I Shall Not Hate: A Gaza Doctor's Journey Page 13
This report, from an internationally recognized organization that has a reputation for not taking sides, is of great value to both Gazans and Israelis. But I have to admit that, coupled with the information I have gathered myself in the villages and camps and cities of the Gaza Strip, the ICRC report struck a discouraging blow to the psyche of a man who has believed with all his heart that the situation can and must improve.
I find myself holding tight to the knowledge that Israeli doctors feel as I do: the humanitarian work we undertake as physicians is a bridge across the divide; it can help untangle the distrust and promote a relationship that can lead us out of this quagmire. The director general of the Sheba Medical Center in Tel Aviv is Dr. Zeev Rotstein. He has a vision for this region that can become a reality through health care. I’ll let him explain his own views about how medical teams can reach across the divide:
I’m a cardiologist. Part of my job before the [first] intifada was the diagnosis and treatment of congenital heart disease among children, specifically in Gaza and the West Bank. My heart is with those children who can’t get the treatment they need. I used to go there once a week to evaluate them and refer them for treatment. Before the intifada the population there was much better off from a health point of view. They had full access to medical services and good follow-up in Israel free of charge, plus Gaza doctors were being trained here in Israel. But since the last intifada started—and I’m trying to avoid politics here—to my eyes, the children are the ones who are paying the full price. The training of physicians stopped. Access to medical services isn’t as smooth as it was. It’s really affected by the politics in the area. I always keep that in mind during the collaborating with our colleagues from Gaza. We’re trying to promote health and alleviate misery and disease. From the very beginning, I declared an open door for those children who are diagnosed in two specific fields. One is cancer—we can cure more than half of the cancers and 88 percent of blood cancers. The second set of diseases we can help tremendously is congenital heart disease. We can take these blue children and transform them into pink children. Without this, they die in misery, suffering complications of congenital heart disease. We can do this, we really can do it. It’s just a matter of being stubborn.
Izzeldin has a very good record of treating these cases. His mission was defined as one that would evaluate and define epidemiologically the effect a bilateral relationship had on those children. He was fighting for better medical services, better follow-up and productivity in closing the circle. He was improving the treatment by closing the loop. For example, a child can get treatment here in Israel but goes home and has no support and a lack of continuation of care. I saw Izzeldin as a kind of coordinator. By his research activity he improved results for those kids. He worked here and there collecting data. Unfortunately, the only data available to him on this side was from Tel Hashomer [Sheba hospital]. Not everyone wanted to collaborate. They made it difficult to collect medical material from them. Here our files are computerized and we’re open to this kind of activity and sympathize with it.
Izzeldin says health care can be an important bridge between two people. I agree with him. It works because saving a life and not giving up and doing that over and over again gives the other side the opportunity to see the face of Israelis, not through rifles, but through health care. People who were born and raised there come here for treatment. They don’t know us. They don’t know how sensitive we are about life. They don’t know the real Israeli. Palestinians are incited from birth. They tell us that they never imagined we were human, that they thought we were monsters, conquerors, people who wanted to see them dead. Then they’re treated by us and are surprised that those things are not true.
The majority of Israelis want to live side by side. I’m sure it’s that way with Palestinians as well. But we’re led by extremists on both sides. It’s so easy to incite the people with the misery they are in.
The Israeli patients I treat don’t care that I’m a Palestinian doctor; they care about having someone to help them with their medical problem. The Gazans don’t care that I work in Israel; they care about finding security in their lives and getting treatment for their children. And yet I continue to meet people who are shocked that a Palestinian doctor treats Jewish patients. There is a presumption that we hate each other, that each side wants the other side dead. I’m sure those sentiments exist among some of the people, but in my experience it’s not nearly the number of people the rhetoric suggests.
The important thing about bridging the divide is admitting the truth, the facts around people’s lives today. For example, “the right of return”—the topic everyone knows about but no one wants to discuss. Hundreds of thousands of Palestinians were deported when Israel became a state. Everyone knows this fact. The BBC program Panorama aired a documentary about the people who live close to my ancestral village today. You can hear individuals in the film saying, “This is Abuelaish land.” It’s important for the Israelis to admit their moral and political responsibility and start building trust, which is the only way to arrive at an acceptable solution in which both sides can live in partnership and collaboration. We cannot continue to ignore the issue; there have to be solutions. It’s all about building ties, knowing each other, finding the way together. Of course it can be done. It’s all a matter of will. But every time we seem to be approaching a level of trust that could bring us together, there’s a new outbreak of violence and hopes are dashed again.
I’m not alone in my belief in bridging the divide. There are peace camps and summer schools and “surfers for peace” and hip hop rappers beating out peace messages. There are endless school projects and websites devoted to peace, and there’s even a peace phone line. There are examples of coexistence throughout Gaza and the West Bank and Israel. You can find midwives on both sides of the line promoting peaceful coexistence. Look at the website of the Circle of Health International: Coexistence in the Middle East. The Palestinian Project Coordinator, Aisha Saifi, says, “I have been volunteering and working with COHI for the past three years and the experience has completely changed me. As a Palestinian woman, a mother, and a midwife, not only has this organization allowed me to help the women and children of my country, but it has also enabled me to deliver my message of peace and harmony.” The Israeli coordinator, Gomer Ben Moshe, says, “Belonging to a group of midwives who are willing to volunteer, being part of a mutual dialogue with Palestinian midwives fills me with energy and motivation. I believe women should take part in brokering peace and midwifery is an international language that can be spoken by all women in the world.”
There are even basketball leagues for Arab-Israeli and Jewish teenagers who believe in promoting coexistence and tolerance, and an industrial project on the northern border between Israel and the West Bank whose raison d’être is coexistence. There are conferences all over the world devoted to finding a way to bring Palestinians and Israelis together. And yet harmony eludes us.
One of the ways to alter the status quo is to look to the women and girls. It’s easy to find a thousand men in favour of war; it’s difficult to find five women who are inclined that way. I feel it’s time to empower Palestinian women and girls, to give them respect and independence and let them take the lead. Too many girls cannot get an education because of financial and cultural considerations. Too many families with limited resources give chances only to their sons even though their daughters are also serious and committed. I can understand their reasoning: a son is expected to support his parents in their old age while a daughter usually moves away after marriage to live with her husband’s family. If a father doesn’t have enough to educate all his children, he might decide it’s better to educate his son, believing that his daughters will be taken care of by the families they marry into. But the first phrase in the Quran speaks of the importance of education and it doesn’t differentiate between educating men and women.
We have a saying that goes like this: The mother is the school. If
you prepare this school with the right equipment, the students will be smarter and more successful and so will the nation.
Consider the studies done by the World Bank and the North–South Institute that have found that if you pay attention to the health and education of the women in a community, the economy of the village will turn around. The World Bank has done these studies every five years since 1985; there is evidence beyond doubt that investing in women and girls is the way forward out of poverty and conflict.
I grew up watching the way women in Gaza raised their children. I saw the decision making and the perseverance, but I understood that the women weren’t being given the opportunity to bring their own expertise to the table. Women and girls are not able in Gaza to rise to their potential, and as a result they cannot participate to their fullest.
A healthy society needs wise and educated women. An educated and healthy woman will raise an educated and healthy family. We need to link education with health care, and the most effective way to do that is to make sure that education and health care are available to women. It’s an investment that can shift not only the thinking but power in the Middle East. Removing the barriers that confront our women and girls could very well lead us to peaceful coexistence.
These were the issues that were on my mind when I started my job at the Gertner Institute, and they stayed with me as my research work continued throughout the winter and spring of 2008. I enjoyed my work, but being away from home from Sunday to Thursday took the its toll. Each Monday morning I would begin counting the days until I could go home to be with my family. I tried to make the three-day weekend feel like a five-day week. Nadia had done most of the parenting by herself through the years, but the kids were older now, and I worried about them in a way I never had before. Nadia needed me by her side and I wanted to be there.
One weekend night, I overheard Mayar saying to her sister, “The worst times are when Father is travelling.” That hit me hard. What was I doing, being away from them so much? Who knew how long I would live? My work was important, yes, but my family was everything to me.
And conditions in Gaza continued to deteriorate, and I continued to have to pass through excruciating, time-consuming security back and forth at the Erez Crossing, or the Rafah Crossing between Gaza and Egypt. Yes at least I was allowed to cross, but the frustration and the humiliation were a constant burden. For any human being, freedom is essential, crucial, to our dignity and our ability to be fully human. I was so happy to hear Mayar say she thought their worst times were when I was away, because I sometimes believed the worst times were when I brought my anger and humiliation home.
Anger and violence in Gaza and among Gazans is completely predictable. In a situation like ours, the absence of violence and anger would be abnormal. All of us feel angry at least occasionally. Most of the time when I get angry, I get over it quickly, but to my regret usually only after I have upset others. Controlling one’s anger is the right way to cope but this is easier to say than do. Whenever I lash out, I almost immediately am full of regret. Why didn’t I control myself? Why did I allow myself to hurt my loved ones? Why did I do this to my wife and children?
All I can say is that frustrations build up. When I arrive home I am physically exhausted from the crossing. My children need me yet it feels like I am helpless to go to them, there are so many hurdles in the way. I’ve watched someone else be humiliated by the guards. I’ve seen a patient tired and weak from cancer arbitrarily barred from crossing for treatment they should have received two weeks ago. I can do nothing. I have no control over the situation.
And then I walk in the door and my beloved wife, Nadia, greets me with all the problems of the day, problems I care deeply about. Mohammed didn’t do his homework. (He must do his homework. He must study. Education is the only possible avenue out of a life of hopelessness.) Abdullah didn’t listen to his mother and was playing with his cousins in the street again. (Abdullah must not play on the street. Why doesn’t he listen? Why can’t Nadia control him? Why isn’t there a park where children can play safely? Recently, he was hit by a car and went to hospital. He could have been killed. Why are the drivers so reckless with all the children playing on the street. The driver had no insurance. I had to cover the hospital bills myself.) Dalal said she was going to visit her Aunt Yousra for a few hours but she stayed overnight, returning the next day nonchalantly. How can she stay overnight without asking us or even informing us? (This is unacceptable. She is part of this family. We are linked together and we must know where she is. Something could have happened to her.)
I listen restlessly. I go to my desk to respond to some emails and answer phone messages. There is one message written down, which is apparently important “Mohammed wants you to call him back.” I ask, “Mohammed Who?” But no one knows. (The name Mohammed is like “John” in North America—there are a thousand Johns. What can I do with this information? It’s useless.) I go to make a note about something I need to do and discover that the notepad by my desk is missing (yet again). No one takes responsibility. I go to the refrigerator to check out what we need so I can make a shopping list and discover rotten food. It’s the last straw: I explode, throwing the rotten food on the floor. I shout at my wife, “I didn’t inherit this money nor did I steal it—I sweat for it. You open the refrigerator at least ten times a day, yet you don’t have the time to throw out the rotten food. How many times does this have to happen? Why can’t you be more careful?”
The children cower and Nadia goes to her brother’s house she’s so upset by my yelling. She also knows it’s better to leave me alone to calm down. I go off by myself to try to do just that. Why do I lose my temper? Why can’t I control myself with my loved ones? Why must I hurt my wife and children?
I realize it’s because home is safe. I can’t explode in front of the officials. It would be utterly disastrous. I’d lose everything. I would be detained further. I wouldn’t be able to leave Gaza for work, for study or for medical reasons. If I were trying to get back into Palestine, I wouldn’t be able to come home.
The drums of discontent on both sides were beating like early warning signals in the summer of 2008. I could see no hope for change in the short term. I decided I owed it to my children and to Nadia to find a job in a place where we could be together, where there wouldn’t be such blatant restrictions on us as our border demanded, where the kids could be safe to go to school, to play on the street and be themselves. I wanted to take them away from the tension that infects everyone like a virus in the Middle East. Not forever: this is still my homeland. But for a while—just to give the family a chance to grow up, to be together. So in August 2008, when I received a notice from an international organization about health policy jobs in Kenya and Uganda and another one through the European Union in Brussels, I decided to book a ticket and find out if there was something out there in the wide world for me and mine.
Me at twenty-two.
Deep in my medical studies in Cairo.
I am to the left of my father. Behind us are my brothers Shehab and Nasser, and on the other side of my father is my older half-brother, Ahmad.
From left, my brother Noor, who went missing in 1983 after a stint in an Israeli jail, and my siblings Rezek, Etimad, Atta and Shehab.
My mother, Dalal, was a lioness when it came to protecting us, but she was demanding as well.
With Nadia at our wedding.
Nadia with our first-born, Bessan, in our home in Saudi Arabia.
Happier times at the beach in 2004, after I got back from Harvard. Five of our children, from left, Mohammed, Aya, Dalal, Bessan and Abdullah in the arms of his mother, Nadia.
From left, Mayar, my niece Etimad, Bessan, Shatha, Abdullah, Aya, Raffah and Dalal.
With Israeli colleagues who worked with me in the IVF unit at Soroka hospital.
In 2001, meeting with the Israeli minister of health, Yeshoua Matza, who was surprised to encounter a Palestinian doctor in an Israeli hospital.
Me
eting Israeli prime minister Ehud Barak (far left) with his first wife, Nava, in 2001.
One of my earlier attempts to bridge the distance between Israel and the Gaza Strip. I arranged for Yaakov Terner (right), the mayor of Beersheba and former police chief, to come to police headquarters in Gaza to meet the Palestinian police chief Ghazi al-Jabali. After Hamas won the election in 2006, all such efforts had to stop.
FIVE
Loss
IF LIFE WERE NORMAL IN GAZA, my flight out of the region on August 16, 2008, would have been simple: drive to the checkpoint, exit Gaza, enter Israel, continue by car to the Ben-Gurion International Airport in Tel Aviv and fly any place in the world. But life is not normal, and that airport is off limits to Palestinians. The only way to travel abroad is by way of Jordan; the routes through Israel and Egypt, our closest neighbours, are not open to us unless we have a very special permit, which is almost impossible to obtain. I didn’t know it at the time, but that awkward, problem-filled journey I took out of Gaza in the summer of 2008—not much different from the experience of any Palestinian who needs to travel—was the beginning of the end in more ways than I could possibly have imagined.
A project being operated by Population Services International (PSI) in Kenya and Uganda was looking to hire a consultant in reproductive health. If I could get the position, maybe this was finally the time to move my family out of Gaza to a place where we wouldn’t be oppressed and where we would have access to the rest of the world. I’d spent my adult life determined to improve health and education in the Gaza Strip and to be one of the architects of coexistence with Israel. But I also worried about my children: if I had the opportunity to move them someplace safe, someplace where it was easier for them to fulfill their potential, shouldn’t I listen to my heart?