29/6/99
The
terrorist's
tale
There
was
an
explosion
in
the
Old
City
the
other
day.
Michael
Sedgwick
was
the
perpetrator.
We
were
sitting
together
on
the
rooftop
of
the
El-Arab
Hostel
inside
Damascus
Gate.
Virtually
the
moment
our
interview
ended,
his
cigarette
lighter,
heated
by
the
broiling
midday
sun,
blew
up
in
our
faces
with
a
deafening
bang.
It
was
an
astonishing
coincidence,
because
of
the
story
I
had
come
to
hear:
Michael
had
been
suspected
of
planting
a
terrorist
bomb.
We
had
a
good
laugh
--
after
checking
that
we
weren't
injured,
and
that
our
hearts
hadn't
stopped.
Michael
joked
that
the
police
would
never
have
believed
he
didn't
try
to
murder
me.
Behind
his
laugh,
Michael
was
shaking.
Still
too
fresh
in
his
mind
--
and
on
his
nerves
--
is
what
happened
on
the
night
of
December
21,
1998.
Walking
past
the
New
Gate
on
the
way
home,
he
accidentally
triggered
a
bomb.
The
following
morning,
in
Shaare
Zedek
Hospital,
he
awoke
to
a
nightmare.
"The
nurse
said,
'I
have
some
bad
news:
you've
lost
a
hand.
You
have
problems
with
your
chest.
And
also,
you're
under
arrest.'"
Doped
by
morphine,
his
left
hand
blown
off,
he
found
himself
attached
to
an
IV
drip
--
and
shackled
to
his
bed.
"I
thought,
'it's
not
my
day.'
"
That's
how
Michael
is.
Good-humored
and
gentle.
It
is
inconceivable
to
imagine
this
man
as
a
killer.
But
the
police
--
just
doing
their
job
--
worked
from
the
presumption
that
he
was
maimed
by
his
own
murderous
intent.
Not
a
victim
of
terrorism,
but
the
terrorist
himself.
He's
a
53-year-old
immigrant
from
Winnipeg,
Canada,
born
in
England;
he's
lived
here
on
and
off
since
1985;
he
served
in
the
IDF.
Previously,
he
had
never
been
suspected
of
anything
worse
than
having
had
a
couple
of
beers
too
many.
He
is
non-political:
he
couldn't
even
decide
who
to
vote
for.
There
is
not
one
iota
of
hostility
or
hatred
about
him.
However,
the
police
were
just
doing
their
job
when
they
arrested
him,
chained
him
(they
had
to
make
do
with
only
three
shackles),
and
persecuted
him
until
they
were
satisfied
he
was
innocent.
National
Insurance
was
just
doing
its
job
when
they
denied
him
disability
payments,
because
they
don't
compensate
terrorists;
various
doctors,
lawyers
and
bureaucrats
were
just
doing
their
jobs
by
frustrating
him
every
step
of
the
way,
as
Michael
claims.
The
newspapers,
too,
were
just
doing
their
jobs,
in
naming
him
as
a
suspected
terrorist.
You
can
imagine
how
Michael
felt
about
that.
According
to
this
very
newspaper
(also
doing
its
job),
"Police
are
also
investigating
the
possibility
[Sedgwick]
may
be
connected
to
seven
stabbing
attacks
on
Arabs
in
Mea
Shearim....
in
what
police
believe
is
the
revenge
of
a
Jewish
serial
killer."
HE
WAS
walking
by
a
bench
just
outside
New
Gate
at
1:30
a.m.,
a
knapsack
over
his
shoulder.
"My
bag
hit
something,
I
turned
quickly
and
saw
a
lady's
purse
on
the
bench.
I
saw
it.
And
then
it
happened,
a
sort
of
white
cloud
engulfed
me,
a
hot
cloud.
It
was
a
bomb.
"When
the
bomb
went
off,
I
ran
into
the
middle
of
the
road,
y'know,
to
warn
people
that
maybe
there
was
another
bomb.
A
car
stopped
to
take
me
to
hospital,
it
turned
out
to
be
three
religious
people,
and
of
course,
the
car
was
covered
in
blood.
And
they
got
arrested
for
aiding
and
abetting
me!
Fortunately,
they
were
later
released.
They
came
to
visit
me
a
few
times,
which
was
nice.
Reeling
from
the
shock,
horror
and
pain,
Michael
was
grilled.
"I
told
the
police
exactly
what
happened,
I
answered
all
their
questions,
but
they
said
it's
impossible,
it
couldn't
have
happened
this
way.
They
kept
saying,
'what's
your
passive
hand?'
And
I
said
my
left
hand.
And
they
said,
'well,
why
did
it
blow
off
you
left
hand,
and
not
your
right
hand?'
"I
made
the
bombs
here,
on
the
roof,
they
said."
Michael
shrugs
in
disbelief.
He
understands
the
police
were
simply
probing,
on
the
off-chance
of
getting
lucky.
But
it
was
harrowing
for
him.
"I
like
to
cut
out
pictures
of
people
in
the
newspaper
and
put
them
on
my
wall.
And
the
police
saw
this
picture
from
the
Post
of
Arik
Sharon,
a
funny
picture,
and
they
said
aha,
you're
planning
to
assassinate
him.
"The
police
joke
with
me.
It's
quite
sad,
really.
They
said
that
the
men
on
the
force
thought
I
was
70
percent
guilty,
the
women,
10
percent.
Whenever
I
had
to
go
to
the
police
station,
they'd
say
something
like,
'oh,
what
