Just a year ago, on September 6, 2024, I stood at the peaceful protest in Beita in the West Bank right beside 26-year-old Aysenur Ezgi Eygi, a compassionate and vibrant human rights activist. Aysenur grew up in Seattle, went to University in Washington, had a husband and family in the United States and in Didim, Turkiye.
An Israeli sniper shot Aysenur in the head. Although the Israeli Occupation Force claimed it was an accident, I was there. It was an execution. Precise and cold.
As a social work field educator and a mother and grandmother, I felt totally unprepared for the brutality I witnessed, on that day and during the following two months, living and volunteering in the West Bank. I feel obligated to share my reflections in honour of Aysenur and all those who have been killed, displaced, dispossessed and tortured for decades.
The protests in Beita began in May 2021 opposing the establishment of illegal Israeli settlements on stolen Palestinian land. At least 17 Palestinians had already been killed at these demonstrations since the protests began. Two weeks prior to the killing of Aysenur, another international volunteer had been shot in the leg. I felt unprepared to face armed soldiers, and Aysenur and I agreed to stay together, documenting the event from what we believed was a safe distance. What we failed to realise was that there was no safe distance.
Before the protest began, we shared coffee and laughter with Palestinian elders. Weeks later, Aysenur’s husband, Hamid, sent me a photo of the paper cup and date seed he found with her belongings. I could feel his pain when I tried to explain their presence.
After prayers, the older men departed quickly, and Palestinian youth, some as young as 13, walked toward the road where an ambulance was waiting. Their eyes revealed little, however the presence of the ambulance was a stark sign that they were expecting injuries, or even death. Unlike the well-armed Israeli soldiers on a distant hill, the protesters were unarmed and did not hide their faces. Although we noticed the Israeli soldiers on higher ground, we did not, however, see the snipers positioned on nearby rooftops.
Aysenur and I slowly walked toward a nearby olive grove, armed only with our cameras. Within minutes, and without warning, the Israeli soldiers opened fire with tear gas and then live rounds. We ran into the olive grove and scrambled down a hill to what we hoped was safety. We stopped to catch our breath near an olive tree. A symbol of peace and belonging. It was quiet for a few minutes, and then I heard another shot. Aysenur fell to the ground. When I turned her lifeless body over, I saw she had been shot in the temple. In that moment, the brutality of Israel’s occupation was made abundantly clear.
Aysenur died on the way to the hospital.
I later read the testimony of Munir Khader, 65, a father of ten, who lives close to the park where the protests are held: “After the soldier put the weapon on the stand, he fired only two shots. After the sniping, I saw him raise both hands and signal victory. He signalled to his friend, who signalled back that he’d done a good job — as if they were hunting animals and not a human being”.
I couldn’t help but compare how this self-congratulatory and inhumane interaction between the solider and his friends mirrored the broader relationship between the Israeli regime and their Western allies.
Massacres of medical and humanitarian workers, the targeting of journalists, forced starvation, displacement, ethnic cleansing and genocide — Israel celebrates these war crimes like a badge of honour and Western governments, which intermittently express some degree of “regret” about unspeakable war crimes, continue to provide the State of Israel with diplomatic, economic and military support. The numerous United Nations attempts to sanction Israel have failed because Israel’s main collaborator, the United States, used its power to veto any resolutions.
Aysenur’s murder was intentional, meant to deter those who speak out against the State of Israel’s war crimes. Aysenur’s killing was also not an isolated event but part of a systemic pattern of colonial and settler violence against Palestinians for decades.
In the same hospital morgue where Aysenur’s body lay, was the frail body of 13-year-old Bana Amjad Bakr, a Palestinian girl shot by an Israeli sniper while playing in her home. Just a few weeks later, a 59-year-old Palestinian mother, Hanan Abu Salameh, was shot and killed while harvesting olives on her own land. The regularity of these war crimes barely warranted a stir in international media. The international community’s silence and lack of willingness to force accountability for Aysenur’s murder was merely a symptom of a far greater moral vacuum.
My professional understanding of trauma could not provide answers for what I, and the world, was witnessing: decades of systemic psychological, economic and physical abuse. Post-traumatic stress disorder is a diagnosis for those who can escape to safety. It doesn’t apply to a people whose trauma is ongoing and relentless, and whose powerful allies remain silent.
After leaving the West Bank, I travelled to Türkiye, where I provided a witness statement to the Turkish Government Prosecutor. The Turkish government has committed to submitting evidence of Aysenur’s killing to the United Nations Security Council, the International Court of Justice (ICJ) and the International Criminal Court (ICC).
While in Türkiye, I met with Aysenur’s grieving family in Didim, and together, we visited her gravesite. Their pain is immeasurable, and their fight for justice continues. During my time in Türkiye, I had the opportunity to speak with women’s organisations, universities and the Turkish and Australian media.
I returned to Australia in December last year, but my commitment remains unchanged. I will continue to speak out, for Aysenur, for her family, and for justice.
Just a day before she was killed, Aysenur feared she wouldn't be able to make a difference. Her family continues to grieve while battling the US government for justice. Aysenur’s legacy, much like that of Rachel Corrie, another young human rights activist also from Washington, killed 20 years prior by an Israeli bulldozer, highlights the need for continued advocacy in the face of ongoing, unpunished political and systemic violence. Shamefully, many of our governments, including my own, continue to provide diplomatic, economic, intelligence, and weapons support to the Israeli regime.
The international community's failure to stop decades of war crimes, committed with the support of Western allies, is a dismissal of international law. As UN Secretary-General António Guterres stated, we are witnessing not just a humanitarian crisis, but a “moral crisis that challenges the global conscience.” He expressed his disbelief at the “level of indifference and inaction we see by too many in the international community. The lack of compassion. The lack of truth. The lack of humanity.” Aysenur's death, however, did not diminish my hope. Instead, it strengthened my resolve to continue Aysenur’s struggle for justice and for a world of compassion, truth, and humanity.
[Helen O’Sullivan is a mother, grandmother, mental health instructor and university social work Field Educator in Australia.]