MIFTAH
Tuesday, 23 April. 2024
 
Your Key to Palestine
The Palestinian Initiatives for The Promotoion of Global Dialogue and Democracy
 
 
 

Her nails are carefully polished in shiny red, their tips beautifully filed. Colorful bands adorn her well-kempt ponytails; she wears a new pink sweatsuit and a silver paper star is stuck to her forehead. A pampered child. She smiles, laughing in embarrassment, already speaking two languages, Hebrew and Arabic. Her father embraces her warmly, showering her with kisses and hugs. She has just come back from "school," and now he will take her to eat. A happy childhood.

Tears choke the bystander's throat. Maria Aman, five years old, is totally paralyzed from the neck down and on a respirator. She has been here for exactly five months, at the Alyn Hospital in Jerusalem - a magical institution where unfortunate children who are in Maria's situation for the rest of their lives are taught, among other things, to feed a parrot with their mouths.

Israel Air Force pilots' courses should include a visit to Alyn, I once wrote in the past. It is also necessary to visit here to see our good side. Israel, which killed the Aman family with a criminal missile, is taking care of the little survivor here in a truly touching way. But what will happen tomorrow? Will the state decide to send little Maria back to Gaza, to certain death? Will someone in Israel dare - in about a month's time, when the funding for her treatment runs out - to give the instruction that the wheelchair with the child on the respirator be taken to the Erez crossing point, and to send Maria and her devoted father to a place where there is no possibility of caring for her? A place where there is not a single rehabilitation facility, where there is no sophisticated electronic wheelchairs like this one, or a respirator or suction machine like the one she has - a place where Maria will collapse after the first complication?

Above all, this is the story of a little girl whose life was ruined during the festive first trip in the family car that her father had bought, when it was hit by an air force missile. Perhaps it was supposed to kill a wanted man, but instead it hit the new car and wiped out an innocent family. But no less than that, this is also the story of her father, Hamdi Aman, a young man of 28 who lost his small son, his wife, his mother and his uncle during the cursed family outing, and whose life's work is now his disabled daughter's rehabilitation. For five months now Hamdi has not left the premises of this hospital for even a moment, for fear that he will be arrested. His visitor's permit is restricted to the hospital. For 24 hours a day he works with and watches Maria, seeing to all her needs with endless devotion. His young son Muaman remains at home in Gaza, but Hamdi does not budge from here. He sleeps in a chair, waking up every two hours at night to look after his daughter, showering her with love.

I have never seen such amazing grace in my life.

The first time we met was at their home. Hamdi was limping then. His leg had been slightly wounded by missile shrapnel; he was bitter and shocked by the terrible disaster that had occurred a few days earlier. The house with its sandy floor in the Tel al-Hawa neighborhood of Gaza was like a gaping abyss. Maria was already lying paralyzed and hooked up to a respirator at Sheba Medical Center at Tel Hashomer; Uncle Nahed was dying at Ichilov Hospital in Tel Aviv; 3-year-old Muaman was wandering around the house in evident distress.

Hamdi asked us to translate a document for him that had come by fax from the hospital, with a request for permission to perform surgery on Maria. At that time he was not allowed to be at her side. For three weeks the child lay alone, with only her grandfather's brother at her side, not knowing who in her family remained alive and who had been killed.

Later we accompanied them when Maria was transferred by ambulance from Sheba to Alyn in Jerusalem. Her nail polish had peeled, her face was ashen and she could barely speak. Hamdi was already at her side. A famous scientist from the Weizman Institute who had read about the family's tragedy on these pages gave a generous donation that moved Hamdi to tears and enabled him to spend his first months here. The defense minister's bureau also acted in an exceptional way to pay for the first months of Maria's treatment.

But Hamdi was, and is still, not allowed to leave the hospital's gates, nor has his 3-year-old son been permitted to visit his father and his sister.

This week we went back to Alyn, to gaze at Maria and to hear Hamdi speak about his anxieties concerning the future and about the daily schedule of a father who has decided to devote his life to his daughter, an hour away from Beit Hanun, where the next wounded children are awaiting their turn for help. Maria looks wonderful, relative to her condition; Hamdi looks gaunt, pale and exhausted.

"I don't do anything. I just take care of my daughter. I catheterize her - one catheter for pee-pee and one for kaki. A catheter every four hours and one for kaki when her belly is swollen. Every morning I wake up, bathe her, change her clothes, take her from the bathroom and put her in a chair. Then her hair. Then I put food in her mouth. Then I will look at the paper, at what is written for her. School every day from 8:30 A.M. to 1:30 P.M., downstairs here. They are teaching her to read and write. Here she knows a bit of Hebrew, from the letters and from life. If we live here she will learn more Hebrew, but what will she do with Hebrew in Gaza?

"During [school] I go upstairs, change her bed, the sheets and the clothes from yesterday. I will do the clothes, wash them, every day with my own hands. Like a laundry. I go downstairs at 9; she already has physiotherapy. I take her from the school to the physio. They will also give treatment to her head and they teach her to give food to Louisiana, the parrot. They put the parrot's food in Maria's mouth and she gives it to the parrot. She will move her head right and left, forward and backward. Then she will go to the computers. She sees games and stories on the computers. Then they give her treatment in a course for the electronic wheelchair, to help her hold her head forward.

"After that Hanin and Ruthie (the social workers) will talk with her about what has happened to her mother. Maria already knows that her mother has been killed. Hanin told her a month ago. It was a little hard. At night she said to me: Daddy, call Mommy. I said to her: That's it, we aren't going to call Mommy any more. Mommy has been killed. She said: Call Grandma. I said to her: That's it. We aren't going to call Mommy any more, or Grandma, or your brother or your uncle. They don't have a mobile phone. They don't have anything. She said: We won't call any more. They don't have a mobile phone. Mommy is in Paradise. If someone asks her where her mother is she will tell him, but she doesn't talk about her any more. It was only when I told her that she cried and exploded. She didn't want to talk to Hanin ... Before that Ruthie and Hanin had told her that her mother was in the hospital. They lie to her. Until the day when they told her the truth. She talks to Muaman. Every day an NIS 80 Orange card. She'll talk with her brother Muaman and her uncle for a quarter of an hour, half an hour.

"I'll change the sheet and I'll change my bed, the chair. I'll go to fetch her food, and put it on the bed. After school I'll give her food. I talk to her, play with her. We'll go for a walk, we'll sit here by the elevator, we'll go outside near the guard. We'll go here, there's something on the Internet and we'll talk to our family in Gaza with a camera. There's a place in Gaza, near our home, an Internet place. They call and say: 'We're on the Internet.'"

Hamdi: "To this day I'm not saying to her that it's because of the missile. I just tell her that something fell into the car, not from the missile, and that's how it happened. The child is five years old; there's no need to tell her. She doesn't know that the Jews did it ... We are in Israel. This is a hospital that belongs to Jews, so what am I going to tell her - that the problem is the Jews? That isn't good for the child. And also I'm never going to tell her. It happened from God. A gift from God.

"I'll do the catheter at 2 P.M. She'll go to sleep and then I sit beside her. I'm on the bed and I just go out to drink some coffee and smoke a cigarette. Until now I've been having a bath every other day. I don't have time. From morning to night I'm taking care of her. Her fever goes up and she says to me: Daddy, my ears hurt, my head hurts. I just go outside to smoke and that's it. I've never left here. I don't have a permit. I don't have a permit for the supermarket. I ask someone to bring me food and until now they don't take money from me. Chocolate for the child and they don't accept money. But for how long?

"There's someone who will put money on the bed, once every week or two, NIS 100 or 200 on Maria's bed, under the pillow. There are cleaners, there are Arabs and there are Jews who give and I don't want to take it and they'll put it on Maria's bed. And everyone says: Why isn't the Defense Ministry giving you money? And they'll bring me clothes. Like my family in Gaza I have here - Jews and Arabs. People call: Maria's father? Do you need anything? And I say to them: Just come to look at my daughter. This is good for her.

"At about 6 P.M. I do a catheter. Then I'll put her in the chair and walk around for four hours. We won't put her on the bed a lot, so she won't get sores. It's better that she goes for a walk. I tell her: Everything will come back. She thinks everything will come back. She feels a reflex in her hands and says to me: Daddy, look what I'm doing with my hands. I say to her: Okay, slowly, slowly. I'll put gauze on the catheter and she'll say: Daddy, look at my legs. They're moving. And I'll say: Okay, slowly, slowly. For breathing, she'll be hooked up until she dies. Sometimes she cries a little [and asks] when will we go back, when will my brother come. And I say to her: There's no permit.

"After and hour or two, I sleep. At 2 A.M. I'll do a catheter for her and I have to move her to the other side, so she won't get a sore on her back. I sleep at night from 2 to 4 A.M., and from 5 to 7 A.M. I don't watch television, only children's games. I don't watch news. I sit by the television, only because of the child. Nothing in the news interests me. Only the child. My uncle tells me what happens in Gaza. They say that 42 people have been killed.

"We'll stay here for another month. After that I don't know what will happen. I want the state to take care of my daughter until she dies. I don't want anything from the state for myself. In three years when we have to change the electronic chair, who in Gaza is going to change it? The social worker knows what I need. In Gaza she doesn't have anywhere to be, there aren't people on respirators like Maria in Gaza. I also need to have my son with me. The boy is already saying: Daddy, you're not taking care of me. Maria and also Muaman need need me to take care of them every day and I don't know my son any more. I am father and mother to my children.

"I very much want Maria to live. I need my daughter. I sit at the Internet, is there anything new? All night long I'll sit at the computer and search all night. I've spoken on the Internet to Germany, to Jordan, to France. In Jordan they told me that there isn't a hospital for the spine and they gave me an e-mail in Germany. Here they told me: There is nothing to be done. Your child will remain this way; her back is broken in a lot of places. Not now, maybe when she's big, 10 years from now, there's a kind of electrode and then she'll be able to move a bit, a little bit, not like us.

"Next to my daughter there's a girl who fell from the sixth floor and her father said that he works for a wazir (minister) and he will help me. He told the wazir that he has a friend from Gaza. Many people are helping me. I need a place for another three years. It's not I who will determine the place. I need for them to decide what place is suitable for her. Here in Jerusalem, or Germany, just not Gaza. I'm not going to Gaza. There isn't a war there between Jews and Arabs, there is a war between Hamas and Fatah. There is no electricity every six hours - where will I take her? How will I do a catheter for her 10 years from now, when she gets her period? ... I'll bring someone and I'll give him money to marry my daughter. She's a girl, not a boy. I'll give him a gift. Just so that he'll be with my daughter."

It is already 1:30 P.M. and Hamdi hurries to take Maria from the classroom of the school that is on the first floor, a class in Arabic and a class in Hebrew. Unbelievable. He changes her hairstyle every day. Today it is colorful ponytails and the silver star on her forehead. "Every father would do this. This is my child. A piece of me."

Maria proudly displays two new bracelets she received from someone and the picture that the teacher drew. Now and then she blinks. Rain is falling in the window and Maria says to her father: Rain. The first rain since she was paralyzed. If Hamdi receives a permit he would like to take her for a trip in Israel, or at least go out of this hospital for a little while, after all those months. And if she is forced to go back to Gaza?

"Only one thing: I will tell the person who decides to look at her. Just to look at her and think that she is his daughter," says Hamdi. "From his heart he will look at her and say she is his daughter."

 
 
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