I feel sorry when I think about you three, I feel immense sorrow. And not only for you. I shudder when I think, even for one minute, about your mothers. They are mothers just like me; women who have been blessed to bring life into this world. Women who have struggled mightily to bring up
their children. I am certain that is what your mothers are: remarkable people, self-sacrificing mothers who love you. They love you as much as I, even now, love my son José, whom you three murdered.
But the thought of your mothers fills me with sorrow, deep inside me. I am the mother of a young and innocent young man who was brutally murdered while doing his job, even though he harmed no one. On the other hand, your mothers are the mothers of self-confessed murderers, of vile and wicked war criminals. And that must be really hurtful for them.
My father was a solder, a high-level officer, just as my husband was. I know, from personal experience, what living the military life is, what it means to serve one’s country. But I also know, because my father instilled this in me, the value of honor, the value of respecting the defeated side, the enemy; and the dishonor of killing unarmed civilians. This too, is what being a solder means, what being a good soldier means: defending one’s country, but also defending dignity and respect, which is the basis
of any civilized country worth defending.
You three war criminals have dishonored your uniform by murdering unarmed civilians. You have broken the rules of engagement set down by your own army, and followed orders that you knew were unjust. You were taught in military training that unjust orders must not be obeyed. You knew that.
My son was good at his job. He was no kamikaze, nor was he reckless. That is why he decided to stay in Baghdad; and because he was a careful person, starting on April 7 he stayed inside the Hotel Palestine, which was the
headquarters for the international media, as your commanders knew full well.
There you murdered him, in cold blood. There was no fighting, so there is no excuse. But you, Philip Decamp, authorized it; you, Philip Wolford, gave the order, and you, Thomas Gibson, pulled the trigger. And the three of you knew you were killing innocent people, But you did it anyway. Damn you.
I feel no hate. Not anymore. The sorrow I feel goes beyond hate. But I do have a thirst for Justice: I need to see the three of you in a court of law, with due process, the kind that you denied my son. Defend yourselves, and let the trial be fair. But I want to see you, murderers and war
criminals, bear the full weight of the law. Along with my deepest contempt.
But my sorrow I devote to my son, to the mothers of Iraq or of the United States and, above all, to your own mothers, for there is no greater pain than to give birth to murderers.
