First U.S Military Execution in 64 Years — Army Major Nidal Hasan To Be Executed, 13 Never Came Home

I’m Dominique Lay, reporting in your neighborhood of Killeen. I’m standing underneath the memorial of the 13 lives that were lost nearly 16 years ago at Fort Hood in the 2009 mass shooting. I spoke with a survivor who was on post when the shots rang out from Nidal Hasan, a man who is now facing execution for killing 13 and injuring dozens more.

 1:32 p.m. November 5th, 2009 is a moment in our history our country will never forget.  I’m in danger. Am I going to leave here in a body bag? Are they going to cut my baby out of my corpse?  Julia Wilson, a DOD civil service civilian, was 9 months pregnant and on post at Fort Hood the day 13 soldiers were killed and 32 others were injured during a mass shooting at the military base.

 On September 24th, 2025, the United States Secretary of Defense, Pete Hegseth, made an announcement that stopped the country cold. He was pushing for an execution. Not just any execution, the first military execution in 64 years. The man waiting for that decision sits in a wheelchair inside the US Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.

 His name is Army Major Nidal Malik Hasan. He has been on death row for 16 years. He killed 13 people on American soil inside an American military base while wearing an American military uniform. At sentencing, he had nothing to say, no remorse, no final words, no appeal for his own life. He wanted to die as a martyr.

 And for 16 years, the US government has been deciding whether to give him exactly that or take even that away from him. But here is what most people never heard. Every warning sign was there. Every red flag was documented and person after person, office after office looked directly at the evidence and did nothing.

 13 people paid for that silence with their lives and this is their story. Welcome to the channel. We do not stop at the headline. We go into the court records, the documented failures, and the details that most coverage never reaches. If you are new here, subscribe and hit the bell because this case has layers that will stay with you long after this video ends.

 November 5th, 2009, Fort Hood, Texas. The Soldier Readiness Processing Center was not a battlefield. It was a paperwork room. Soldiers sat at tables, filled out forms, and completed their final medical checks before shipping out overseas. It was the kind of place where nothing dramatic was supposed to happen, but 13 people walked in that day and never walked out.

Private First Class French Eska Velas was 21 years old from Chicago, Illinois. She had just returned home from a deployment to Iraq 3 days earlier. She was 3 months pregnant. Her father traveled to Texas to testify at sentencing. He delivered every word in Spanish. Specialist Kham Xiong was 23 from St. Paul, Minnesota.

 He was married with three young children. His widow stood before the court and said seven words that silenced the room. I feel dead, yet I am alive. Sergeant Amy Krueger was 29 from Kiel, Wisconsin. She had enlisted in the army directly because of the September 11th attacks. She believed in what she was fighting for.

 She was preparing to deploy to Afghanistan. Private First Class Aaron Nemelka was 19 years old from West Jordan, Utah. He was the youngest of the 13. Michael Grant Kahlil was 62, a civilian physician assistant from Cameron, Texas. He had been married for 37 years. He was a father of three. He had returned to work just 1 week after recovering from a heart attack.

 These were not soldiers in a combat zone. They were sitting at desks on American soil, completely unarmed. And the man who came for them had spent years learning exactly how to get close to people like them. What none of them knew, and what makes this case impossible to look away from, is that the man who walked in carrying 3,000 rounds of ammunition had been treating soldiers exactly like them for years. He knew their fears.

 He knew their routines. And he had prepared for months. Nidal Malik Hasan was born on September 8th, 1970 at Virginia Hospital Center in Arlington, Virginia. His parents were Palestinian immigrants, naturalized American citizens who had come from a town near Jerusalem. His father built a life in Roanoke, Virginia, running a market, a restaurant, and an olive bar.

 His mother ran the Capital Restaurant. Neighbors remembered her for one specific reason. She fed people who could not afford to pay. Growing up, Hasan did not go by Nidal. His family called him Michael. He was raised in a home that believed deeply in what America could offer. And for a long time, it delivered. He enrolled at Virginia Tech and graduated in 1995 with a degree in biochemistry, with honors.

 The US Army funded his medical education at the Uniform Services University of the Health Sciences, one of the most competitive military medical programs in the country. He completed his psychiatry residency at Walter Reed Army Medical Center and later earned a master’s degree in public health. By 2009, Nidal Malik Hasan was an Army major and a licensed psychiatrist.

 He was the man the military trusted to care for soldiers returning from war. Men and women carrying the heaviest psychological wounds imaginable. That was the public image. The documented record told a different story. His residency at Walter Reed took 6 years instead of 4. In 38 weeks, he saw approximately 30 patients. The expected standard was closer to 300.

He repeatedly brought personal religious views into clinical sessions. On one formally recorded occasion, a patient classified as a danger to others was allowed to leave the emergency room without supervision while under his watch. In May 2007, his supervisor filed a formal memo documenting poor judgment, lack of professionalism, and direct concerns about patient safety.

 That same month, a different supervisor rated his performance as outstanding. And the entire time, while he sat across from traumatized soldiers, while he wore that uniform, he was carrying a business card. Investigators later confirmed it bore three letters, S O A. Soldier of Allah. The warning signs did not begin on November 5th, 2009.

They began years earlier. In writing, on record, in rooms full of witnesses. In June 2007, Hasan was required to deliver a senior academic presentation at Walter Reed Army Medical Center. Every other resident presented a clinical topic. Hasan submitted 50 slides titled The Quranic worldview as it relates to Muslims in the US military.

He argued that Muslim soldiers should be exempt from deploying to Muslim majority countries. He listed what he called adverse events that could follow if they were not. Those events included espionage and targeting fellow soldiers. Dr. Val Finnell was in that room. He later testified that Hassan told the audience directly that Islamic law superseded the United States Constitution.

 The instructor interrupted the session. No disciplinary action followed. In spring 2008, a formal review board of five physicians convened specifically to evaluate Hassan’s fitness for duty. They discussed whether his behavior pointed to psychosis. Their conclusion, insufficient grounds for removal. In May 2009, he was promoted to major.

 His file was forwarded to Fort Hood. They received it. They assigned him anyway. At Fort Hood, he told colleagues openly that American forces were the aggressors in Muslim lands. When a gunman attacked a military recruiting office in Little Rock, Arkansas in June 2009, Hassan called it a sign. He told people around him that Muslims had an obligation to stand against what he called the aggressor.

 He also consulted a military attorney about leaving the army as a conscientious objector. That effort produced nothing. He was running out of options, and he had already started making other plans. Nine supervisors would later be formally reprimanded after the attack, but by then, 13 people were already dead. The United States Senate called this case a ticking time bomb.

 That was not a metaphor. It was an indictment of every person who saw the evidence and walked away. Hassan did not act alone in his thinking. He had a guide. His name was Anwar al-Awlaki, a Yemeni-American cleric. US intelligence later confirmed he was one of the most effective extremist recruiters operating anywhere in the world.

 His ability to speak to Western Muslim audiences in their own language made him uniquely dangerous. Their connection went back to May 31st, 2001, the day Hassan buried his mother. The funeral was held at the Dar Al-Hijrah Islamic Center in Falls Church, Virginia. Al-Awlaki was the presiding Imam that day. That meeting planted a seed that took years to fully grow.

 From December 2008 through June 2009, Hassan sent 18 emails directly to Al-Awlaki, a man the federal government was actively monitoring as a national security threat. In those emails, he asked whether it was religiously permissible for a Muslim soldier to kill American military personnel. He expressed admiration for suicide attackers.

 He asked for religious guidance on martyrdom. The National Security Agency intercepted all 18 emails. The FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force conducted a formal assessment, but two separate field offices were involved. One monitoring Hassan, one monitoring Al-Awlaki, and they never fully compared notes. When an FBI agent contacted Walter Reed for background on Hassan, the security office provided a general personnel file.

 The training file, the one containing the formal safety memo and the 50-slide presentation, was never requested, never seen. Official conclusion, the emails were consistent with authorized research. File closed. Meanwhile, Hassan visited Guns Galore, a firearms dealer in Killeen, Texas. He walked in and asked for the most technologically advanced weapon available with the highest magazine capacity.

 He purchased an FN 57 semi-automatic pistol. He returned weekly for additional magazines. By the time he was done, he had accumulated 3,000 rounds of ammunition. He then drove to an outdoor shooting range in Florence, Texas. He practiced on silhouette targets at distances of up to 100 yards repeatedly until his accuracy was consistent.

 He was not preparing for a debate. He was preparing for one specific day. If this case is getting under your skin, you are not alone. Stay with us because what happened inside that room and what the courtroom later revealed is unlike anything you have heard before. The night before it happened, neighbors in Hasan’s apartment complex saw him in the hallways.

 He was giving things away, furniture, clothing, personal items, copies of the Quran. He handed them to anyone willing to take them. That same evening, he had dinner with a friend from his mosque. At the table, he said the Quran was clear. A Muslim could not take up arms against fellow Muslims. He said he felt he was supposed to quit.

His friend later described the conversation as the words of a man wrestling with his conscience. It was not that. It was a goodbye. Before dawn on November 5th, 2009, Hasan knocked on a neighbor’s door. He handed her a bag of vegetables, a Quran, and what remained of his belongings. He asked her to donate whatever she did not want to the Salvation Army.

 Before he turned to leave, he said three words, “I’m ready.” He then attended Fajr, the pre-dawn Islamic prayer, at a local mosque. Afterward, he armed himself. He carried the FN Five-Seven semi-automatic pistol now fitted with two laser sights, one red, one green, confirmed later by multiple survivor accounts.

 He also carried a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver. Then, he drove to Fort Hood. At 1:34 in the afternoon, Hasan walked into the Soldier Readiness Processing Center. The room was filled with soldiers completing their final administrative and medical checks before deploying overseas. Per standard military base policy, none of them were carrying personal weapons.

 Near the entrance, he stopped and spoke to a soldier. “I’m going to do good work for God.” He walked inside. He stepped up onto a table. He shouted, “Allahu Akbar.” Then he opened fire. Court records and forensic analysis confirm he did not shoot randomly. He focused on uniformed soldiers. He passed multiple opportunities to shoot civilians.

 Staff Sergeant Alonzo Lunsford was shot seven times. He survived by lying completely still on the floor. He later told investigators that as he lay there, he could hear Hasan counting his rounds between reloads, calm, unhurried. Staff Sergeant Patrick Zeigler was shot four times, once in the head. Doctors told his family to prepare for the worst.

 He survived, but with permanent partial paralysis on his left side. Specialist Logan Burnett grabbed a table during one of Hasan’s reloads and threw it directly at him. Burnett was shot in the hip. Michael Grant Cahill, 62 years old, 1 week back from a heart attack, picked up a folding chair and charged at Hasan.

 He did not reach him. He did not survive. Captain John Gaffney did the same thing. He also charged. He also did not reach him. He also did not survive. Civilian police officer Kimberly Munley was among the first to respond. She engaged Hasan directly and exchanged fire with him. She was shot three times and went down.

 Her partner, Sergeant Mark Todd, arrived seconds later. He crossed the room and confronted Hasan. He fired five shots. At that moment, Hasan was reaching for a fresh magazine. He was struck. He lost consciousness. Todd walked over, kicked the pistol out of reach, and placed Hasan in handcuffs. The Smith & Wesson .

357 Magnum revolver was recovered at the scene. Forensic analysis confirmed it had never been discharged, not once. 13 people were dead. 32 were wounded. The entire attack lasted approximately 10 minutes. That backup revolver, loaded, holstered, never touched, told investigators exactly how confident Hasan was walking into that room.

 He never believed for a single moment that he would need a second gun. Hasan did not die that day. He was transported to Scott & White Memorial Hospital in Temple, Texas, then transferred to Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio. The bullet that struck him had severed his spinal cord. He was paralyzed from the waist down, permanently.

 He would spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. 13 people would spend the rest of eternity in the ground. Fort Hood went into lockdown. Across the country, phones rang in homes where families were waiting for their soldiers to come home. Those calls changed everything. Jolene Cahill later testified that her husband, Michael, was the glue that held their family together.

 After he was gone, she said, she had to take control of her own life back from the man who destroyed it. Francesca Velez had survived a full deployment to Iraq. She came home. She was 3 months pregnant. Her father traveled to Texas to testify at sentencing and delivered every word of his statement in Spanish. His daughter made it through a war zone.

 She did not make it through a Wednesday afternoon on an American military base. Then came a decision that twisted the knife even further. Within days, the Department of Defense officially classified the attack as workplace violence, not terrorism. That single classification meant the wounded soldiers and the families of the dead were denied combat-related benefits.

 It meant Purple Hearts were withheld. The people who survived the worst day of their lives were told, in writing, that what happened to them did not qualify as an act of war. There was no mystery about who pulled the trigger. Hasan was caught in the act, shot at the scene, and survived. The investigation was never about finding a suspect.

 It was about something much harder, finding out how this was allowed to happen. The FBI reopened its earlier assessment. What investigators found was deeply uncomfortable. Every piece of information had existed. The 18 emails to Nidal Hasan Maliki, the formal performance memo from 2007, the 50-slide presentation, the weapons purchases from Guns Galore, the ammunition stockpile.

 It had all been there. Not one person had ever assembled it in one place and looked at it together. The Senate Homeland Security Committee launched its own separate investigation. Their official report carried a title that said everything, a ticking time bomb. Their conclusion was direct. The attack was preventable. Then came the public statements.

 Days after 13 people were buried, Army Chief of Staff General George Casey stood before cameras and said it would be a greater tragedy if diversity became a casualty of Fort Hood. For the families sitting in those front pews, those words landed like a second blow. Staff Sergeant Shawn Manning had been shot six times.

 He was still carrying two bullets inside his body. He received a formal Department of Defense letter informing him that his injuries did not qualify as wounds caused by an instrumentality of war because Hasan’s pistol was privately owned, not Army-issued. The Purple Heart was withheld. Combat-related benefits were denied across the board.

 It would take an act of Congress and five and a half years for those soldiers to receive the recognition they had already paid for with their blood. The legal machinery moved slowly, but it moved. On November 18th, 2009, 13 days after the attack, Colonel James L. Pohl presided over the Article 32 hearing, the military equivalent of a grand jury proceeding.

 His recommendation was clear, a full court-martial with the death penalty as an eligible outcome. Hasan was formally arraigned on July 20th, 2011. Then the proceeding stalled over a beard. Hasan had grown facial hair claiming religious observance. Military grooming regulations forbade it. The legal dispute over that beard delayed the trial for over a year.

 Judge Colonel Gregory Gross was eventually removed from the case and replaced by Judge Colonel Tara Osborne. In November 2011, survivors and families filed a civil lawsuit against the federal government seeking both financial compensation and a formal reclassification of the attack as terrorism.

 The evidence assembled for trial was extensive. The 18 emails to Anwar al-Awlaki, the Soldier of Allah business card, purchase records from Guns Galore, range practice documentation, 3,000 rounds of stockpiled ammunition, the formal performance memos from Walter Reed, documents Hasan’s own commanders had received and chosen not to act on.

 Nine of his supervisors were formally reprimanded for their failure to respond to those documented warnings before the attack. Then, in 2015, five and a half years after 13 people were killed, the National Defense Authorization Act finally authorized the Purple Heart for military victims and the Defense of Freedom Medal for civilians.

 On April 10th, 2015, Army Secretary John McHugh formally presented those awards. Five and a half years. The trial opened on August 6th, 2013 at Fort Hood, Texas. Hasan’s first move was to fire his civilian attorney, John Galligan. He announced he would represent himself. Judge Colonel Tara Osborn warned him directly he would be held to the same standards as a fully qualified attorney and the jury sitting in front of him would decide whether he lived or died. He proceeded anyway.

Military law does not allow a guilty plea in a capital case. His plan to argue that he acted in defense of others was also thrown out. Motive is not a legal element of the charges. The court did not want to hear it. So, in his opening statement, Hasan stood before a jury of 13 officers and said, “The evidence will clearly show that I am the shooter.

” Then he added, “I switched sides. I am now a mujahid.” Over 12 days, nearly 90 witnesses took the stand. Hasan cross-examined none of them. He called no witnesses of his own. He built no defense. Standby defense counsel, Lieutenant Colonel Chris Poppas, filed a formal ethics objection in open court arguing that helping a man deliberately pursue his own execution was professionally untenable.

 Judge Osborn denied it. Survivors testified. Alonzo Lunsford, the man shot seven times who lay still listening to Hasan count his rounds, sat in that courtroom and faced him. The parents of 19-year-old Aaron Nemelka, the youngest victim, took the stand. Widows spoke. Lead prosecutor Colonel Michael Mulligan delivered a closing argument that has since been cited in court records repeatedly.

 He will not now, and he will never be a martyr. He is a criminal. He is a cold-blooded murderer. This is not his gift to God. This is his debt to society. On August 23rd, 2013, the jury returned a unanimous guilty verdict on all 45 counts. Five days later, on August 28th, they returned a unanimous sentence. Death. Deliberations lasted less than 2 hours.

After sentencing, Hasan was transferred to the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. It is the only maximum-security military prison in the country. It is the only facility that houses the United States military’s death row. He arrived stripped of his rank, stripped of all pay and allowances, formally dismissed from the Army.

 The court also ordered the forfeiture of approximately $300,000 in salary he had collected during the 4 years he spent awaiting trial. The court-martial itself cost the government approximately $5 million. From inside that prison, his convictions did not soften. They hardened. In 2014, he wrote a letter to Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, the leader of ISIS, formally requesting citizenship in the Islamic State. He signed it S.O.A.

, Soldier of Allah. In 2017, he produced a written statement maintaining that his actions on November 5th, 2009, were religiously justified. He told psychological evaluators that execution would make him a martyr. He said he accepted that outcome. He has never, not once, expressed regret. The automatic military appeals process moved forward.

 The United States Army Court of Criminal Appeals reviewed the case. Then the United States Court of Appeals for the Armed Forces took it up. On September 11th, 2023, a date not lost on a single survivor, the Court of Appeals for the Armed Forces unanimously upheld his death sentence. On March 31st, 2025, the United States Supreme Court denied his final petition.

 Every legal door closed. On September 24th, 2025, Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth announced he was seeking formal execution authorization from President Donald Trump. If carried out, it will be the first United States military execution since Private John A. Bennett was hanged on April 13th, 1961 at Fort Leavenworth.

 Survivor Alonzo Lunsford, the man who lay on that floor listening to Hasan count his rounds, spoke publicly. He said he does not deserve to breathe. Dr. Kathy Platoni, a combat stress officer who survived the attack, called the execution long overdue. But she added one condition. Full justice, she said, also requires the attack be formally reclassified as terrorism.

 As of this recording, it has not been. Nidal Malik Hasan wanted to be remembered as a martyr. What he became is a case study in what happens when institutions confuse tolerance with negligence. When red flags get filed, reviewed, rated outstanding, and forgotten. 13 people left behind children, spouses, parents, and futures that never arrived.

 Francesca Velez’s child was never born. Michael Cahill’s family still gathers around a table with an empty chair. Amy Krueger’s mother said it plainly, “We have finally come to the end of one long emotional journey, although the pain of losing Amy will always weigh heavy upon us.” He has spent 16 years in a wheelchair on death row, stripped of rank, pay, and purpose.

The martyrdom he demanded has not come. Whether what remains constitutes justice is a question 13 families are still waiting to have answered. Which moment in this case hit you hardest? Drop it in the comments below. We read every single one. If you are new here, subscribe and hit the bell so you never miss an upload, and stay close.

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