I Shall Not Hate by Izzeldin Abuelaish, was a spontaneous gift from a stranger on an airplane flight from Tel Aviv to London. We struck up a conversation across the aisle when lunch or breakfast or whatever meal it was (on airplanes they blend together like time zones) arrived.
I asked her about the book she was reading so intently. She showed it to me and said she’d give it to me when she finished it. I was reading Jesus Freak (Sara Miles) and she was reading I Shall Not Hate. How do such connections happen!! Nimisha is Hindu, a clinical psychologist living in London who travels to Gaza five times a year for two weeks to help treat post-traumatic stress disorder among Palestinians. “I hear horror stories. That’s why I watch dumb movies on airplanes,” she said. “Well, after I finish this book.”
“This book is for everyone,” she said when she, in a short time, passed it across to me.
*******
I thanked her and began to read. The first thing I noticed was that the author was a Palestinian who had grown up in a refugee camp in Gaza and that there was a praise-filled Foreword by a Jewish Israeli physician, Dr. Marek Glezerman, chairman of the Hospital for Women and deputy director of Rabin Medical Center, Israel. Glezerman expressed surprise that Abuelaish, though chronically humiliated by Israeli military border procedures (harrasments really) while traveling for his work, was not “the very angry man I expected to greet.”
On our pilgrimage we visited a refugee camp in Efrata North, south of Jerusalem, established in 1949. We heard a young Arab Muslim, 24, speak of his life there and his dream of returning home to West Jerusalem. He wasn’t angry either but spoke with a kind of derailed depression freckled with hope and good humor. He had 30 hours to go in the university in the camp where, tellingly, he studied psychology and social work. “I’m afraid to graduate,” he told us. “What then? My friend applied for a job in Nablus with 11,000 applicants!” I asked him about his faith in Allah. His answer was simple: “When I choose the good way and pray first.”
As a feisty Christian feminist westerner I felt humbled. How come neither this man nor Abuelaish haven’t given up on God? I thought that until I remembered that I hadn’t either, although my trials have been minor.
Abuelaish is an ObGyn doctor who specializes in infertility medicine. He has a heart for families, mothers and newborns, loss. He was born in a refugee camp in Gaza where life was harsh. But his mother was a “lioness” mother who never let up on him about study, study study. He obeyed and eventually received a scholarship award and went to study medicine. Life in Gaza remained restrictive, and travel back and forth to work required him to cultivate teeth-gritting patience.
Through unimaginable suffering and tragic loss Abuelaish persisted. I Shall Not Hate is his memoir. It’s his testament to his religious faith and to the friendships of many Israeli colleagues who helped him and value his work and person. I’m reminded of the New Testament story of the friends who removed roof tiles to lower their paralyzed buddy on his stretcher down through a roof so he could bypass crowds to get to Jesus for healing. And Jesus told him faith had made him well—his own and that of his friends.
********
Chapter One, titled “Sand and Sky” begins: “It was as close to heaven and as far from hell as I could get that day, an isolated stretch of beach just two and a half miles from the misery of Gaza City, where waves roll up on the shore as if to wash away yesterday and leave a fresh start for tomorrow. We probably looked like any other family at the beach—...” I was hooked.
Abuelaish had brought his two sons and six daughters plus cousins, aunts and uncles to the beach to find peace in the midst of grief at the premature death of his wife Nadia from leukemia just two weeks after diagnosis. Little did Abuelaish know that in a short time his home would be the target, mistaken but never apologized for, of a fatal shelling during the 23-day siege of Gaza (Dec., 2009 into 2010) in which more family members would die. The sustained attack was designed to intimidate Hamas, retaliation for their suicide bombings. But instead it murdered innocent people. Under a photo of himself in a graveyard Abuelaish wrote: “No caption can express a father’s loss.”
Feelings of agony, rage, terror, love, patience, and hope course side by side through this book but never overwhelm the story, nor the author’s peace and friendship platform. The prose is clear and direct—accessible. No facts, no matter how painful, are sentimentalized, minimalized, or sensationalized. This is the work of an ordered mind that manages to stay sane in the midst of insanity. He never blames Israelis for their government’s actions.
Medicine is his practice, healing physical illness and souls as it creates a level playing field of need and compassionate care. Strong Muslim faith is his stronghold. “For the three weeks during the war, we lost our belief in humanity, so God and each other were all we had left.” AND....... friends on the other side. “The tank pointing its guns at my house ... looked like the angel of death. I called Shlomi Eldar.” Eldar, his friend on the putative other side, managed to engineer a military inquiry into the matter and also set up an interview on Israeli radio. The story went viral and that crisis was averted—until the next one.
At one point Abuelaish ran for public office in Gaza as an independent, thinking it might be a way to work for change. His campaign platform stressed the same issues (poverty, health, education) as the Hamas platform. But Abuelaish’s campaign included raising the status of women. Abuelaish lost.
In 2009 he won the Niarchos Prize for Survivorship. How ironic there is such a prize. It is given by the Survivor Corps an organization that works to break cycles of victimization and violence. Nomika Zion, an Israeli woman, shared the prize with Abuelaish. She and other neighboring Israelis, act and lobby in solidarity with Gazans.
Zion (I love the irony of the name!) accepted the award and spoke against the glorification of war. “I am frightened that we are losing the human ability to see the other side, to feel, to be horrified and to show empathy. It’s our obligation to make our leaders talk, to compel them to tell us, for a change, a different story.” Abuelaish in his acceptance speech encouraged action and to think forward together. “The dignity of Palestinians equals the dignity of Israelis . . .” Does that sound familiar?
*******
Having finally to make the hard decision to leave Gaza, Abuelaish got a job and moved his family to Toronto where his children could experience safety and hope for a future. But he plans to return to his native land and continue his healing mission to encourage an internal shift from hate to respect, on both sides at grassroots levels. He isn’t the first to have such a dream.
The very first activity his younger children performed at their new home in Toronto was to take down a section of the fence between their house and the neighbors so the kids could run back and forth. “How prophetic that I witnessed what I had been dreaming about for years for our two neighbors, Israel and Palestine,” Abuelaish wrote.
*******
DAUGHTERS FOR LIFE is the foundation Abuelaish has started. It is dedicated to change the status and role of women through the provision of scholarships for high school and university education. Ultimately he hopes his foundation will create a credible voice for female values throughout the Middle East. I just made a small gift online.
Showing posts with label Izzeldin Abuelaish. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Izzeldin Abuelaish. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Sunday, July 8, 2012
2012.07. 08 West of Eden
When we left St. George’s College in Jerusalem the departure briefing was, well, complete. We were told how to behave exactly and what to say when and if we were questioned getting through security at Tel Aviv. For example, if asked where the college was located we were NOT to say East Jerusalem but rather near the AMERICAN Colony Hotel, or on Salah Hadin Street, or across from the Israeli District Court. And please no attempts at cuteness or humor.
We ditched our nail and mustache scissors and put our course certificates of graduation and the St. George’s ceramic tile (sharp-edged weapon?) we’d all received in one envelope. Opting for transparency. We had nothing to hide except our nerves.
At the airport we were shuffled into a long line to go through security. We and one other man were pulled out of line. We didn’t know why. The young man security guard was very courteous and asked us where we had been, stayed, how long and were we alone, etc? Who directed this course? Dick said Kamal Farah. I was thinking the name of the American Dean of the college might have been less provocative than a Palestinian name, Christian Episcopal priest or no. But truth will out, and Dick brilliantly added a detail—that Kamal had taught at HEBREW University.
The man behind us said these interrogations used to be much worse. I took that as a good sign. Proceedings continued with careful inspections of the infamous tile. The supervisor was called in on the case. The tile passed.
Dick’s passport took more time. Several times he was asked to take off his glasses while someone looked from his face back to the passport and back again. He gave his most endearing smile. They at last established he was who he is, just 10 years older. Thank God for age, not a usual recipient of thanksgiving. A couple of light jokes about age passed between us and the inspector. We were your age once, etc. etc. It eased the mood.
My passport was questioned as to my name. Not same as husband’s? Which was in question, the name, the husband, or my seemingly unattached status? It took two tries but I finally identified my first husband's name and said my maiden name was my middle name.
The good part was that we were now free of the still lengthy slow line and proceeded to the Xray process ahead of others still in line. Dick’s bag was opened. What was his Rx mouthwash? For gums. I half expected the woman inspector to ask him if it worked.
All carry-ons and luggage stamped and approved we left, casually sauntering to Executive Lounge. We wanted to run.
Theories about being singled out: we looked older and shouldn’t have to wait in a long line? Arbitrary/random tactics? We looked innocent enough to be suspicious?
What I take away however is the respect we were showed by the young man and the smile on his face most of the time. More friendliness than we were led to expect we’d receive, and a grace we returned.
************
On the plane I met a beautiful woman who gave me a gift—what a grace-incidence.
We struck up a conversation and shared laughter when the young woman’s opposing seat-mate immediately raised the screen between the seats. “I smiled at her but now she can’t see me. So I’ll smile at you,” the woman said to me. I, sitting across the aisle, returned the smile.
(The seats in business class are arranged in a way that one person sits facing forward and the other facing rear. They form a unit almost like a lovers’ curved S-shaped couch. But an opaque barrier can be raised between the two, for privacy. You don’t have to look at your seat-mate. )
I spotted the title I Shall Not Hate on the book the woman pulled out to read. I’d seen it in a bookshop in Jerusalem and the title felt magnetic. “It’s a great book,”she said. “I’m almost finished with it. I cried a lot reading though. When I’m done I’ll give it to you. We all need this book.”
I told her no need I’d get it…... but by the time the food started arriving she handed it to me in a generous way I neither could nor would refuse. I began to read it. The author Izzeldin Abuelaish is a Palestinian physician who began his life in a refugee camp in Gaza, not unlike one we’d visited on our pilgrimage. This is his memoir. His wife died young of cancer, and he lost three daughters to Israeli military shells on his home. He has treated patients on both sides of the conflict, has worked with Israeili medical people, and received help from them in his time of greatest need. Abuelaish now lives and teaches in Toronto—and never forgets his beloved family home in Gaza.
An Israeli Jewish physician, Dr. Marek Glezerman, chairman of the Hospital for Women and deputy director of Rabin Medical Center, wrote a Foreward proclaiming Abuelaish as one who could and would promote relationships between Palestinians and Jewish girls. It is his memory and dream. He has started a foundation to support the long hard work of building relationships based on truth not ideology.
I haven’t finished the book but I must relate one incident Abuelaish recounts. Going back and forth to work weekly between Jerusalem where he worked and Gaza where he lived in the mid 90s was fraught with frustration for the good doctor. Initially the hassle came from both sides, Palestinian harassment from Hamas and grief from Israel border patrol on the other side. The guards were rude and gruff. He stayed patient. After a time they got to know Abuelaish, to “accept my existence,” he writes. Enough to ask him for prescriptions for birth control pills for their girlfriends, because he specialized in infertility medicine.
Once a security agent stopped him, not to dispute his papers but to ask a personal question. She was getting married and her menstrual period was due two days before the wedding. Did he have any advice for delaying her period? He did and took time to give her the information she needed.
************
As we prepared to de-board in London I thanked my new friend again for the book and asked, prompted by some of the themes of the book, her dark skin, and the specialized meal she received, if she were a Muslim. She is Hindu and works as a clinical psychologist who lives and practices in London but goes to Gaza for two week stints about five times a year to help with the treatment of victims of trauma who suffer from chronic post-traumatic stress syndrome.
“It’s such a little time to give really, but the stories I hear. I Skype my friends every day for my own trauma. And I watch dumb movies on TV.”
I thanked this woman of faith for her ministry and thanked God, by whatever name, whose healing knows no bounds and no barriers, even opaque ones.
We ditched our nail and mustache scissors and put our course certificates of graduation and the St. George’s ceramic tile (sharp-edged weapon?) we’d all received in one envelope. Opting for transparency. We had nothing to hide except our nerves.
At the airport we were shuffled into a long line to go through security. We and one other man were pulled out of line. We didn’t know why. The young man security guard was very courteous and asked us where we had been, stayed, how long and were we alone, etc? Who directed this course? Dick said Kamal Farah. I was thinking the name of the American Dean of the college might have been less provocative than a Palestinian name, Christian Episcopal priest or no. But truth will out, and Dick brilliantly added a detail—that Kamal had taught at HEBREW University.
The man behind us said these interrogations used to be much worse. I took that as a good sign. Proceedings continued with careful inspections of the infamous tile. The supervisor was called in on the case. The tile passed.
Dick’s passport took more time. Several times he was asked to take off his glasses while someone looked from his face back to the passport and back again. He gave his most endearing smile. They at last established he was who he is, just 10 years older. Thank God for age, not a usual recipient of thanksgiving. A couple of light jokes about age passed between us and the inspector. We were your age once, etc. etc. It eased the mood.
My passport was questioned as to my name. Not same as husband’s? Which was in question, the name, the husband, or my seemingly unattached status? It took two tries but I finally identified my first husband's name and said my maiden name was my middle name.
The good part was that we were now free of the still lengthy slow line and proceeded to the Xray process ahead of others still in line. Dick’s bag was opened. What was his Rx mouthwash? For gums. I half expected the woman inspector to ask him if it worked.
All carry-ons and luggage stamped and approved we left, casually sauntering to Executive Lounge. We wanted to run.
Theories about being singled out: we looked older and shouldn’t have to wait in a long line? Arbitrary/random tactics? We looked innocent enough to be suspicious?
What I take away however is the respect we were showed by the young man and the smile on his face most of the time. More friendliness than we were led to expect we’d receive, and a grace we returned.
************
On the plane I met a beautiful woman who gave me a gift—what a grace-incidence.
We struck up a conversation and shared laughter when the young woman’s opposing seat-mate immediately raised the screen between the seats. “I smiled at her but now she can’t see me. So I’ll smile at you,” the woman said to me. I, sitting across the aisle, returned the smile.
(The seats in business class are arranged in a way that one person sits facing forward and the other facing rear. They form a unit almost like a lovers’ curved S-shaped couch. But an opaque barrier can be raised between the two, for privacy. You don’t have to look at your seat-mate. )
I spotted the title I Shall Not Hate on the book the woman pulled out to read. I’d seen it in a bookshop in Jerusalem and the title felt magnetic. “It’s a great book,”she said. “I’m almost finished with it. I cried a lot reading though. When I’m done I’ll give it to you. We all need this book.”
I told her no need I’d get it…... but by the time the food started arriving she handed it to me in a generous way I neither could nor would refuse. I began to read it. The author Izzeldin Abuelaish is a Palestinian physician who began his life in a refugee camp in Gaza, not unlike one we’d visited on our pilgrimage. This is his memoir. His wife died young of cancer, and he lost three daughters to Israeli military shells on his home. He has treated patients on both sides of the conflict, has worked with Israeili medical people, and received help from them in his time of greatest need. Abuelaish now lives and teaches in Toronto—and never forgets his beloved family home in Gaza.
An Israeli Jewish physician, Dr. Marek Glezerman, chairman of the Hospital for Women and deputy director of Rabin Medical Center, wrote a Foreward proclaiming Abuelaish as one who could and would promote relationships between Palestinians and Jewish girls. It is his memory and dream. He has started a foundation to support the long hard work of building relationships based on truth not ideology.
I haven’t finished the book but I must relate one incident Abuelaish recounts. Going back and forth to work weekly between Jerusalem where he worked and Gaza where he lived in the mid 90s was fraught with frustration for the good doctor. Initially the hassle came from both sides, Palestinian harassment from Hamas and grief from Israel border patrol on the other side. The guards were rude and gruff. He stayed patient. After a time they got to know Abuelaish, to “accept my existence,” he writes. Enough to ask him for prescriptions for birth control pills for their girlfriends, because he specialized in infertility medicine.
Once a security agent stopped him, not to dispute his papers but to ask a personal question. She was getting married and her menstrual period was due two days before the wedding. Did he have any advice for delaying her period? He did and took time to give her the information she needed.
************
As we prepared to de-board in London I thanked my new friend again for the book and asked, prompted by some of the themes of the book, her dark skin, and the specialized meal she received, if she were a Muslim. She is Hindu and works as a clinical psychologist who lives and practices in London but goes to Gaza for two week stints about five times a year to help with the treatment of victims of trauma who suffer from chronic post-traumatic stress syndrome.
“It’s such a little time to give really, but the stories I hear. I Skype my friends every day for my own trauma. And I watch dumb movies on TV.”
I thanked this woman of faith for her ministry and thanked God, by whatever name, whose healing knows no bounds and no barriers, even opaque ones.
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