As yet more suicide bombers leave death and injury in their wake, Michael Jansen reports from Jerusalem on how the family of one sees his "sacrifice"
Riad Tawil was aged 20 when he went to the bus stop at the French Hill urban settlement in East Jerusalem and blew himself up, wounding 20 Israeli soldiers and settlers.
But Riad Tawil did not come from a refugee camp or a poor urban neighbourhood like the majority of Palestinian suicide bombers. He was a middle-class youth, a student at Bir Zeit University studying electrical engineering, a sportsman. He had many friends and interests.
He mounted his fatal operation on March 27th 2001, a year and two days before the Israeli army launched its assault on the Ramallah compound of Yasser Arafat, and began the reoccupation of the West Bank.
Riad Tawil was not driven by a desire for vengeance. Hussein Tawil believes his son was simply resisting the Israeli occupation in the only way he knew.
Palestinians shun the term suicide bomber because they believe that those who bomb Israelis are hitting their enemies with the only delivery system they have at hand.
"We Palestinians have been suffering and fighting for our rights for 100 years. We have now arrived at the point that we ask only for the right to survive," says Mr Tawil, a grey haired man dressed in tie and tweed jacket. "Each Palestinian man, woman and child is threatened by \ bombs and bullets on a daily basis, in our homes, going about our work, trying to demonstrate peacefully against the occupation."
Mr Tawil is an educated man with journalistic experience, a former senior trade union figure and a member of the Palestine People's Party, previously the Communist Party. He is currently employed by a Palestinian research institute and met The Irish Times in his Ramallah office, a computer screen flickering in the background.
He is an angry man. He has been interviewed by scores of journalists who want his story because his son does not fit the profile of a suicide bomber. The first question they always asks is why did his son do it.
"Why should we have to explain why we use this way, not another?" he demanded. "We have the right to resist and defend ourselves as we see fit . . . resistance movements have different means and ways . . . We should not be called terrorists. What we do is a reaction to their terrorism of an entire population," he stated.
"Our situation is terrible and becoming worse. The unemployment rate is 65 per cent, 70 per cent of the people are below the poverty line and live on $2 per day, our lands are divided into 300 small enclaves and we cannot move due to 120 checkpoints.
"All those defending human rights in the world should defend the Palestinians and their rights, not make accusations. We will submit to the judgment of the international community only after all UN resolutions and all regulations and laws have been implemented by Israel. Then, if we commit certain actions, we can be called terrorists."
Mr Tawil, blue-grey eyes flashing, dismissed questions about Riad's private life.
"He was a good student and a good son. He had no personal problems. He was outgoing and popular but also quiet and thoughtful."
While he lived at home, Riad did not discuss his political views with his family.
"He did not express his feelings," Mr Tawil says with a shrug of his shoulders. "Different generations don't talk. We had no idea he would do this."
The family was deeply shocked by Riad's action. Mr Tawil has three other children, two girls and a boy between the ages of 12 and 23. Riad Tawil entered Bir Zeit University as the second Palestinian uprising was taking hold, another source observed. Every aspect of life was dominated by anti-occupation protest and the Israeli response. Students and faculty were forced to negotiate checkpoints and roadblocks every time they went to classes, reminding them that they are still an occupied people.
The academic year was repeatedly disrupted. Hamas, seen by many young people as the only movement resisting the Israeli occupation, won new many supporters.
Riad Tawil was one of them. Some recruited as bombers had seen relatives, friends die from Israeli gunfire but Mr Tawil said his son did not have such a traumatic experience.
The families of bombers are generally honoured and respected within their immediate communities. The shaheed is always there - his or her photo displayed at home or plastered on the walls of Palestinian towns and refugee camps.
The absence of the lost child is felt particularly sharply during this fasting month of Ramadan when families meet for the evening meal.