raised on the traditions of European rather than American aviation, which stressed aerodynamics over firepower. "They taught us to fly in an elegant manner and this really suited me, since I'd come to pilot training out of a love for flight, " he said. "I wanted to feel like a bird. The whole idea of the plane as a war machine was much less appealing to me. The concept of a plane as a platform for weapons was foreign to me so I enjoyed the aerobatics much more than I did dropping ordnance. Even during my compulsory service as a young pilot, I didn't derive any pleasure from it. "
In the case of the Lebanon war, he had his reservations from the start. "I must say that I felt a strong inner opposition even before I was called up, " he said. "From the outset, I smelled the manipulation and the deceit at its base. " He told his fellow young officers, "Who knows better than me, an architect, how hard it is to build a city? So at least, don't rejoice when you destroy houses. It takes a lot longer to build a city than it does to strike a target. " The incident was later investigated by the squadron;when questioned, Tamir explained that he would never bomb a school or a hospital.
Tamir is in the spotlight this year thanks to the Lebanese artist Akram Zaatari, who is representing his country at the 2013 Venice Biennale. Zaatari's film-and-video installation memorializes Tamir's act of courage. The installation "Letter to a Refusing Pilot" takes its title taken from Albert Camus' essay "Letters to a German Friend, " from which it also takes the quote: "I should like to be able to love my country and still love justice. " For Zaatari, this is a deeply personal story. His father founded the school in question and ran it for twenty years. Zaatari grew up in Saida hearing various versions of the story - how an Israeli pilot had dropped his bombs into the sea instead of bombing the school;how he had refused to bomb the school because he had grown up in Saida, and so on. It was only when he finally met Tamir in a bar in Rome - since neither man could meet in the other's country - that he found out what really happened.
As for the school, it did not survive - nor did most of Sadia. Another pilot bombed the school immediately after Tamir refused to do so. What has survived though is the true story of how one man in the sky refused to blindly obey orders and bomb a school.
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