Voices from Armageddon
by
Larry Rich
Text: © Larry Rich 2005
Smashwords Edition
This book is also available in print at Amazon and through O Books, an imprint of John Hunt Publishing Ltd, UK
Larry Rich: rich-cbc@zahav.net.il
Phone: 646-546 5970
“The world is not respectable; it is mortal, tormented, confused, deluded forever; but it is shot through with beauty, with love, with glints of courage and laughter; and in these, the spirit blooms timidly, and struggles to the light amid the thorns.”
George Santayana
Introduction
When you hear the name Armageddon you probably conjure up images rooted in myth or the Bible. Armageddon is synonymous with The Apocalypse. Judgment Day. The End of Times. Students of the Bible know it as the place where the cataclysmic battle between the forces of good and evil will unfold and many believe that this battle will take place in the very near future. But it is also a real place inhabited today by tens of thousands of people. In addition, it has already seen more fighting and bloodshed than any other spot on earth.
“Armageddon” comes from the Hebrew Har Megiddo and means literally “the mount of Megiddo.” Tel (hill) Megiddo is a fascinating site where twenty cities have been built directly on top of one another and it lies at a strategic junction of roads running north-south and east-west. Whoever had control of Megiddo had control of one of the major trade routes of antiquity, the Via Maris or, the “Way of the Sea”. Virtually every invading army that came through this region during the past 4000 years fought battles to dominate it and at least 34 bloody conflicts have already been fought at the ancient site of Megiddo and adjacent areas within the Jezreel Valley. Egyptians, Canaanites, Israelites, Midianites, Amalekites, Philistines, Hasmonaeans, Greeks, Romans, Muslims, Crusaders, Mamlukes, Mongols, French, Ottomans, British, Australians, Germans, Muslims and Israelis have all fought and died here. The names of the warring generals and leaders reverberate throughout history: Thutmose III, Deborah and Barak, Sisera, Gideon, Saul and Jonathan, Shishak, Jehu, Joram, Jezebel, Josiah, Antiochus, Ptolemy, Vespasian, Saladin, Napoleon, and Allenby, to name some of the most famous.
History seems to be teaching us the importance of maintaining a strategic presence on military and/or mercantile routes.
Megiddo and the Jezreel Valley have been Ground Zero for battles that determined the very course of civilization. It is no wonder that John, the author of Revelation, believed that the ultimate battle between good and evil would also take place in this region. He may yet prove to be right, as the conflict around the Valley is at the center of one of the world’s most explosive disputes. One that could erupt into a nuclear Armageddon.
It follows that people who live in this region have unwittingly placed themselves in harm’s way. The combination of historical facts, current realities and prophecy seems to have doomed the local inhabitants of Megiddo and the Jezreel Valley to a fate of unavoidable hate and bloodshed.
Who are these people and where do they live today? They are the Jews and Muslims of Israel; Afula, Nazareth, Beit She’an and tens of other villages, kibbutz’s, cooperative farming settlements and municipalities. Sharing the land and separated by a once invisible line that now boasts an electronic fence, impassable ditches and Israeli military patrols are the Muslims of the Palestinian Authority. They live along the southern fringe of the Jezreel Valley, known today as the Northern West Bank. This area’s best-known town, Jenin, is surrounded by tens of smaller Muslim villages.
The primary religions of those residing in the Jezreel Valley include Jews, Muslims, Christians and Druze. (The Druze are Muslim descendants of Jethro, the father-in-law of Moses. They practice a secret religion that does not conform to traditional Islam.) Other than a handful who can trace their ancestry back several centuries, these neighbors (Muslims and Jews) have all immigrated from Egypt, Algeria, Morocco, Syria, Tunisia, Iraq, Iran, Ethiopia, Russia, Europe, the United States, South America, South Africa, Canada, Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Jordan, Lebanon, Libya, the Philippines, Mexico and the Far East – to name just a few of their countries of origin. Today they all fall into one of two modern population categories, either Israeli or Palestinian. And here they live side by side in the Jezreel Valley. Megiddo. Armageddon.
Are these people destined to carry on an unwritten tradition of hatred and bloodshed? Are they inextricably caught in a vortex of historical violence? Have the crossroads of Via Maris sealed their fate? Do they have any say in their own futures or that of their children and grandchildren? And what about the fate of your families … if the conflict is not resolved?
The newspapers of the world reflect the stories that would have us believe the worst. The Muslims and Jews of Armageddon have inflicted upon one another unimaginable suffering and the fear that drives them seems to be the dominant force of the region.
However, there is another reality ... a quiet, almost unspoken alternative truth. One place where this can be witnessed by anyone who cares to focus on a phenomenon that defies popular conception is in an exceptional medical institution.
There is a community hospital standing in Afula at the gateway to the Jezreel Valley and it is called the Emek (Hebrew for Valley) Medical Center (EMC). The unique region it serves is equally divided between Jews and Muslims, its patient base reflects this demographic reality and the staff is a multi-ethnic mix of Jews, Muslims, Christians and Druze. As a result of the violence and ongoing conflict in the region, EMC has treated a very high number of horrific casualties. It is the only hospital in the Valley of Armageddon.
Since October 2000, this hospital alone in a sparsely populated region has treated more than 1,000 victims of senseless and savage terror. Had the same level of terror taken place in New York, this would be the statistical equivalent of 200,000 wounded!
On an hourly basis, anyone can witness Jews saving Muslims and Christians, Muslims saving Jews and Christians while Christians are saving Muslims and Jews. The historical imprint of hate seems to vanish at the entrance to EMC - an isolated island of sanity in a region gone mad.
Living on the northwest fringe of the Jezreel valley, I have been professionally involved with EMC since 1997. I am witness to the human dramas taking place daily between the Jews, Muslims, Christians and Druze of Israel. Muslims from Jenin (labeled the Palestinian capital of terror because many of the suicide bombers originated from there) arrive on EMC’s doorstep seeking medical treatment. Nobody has ever been turned away.
The following pages will reveal true stories of everyday people living in the Valley of Armageddon, how they have been victimized by the conflict and yet managed to maintain their humanity.
These people are a living testament to the reality of hope. They show how human dignity and mutual respect take precedence over the blind hatred of those who would plunge this region and the world into a final holocaust.
These voices from Armageddon are echoes not normally heard from this historically damned region.
*****
Author’s note
Although the following stories are all true, some names have been altered or omitted. This is to protect those individuals from being wrongfully ostracized by their own people.
“I have been a stranger in a strange land.”
Exodus ii 22
A Viper, Salaam and Hope
They live in Palestinian Jenin. Thirteen year-old Salaam (Arabic for peace), her mother Kamla, her father Basam, two older brothers and a younger sister. When Salaam was born in 1991, her family had already begun to feel the economic pressures resulting from the souring relations between their community and the neighboring Israelis. In a gesture of hope and devout belief in Allah (God), Basam and Kamla named their third child Salaam. They yearned for a productive and tranquil life and were confident that in calling their daughter “Peace” they would in some way influence the negative forces surrounding them.
Basam worked as an automobile mechanic in a local Jenin garage. Throughout the 1990’s the modest enterprise enjoyed the business of neighboring Israelis who preferred the unpretentious services of the talented Arabs to their own state-of-the-art repair centers. He earned an honest living in a less than perfect existence, yet he provided for his family with dignity.
That all changed in October 2000. Anger and frustration among his people fueled by religious and political extremists erupted in an orgy of hate, killing and destruction. The second, or Al Aqsa, intifada (uprising) had begun. The armed and well-organized fanatics among his people regarded every Israeli as a legitimate target and the neighboring city of Afula as worthy of destruction.
Young men and women were indoctrinated, brainwashed, “blessed” and dispatched into the Jezreel Valley with explosives strapped to their bodies. Their targets were buses, restaurants, shopping malls and any place where Israelis congregated in numbers. An army of suicide bombers marched into Armageddon.
The people of Israel retaliated in kind with brute force, ultimately isolating their Palestinian neighbors and denying any contact, other than military, between them.
The economic infrastructure of Jenin and the surrounding Palestinian Arab villages collapsed. Cut off from any viable source of income, many families stumbled into destitution. Young people were drawn to join the ranks of the militants by the promise of monetary rewards for their families. A cousin of Basam answered the call, was given a rifle, attacked a group of Israeli soldiers and was cut down without ever knowing how his sacrifice would benefit his family. It did not. Their home was bulldozed into oblivion the next day.
Basam had no work or income. His children were hungry and the only opportunity available to them was for Kamla and Salaam to venture into the Valley to find work among the farmers. An Arab woman and her daughter did not arouse the suspicion of the Israelis.
They made their way to Kfar (village) Shibli, a well-established Arab Bedouin community located just northeast of Afula. Bedouin is a term for nomadic Arab tribes throughout the Middle East. Many move from place to place while others, like the large Shibli clan, settled. Kamla and Salaam were allowed to work in the Shibli vegetable fields, were paid little and were given a meager wind-blown tent to sleep in. They did not complain.
Early one afternoon as they took refuge from the punishing sun and rested within their tent, a viper (a poisonous snake common to the Valley) suddenly struck three times into the right palm of young Salaam. Her screams and those of her mother attracted the attention of the local Bedouin who rushed to their aid. Salaam was in great pain and hysterical and the Bedouin said they must hurry her to the Emek hospital in Afula that was only minutes away.
“No,” screamed Kamla. “Not to the Jews! Take us to Nazareth to our own people”.
The drive up the mountain to the Arab hospital in Nazareth took nearly thirty minutes and the girl’s condition was rapidly deteriorating. Upon arrival, they were shocked to learn that the hospital did not have the anti-serum that was needed to save Salaam’s life. Her only chance was to get to the Emek Medical Center. An ambulance was summoned and during the frantic ride down the mountain, Kamla was frozen with fear as Salaam lay unconscious on the stretcher next to her.
As they raced the dying girl into the emergency room, Kamla could not comprehend the attention and care being offered to both her and her daughter by these strangers. Suddenly she was being spoken to in Arabic and told that Salaam needed an emergency operation. Everything happened so fast.
As the team of surgeons opened the girl’s arm from her palm up to her shoulder in an attempt to drain the deadly poison from her young body, Kamla sat bewildered in the waiting hall. A nurse and a social worker told her that everything possible was being done to save her daughter. Her condition was critical.
Later, alone in the hall with images tormenting her of returning home to Jenin without Salaam, Kamla quietly wept.
The surgeon, an Israeli Arab, finally appeared, sat down and spoke with her in Arabic. He explained that Salaam was barely alive and being taken to the Intensive Care Unit. They did not know if she would survive.
“How can this be?” asked Kamla. “You are an Arab and you work here with the Jews. Why are you doing this for a stranger from Jenin?”
“You and your daughter are no different than any of the people you see around you. You needed our help and I hope we were not too late. May Allah be merciful.”
Salaam spent the next four days on life support in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. When she awoke and her condition stabilized, she was transferred to the Pediatric Surgical Department. It was there that I met them.
Accompanied by the department’s head nurse who spoke Arabic, Hebrew, English and Russian, I was introduced to Kamla and a shy yet smiling Salaam. There were six other Arab and Jewish women in the room visiting their children. Everybody was nodding their approval during our conversation. Aliza, the head nurse who had seen more in her lifetime than most people could even imagine, joked as she interpreted – switching from Arabic to Hebrew to English so as to include everyone in the exchange.
“So what if you are from Jenin,” she challenged with humor to Kamla. “You bleed just like the Jews. No?”
“How do you feel now among the Jews and Arabs of Israel?” I asked Kamla.
She looked from me to Aliza to the concerned faces around her and answered, “I would never have believed such a thing to be possible. May Allah bless you all.”
“Will you tell your story to the people in Jenin?” I questioned.
Her immediate reaction was, “I don’t want to go back there. I want to stay here.” After a momentary pause her dark brown eyes opened wide and she seemed to straighten in her chair before quietly continuing, “Yes. I will tell my family and my friends. They need to know the truth.”
Little Salaam – a young girl named Peace. Maybe her story together with so many others like it could be the threads of a fabric that might one day smother all the hatred in this land.
*****
“I know God will not give me anything I can't handle. I just wish that He didn't trust me so much.”
Mother Teresa
“You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, "I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along."
Eleanor Roosevelt
She Knew What Questions to Ask
Kfar (village) Yona is primarily a farming community located near the center of the Jezreel Valley. Some of the most beautiful flowers sold on the roadsides during the weekends are grown there. It’s a quiet, modest Israeli community like many others throughout the valley, whose residents are mostly unaware of the historical powder keg within which they have chosen to live.
Avi and Rivka Naim’s youngest daughter, Shoshi, finished her compulsory military service in the Spring of 2003. Eighteen-year-old Israeli women serve for two years in the Israel Defense Forces (IDF). Many of them are able to avoid serving on religious, familial, health or emotional grounds. Shoshi, however, was eager to join but relieved when she was finally released.
She immediately began looking for a job so, like many young Israelis who have finished their army duty, she could save some money and travel outside the confines of Israel. Young people need to get away from here after serving in the military.
Finding a job was not so easy. Unemployment was at record levels throughout the country as the second intifada was taking its economic toll on both the Israelis and the Palestinian populations. The cafes and street corners of Kfar Yona became common ground for the young, post-military unemployed.
Shoshi refused to join their ranks and daily checked out any opportunity that was being offered. She answered an ad calling for security guards. Every restaurant, public building and shopping mall posted a guard at the entrance to observe, electronically scan and scrutinize each person entering the premises. A paradox of the intifada was that it destroyed many businesses while giving birth to a new security-oriented industry.
Shoshi was thrilled when she returned home after a twenty-minute bus ride from Afula and excitedly told her mother that she had been accepted after only the first interview. She would be stationed at the shopping mall. Rivka was not impressed or at all happy about her headstrong daughter’s choice.
“You don’t have to work as a guard, darling,” her mother pleaded. “Your father and I are happy to help you until something safer comes along. Please, Shoshi … we worried enough about you while you were in the army – especially after what happened to your sister.”
“Oh, Ema (mother), don’t worry so much. This is great – I’ll be earning more than minimum wage. The people are nice and the conditions are good.” Shoshi’s mind was made up. She hugged her mother but could not relate to her fears.
Shoshi was trained how to observe the thousands of Jews and Arabs who would be passing before her, what to look for, how to check a handbag, backpack or tote bag and how to operate an electronic scanner. She also learned to be firm yet not offensive to anyone requiring additional questioning.
“Your job,” her middle-aged instructor said to the small group of new ‘recruits’ as they sat comfortably in a classroom, “is to prevent a terrorist from entering the closed confines of the building where the effect of a bomb would be magnified several fold. With hundreds of shoppers walking around in a closed space, you can imagine the results. We’ve seen it enough times already in Jerusalem, Tel Aviv and Netanya.” He looked from face to face before continuing and then stared straight at her. “Shoshi, the reason we employ you and other young women is because sometimes an approaching female arouses suspicion. The odds of her being a terrorist are infinitesimal, yet it is our job to question and to search her if necessary while respecting her dignity.”
Shoshi was given a new, crisp black and white security agency uniform, much smarter than her army clothing had been. She underwent a few days of on the job training and was then considered qualified. She took up her position at the entrance to the Afula shopping mall, located at the end of the Via Maris highway.
Shoshi returned home every day a proud young woman. She would pass other young people milling about the quiet streets of Kfar Yona and think to herself about the flight that would one day take her to exotic India or Thailand. She had made the right decision and she was on her way.
Her first week passed uneventfully but she was grateful that the shops were closed for the Sabbath (Saturday). Eight hours a day of vigilant attention while on her feet was difficult even for the twenty one year old.
Unlike others she worked with, Shoshi never had her mobile phone operating while on the job. She would not dare risk being unfocused if caught in a moment of crisis. The shoppers of Afula appreciated her presence.
That day in May 2003, Shoshi was partnered with Alex, a young Russian immigrant who carefully checked each shopper as they stood before him. Shoshi stood off to the side and studied the people as they came up the steps on their way to the entrance of the mall. It was a typically hot Jezreel Valley day (95º F) and she was glad that they stood in the afternoon shade of the east side of the building.
Her shift was to end at 16:00 hours but their supervisor came over and asked if she could stay on another hour or so. The girl who was to relieve her had some problem at home and called to say she would be late. Shoshi agreed without objection, as she knew her older sister had left the family car for her to drive home. She might even get in a bit of shopping.
At about 17:00 Shoshi looked at her watch and then caught the eye of a young Arab woman who was about to be checked. The woman was about her age, wearing jeans, a tee shirt and carrying a medium sized tote bag over her right shoulder. She was tense and unsmiling. Alex passed the scanner over her and it signaled that something metallic required further attention. As she was trained to do and without thinking twice about it, Shoshi quickly walked over and stood directly in front of the young woman, effectively blocking the open pathway into the mall. The next few seconds registered in her mind like disjointed imagery. Alex was saying something to the Arab woman in a silent charade. A man, second in line, stared blankly ahead. Out of the corner of her eye, Shoshi saw a woman hugging a friend, a teenage boy lighting a cigarette and a grandmother waiting at the curb. People were moving in every direction. The last thing she remembered was looking into the woman’s sweating face. That was when the bomb exploded.
The deafening blast catapulted Shoshi into the air and slammed her into the shattering glass and steel of the crumbling entranceway. People and debris were forcefully flung in every direction, away from the epicenter of the blast that was the tote bag on the young Arab woman’s shoulder. In a split second of fire, more than a hundred human beings lay sprawled, limbless, shattered, torn and bloodied in the afternoon shade.
Alex and two other bystanders died instantly along with their murderer. Amidst the smoke, blood, charred flesh and screaming – came the first sirens of approaching emergency vehicles.
Within minutes, the most critically injured victims were rushed to the Emek Medical Center. The rest arrived in a long line of wailing ambulances shortly after.
Upon arrival of the first wounded woman, a call went out over the hospital’s public address system that a mass casualty event had taken place and for all personnel to take up their assigned positions. All routine activity throughout the institution ceased. Surgeries not yet begun were cancelled until further notice, the forty people being treated in the ER were immediately transferred to alternate sites within the hospital, physicians and nurses from every department raced to the ER and operating rooms while technical and support staff took up their positions. The singular immediate focus of the entire medical center was to save as many lives as possible. Never had so many severely injured people descended upon the hospital so quickly as they did that day in May. Medical staff rushed from home to the hospital upon hearing the call.
Jerusalem and Tel Aviv have several fine hospitals and when a mass casualty event takes place there, the injured are evenly distributed among them. Emek Medical Center is the only trauma/emergency center in the Jezreel Valley. The lives of all the Afula victims depend upon the quick, highly organized and experienced care of the EMC team.
The trauma specialists in the hospital’s ER were horrified to see the massive external and internal carnage the bomb had wreaked on the female lying unconscious before them. Nobody had any idea who she was, as there was nothing left of her clothing or anything identifiable to help them. A badly damaged ring was removed from one of her remaining fingers, labeled and given to a social worker. The woman was then rushed to the operating room.
Dr. Kopelman, the head of Surgery “B”, and his colleagues had just finished an exhausting day of surgeries when the call was heard at just before 18:00. As they prepared themselves for the inevitable, the woman was wheeled in. They studied what remained of her mangled leg and body. She suffered multiple internal organ trauma, burns, fractures and disfigurement.
“Where do we begin?’ asked a young surgeon, not believing what he saw before him. “Should we just sacrifice her leg and concentrate on saving her life?”
Dr. Kopelman sadly shook his head, took a deep breadth and said to his team, “Whoever this young woman is, I will tell you this, she is too young to go through life without her leg. We are going to save her life and that leg … now let’s get to work.” So began a marathon eleven-hour operation.
Meanwhile, the girl’s parents, Rivka and Avi Naim, had heard on the radio of the bombing at the mall in Afula. Panic-stricken, they covered the 20-minute drive in half the time and were greeted at the scene with pandemonium and chaos. Rivka frantically dialed her daughter’s mobile number, but Shoshi’s phone was turned off. They left their car in the massive traffic jam and ran several hundred meters to the entrance where they knew Shoshi was stationed. They were screaming her name. Rivka cried out in her mind, “Shoshi … no, no, no …”
The first minutes after a bombing are precisely when it is utterly impossible for a normal citizen to obtain any exact information. Who was killed? How many injured? Was it a suicide attack?
When Rivka and Avi arrived, badly shaken and terrified, the bodies had already been moved away. There remained only smoke, bloodied moaning victims, bent steel, shattered glass, pulverized concrete and the shredded remains of the mall’s tall red metal facade. Nobody could tell them if the female security guard was among the victims – dead or alive. Nobody would commit to giving exact information in those horrible moments.
They found their older daughter’s car parked where she had left it for her sister. They could not find Shoshi.
They raced to the hospital, refusing to believe what might be a crushing truth. They were met in the ER by a senior social worker who brought them into a quiet room off to the side. She told them that an unidentified woman was currently in surgery. She showed them the ring. Rivka held it in her trembling hands and tried to focus upon it. It was so badly damaged that they could not say if it belonged to their daughter. A neighbor of theirs who also rushed to the hospital accompanied the Naims upstairs to the operating room. Neither mother nor father could muster the strength to go inside. The neighbor went in and held his forehead as he shuddered and identified Shoshi.
The young woman suddenly had a name and a family. Dr. Kopelman went out into the corridor to speak with her parents. He began explaining the seriousness of the multiple injuries Shoshi had suffered. Rivka stared at the physician and asked, “Have any arteries been severed? Are the internal organ injuries life-threatening?”
Dr. Kopelman went out into the hall to update the Naims several times throughout the long and complicated surgery. Rivka continued to ask, “What about skeletal damage? Can you save her leg? Is she breathing with the aid of a ventilator?”
After eleven tortuous hours, a depleted Dr. Kopelman came out into the hall and this time removed his mask and sat down next to Rivka. He held her hand and said there was slim hope for Shoshi and that she would be spending critical time in the Intensive Care Unit. He could not say if or when she might awaken. They should go home and get some rest. Miraculously, her brain did not seem to be damaged. Looking at the tired woman beside him, the surgeon asked her, “How did you know what questions to ask?”
Rivka sighed wearily. “How do I know? Do you remember the double bombing attack at the Beit Lid intersection in the mid 1990’s - when 20 young people were killed?”
“Of course. They attacked a main IDF bus stop. All of the dead were soldiers on their way home.”
Rivka gripped Dr, Kopelman’s hand even tighter before continuing. “Shoshi’s older sister, Etti, was critically injured in that attack. You see, doctor … I’ve been here before … and now … I’m here again.” And she wept.
Epilog
In March 2005, about two years after this event took place, I invited Shoshi to my office. I was going to the United States to tell the story of our hospital and my hosts asked if any victims of terror would be prepared to join me. Shoshi, without hesitation, agreed.
I was amazed to watch her walk, unaided, into my office. Her lovely face was lit by a warm smile and she radiated an inner peace. I was privileged to be in the presence of a true medical miracle.
We talked about her health and she told me that she was still undergoing hydrotherapy and that the pains were minimal.
She explained to me that she did not remember the blast. The last thing she recalled was walking towards the young Arab woman – yet she could not recollect her face.
I asked her if she was angry.
“At whom?” she responded sincerely. “Because I can’t remember anything, it’s as if this happened to somebody else.” She rubbed her scarred hands.
“How do you feel when you enter a shopping mall today and you have to pass the security guard?”
“It doesn’t bother me, but I did get angry once.” She sat so calmly and then her eyes narrowed. “The guard didn’t check my bag. I challenged him by asking what if I had been a terrorist. He just shrugged and waved me away. Instead of telling him who I was and what I had lived through, I went and found his boss and reported his inefficiency and careless behavior.”
“So, what happened next?”
“I don’t know … I went shopping.”
The modesty of this young hero was as fresh as a gentle snow. I asked her what she planned to do with her life.
“I want to study physiotherapy. After experiencing the pain and then undergoing rehabilitation, I want to be able to help others.”
*****
“We make a living by what we get, we make a life by what we give.”
Sir Winston Churchill
“Don't walk behind me, I may not lead. Don't walk in front of me, I may not follow. Just walk beside me and be my friend.”
Albert Camus
Stuck In the Mud
I remember my son, Boaz, during his pre-school days. He was always a quiet boy who seemed to contemplate people in a manner far beyond his years. He maintained that characteristic throughout his youth, speaking little as he was seemingly preoccupied in thought. The most frustrating part was that Bo rarely shared his reflections and that made me feel left out, not a part of what was going on in his mind and heart. I suppose that as a boy I was not much different.
Today he is a soldier serving in the Israeli Navy and in the summer of 2005, Bo will return to life as a civilian. Military life is not a mild experience for any person, especially since they may be called upon at any time to place their lives on the line for the sake of their country.
My son has spoken more about himself this past year than I’ve ever before had the pleasure to hear. I understand very well, having served in the Israel Defense Forces myself for eighteen years, how the military environment is fertile ground for right wing and extremist views. I’m proud that Boaz has still managed to maintain an open mind and that he is more concerned with finishing his mandatory service than with killing somebody.
On his occasional days of leave, my son spends loving time when possible with his girlfriend, Karen, who is also a soldier. It is not difficult for a woman to avoid military service, but Karen chose to serve as an ambulance driver.
Both being residents of Afula, they enjoy their time off together wandering the nature trails of the Jezreel valley. A few days ago, Bo shared with me an important experience they had.
Karen had her mother’s Subaru sedan and in the late afternoon, they were driving over dirt trails in open farmland that was miles from the nearest community. It had rained earlier in the day and they suddenly found themselves sliding off the trail and into the mud of the adjoining plowed field. Karen unsuccessfully tried to compensate for the skid and ended up with all four wheels embedded up to the car’s fenders. The sun was going down, the temperature was dropping and there was not a soul in sight. Boaz tried pushing the bumper but only lost his shoes in the thick mud. The only thing they could do was wait and hope that one of the local farmers would happen to come by.
An older model Fiat suddenly appeared and stopped when the driver saw the comical but sad situation. An Arab man, his son-in-law and the younger man’s two eight year old sons got out of their car to see if they could help. “Ahalan wah sahalan,” they exclaimed. That’s Arabic for greetings and blessings.
A combination of Arabic and Hebrew good wishes were exchanged before the elder man and the father of the boys slipped on their rubber boots and stepped into the dark mud.
The children brought rocks, pieces of wood and anything else they could find to try to push under the tires to provide traction. Nothing worked. The boys then found a large woven sack that once held a ton of sand. The elder Arab removed an ax from the trunk of his car and I asked Boaz, “When you saw the ax, were you at all worried for your and Karen’s safety?”
“Not at all,” answered my son. “I was simply glad that he had it because we needed to cut the large sack into strips to use as a towrope.”
The two children played near the Fiat while the two Arabs and two Jews worked shoulder to shoulder, hopelessly trying to get the sunken vehicle to budge. They attached the makeshift towrope to both cars, but the Fiat was no more able to pull out the larger car than those people were of declaring peace in the Middle East. The air was filled with good intentions, but there was no hope of success.
“Abba (Hebrew for dad), Those people were really something. They became covered in mud like Karen and me, their car was too small to make any difference, it was dark, cold and it was clear that they had no hope of getting us out. It made me feel really good inside that they stayed with us.”
After more than three hours of futile efforts, a four-wheel drive jeep came upon them. The driver knew those fields well and he told them to wait a little longer while he went to call for a tractor from the nearest farm.
Another hour went by and the Arabs continued to stand by their new Jewish friends. At one point, they all looked at each other covered in mud and broke into uncontrolled laughter. That might have been the sweetest music the Jezreel valley had heard in many years.
The approaching headlights of the slow moving tractor in the pitch black of night looked to Boaz like something out of a Spielberg movie.
The farmer brought with him a heavy-duty rope, attached it to the car’s frame and slowly extracted the Subaru from the field. When all were on solid ground, the farmer removed his rope, waved goodbye and disappeared in the dark. The only thing he asked of them was that they stayed on the paths and out of his fields.
The Arab family drove ahead and guided Bo and Karen out of the field. When they reached the main road to Afula, the Arabs turned left and their new friends turned right. That was the last Boaz ever saw of them.
“Who were they, Bo?” I asked. “Where do they live?”
“I don’t know, abba. I never asked. They just drove off before we could thank them.”
That night in the mud of the valley had a profound affect upon my son the soldier. He learned an important lesson in humanity. He asked me, “Where has all the hate come from? Everything seemed so natural and right out there in the mud of that field. Why have we all made things so complicated?”
A very good question. Maybe, we are all just stuck in the mud.
*****
“Unless you believe, you will not understand.”
Saint Augustine
Fatma and Sharif
Jenin has been labeled the Palestinian capital of terror because the majority of the suicide bombers were bred there.
Fatma was born in the early 1970’s in Jenin, a Palestinian Muslim Arab town of about 15,000 souls. She entered the world during a relatively quiet period in a very troubled region. Her hometown is located on the northern seam line of the West Bank – or, depending on your point of view, on the southern fringe of the Jezreel Valley (see figure 2). Jenin is just southeast of ancient Megiddo. It neighbors the Israeli city of Afula whose 40,000 Jewish inhabitants enjoyed trade and open communications with the growing yet underdeveloped Palestinian urban entity through the late 1980’s. That was when politics took precedence over humanity and the region was caught once again in the historical vortex of violence.
During Fatma’s childhood, her father often traveled freely through the open fields that separate the two townships and brought supplies back to their home. In those days, it was normal that Fatma enjoyed fruits and foodstuffs from the fields and stores of her Jewish neighbors.
The Jews too would often travel into Jenin and save money through local commerce. The Arabs demanded less for themselves within their less-developed society so their prices for everything from automobile garage services to coffee and sweet cakes were much lower than in Afula or other Jewish cities. The interaction between the two populations was natural and relatively uncomplicated – a simple exchange of goods and services for money.
During ‘quiet times’, there is a natural affinity between Israeli Jews and Arabs. It is common to see Jews greeting Arabs with, “Ahalon, ahalon,”. This means in Arabic, ‘greetings’, or “ahalon wahsalahon,” which is ‘greetings and blessings’. It is as common as a, “hi, how do you do” anywhere across the United States or the English speaking world.
Fatma was in her teens when the first uprising, or intifada, broke out in 1987. Her friends were often involved in throwing stones at Israeli soldiers or vehicles that would be passing by and she was shocked to hear of an Israeli citizen who had been stabbed in the Jenin marketplace. She had often heard during her upbringing of injustices against her people, but she could not place the jagged pieces of the historical puzzle into any kind of meaningful context.
As the violence and counter-violence escalated into general mistrust and hatred, Fatma focused on life and wed the man who would father her four children … the first of whom was Sharif.
Basic medical care and first aid were provided by the Jenin Hospital and when patients required more advanced treatment, they were referred to the St. Vincent DePaul Arab hospital in Nazareth. This city, where Jesus spent much of his life, is located on a hill that forms the northern ridge of the Jezreel Valley and looks south across the plain of Megiddo towards Jenin. The city of Afula is halfway between Nazareth and Jenin (just to the east) and lines connecting the three population centers would form a triangle.
When Sharif was four he began complaining of stomach pain and six months later the physicians in Jenin realized that they were not equipped to treat the cancerous tumor they had discovered. They sent Fatma and her ailing son to the hospital in Nazareth.
The year was 2002 and relations between Israel and the Palestinian Authority, which was responsible for the Arabs of the West Bank, had degenerated into outright warfare. The blight of Palestinian suicide bombings and harsh Israeli retaliations brought death and suffering to the people on both sides of the demarcation line separating Jenin from Afula and the inhabitants of the Jezreel Valley.
Most of the suicide bombers originated from Jenin and surrounding Arab villages. A large Israeli military incursion into that heavily populated area has added to the long list of historic bloody battles fought in this troubled land.
It was in the shadow of this harsh reality that Fatma and her son Sharif set out across the Jezreel Valley for Nazareth, having been given permission to do so by the tense and suspicious Israeli military personnel operating the checkpoint at the strategic Megiddo intersection.
Any hope she had for her son’s health soon dissolved into despair as the physicians at St. Vincent DePaul informed her that Sharif suffered from a grapefruit-sized tumor in his stomach that they too were not equipped to treat. They told her that the boy’s situation was terminal and if there was any hope that it lay in Jewish Afula – in the Emek (Valley) Medical Center.
“No, I cannot take my son there,” said the young mother, shaking her head sadly.
“Why not?” asked the puzzled physician.
“Because I am afraid. The Jews will take revenge on me and my son because of what has come out of Jenin. They are a vengeful people and we cannot trust them.” Her mind was set and she was trying to resign herself to her son’s cruel fate.
The Christian Arab physician reassured Fatma. He knew the doctors in Afula and of their advanced capabilities in treating children with cancer. “Maybe something can be done. Sharif has no choice.” What else could he say to her?
Fatma held Sharif to her as they both sat on a sofa in the doctor’s office. The boy doubled over in pain and that was when she agreed to travel to Afula … to step into the abyss.
A telephone call was made to the Emek Medical Center’s Pediatric Oncology (cancer) department, a car was arranged for them and they were off on a twenty-minute journey into the unknown.
As they drove down the winding mountain road from Nazareth, Fatma looked across the Jezreel valley towards Jenin where her husband, her other three children and their families knew nothing of the decision she had made. Would they approve? Would they be angered? She knew of others in her town who were accused of collaborating with Israel and subsequently murdered by extremists among her own people. Fatma would somehow deal with them, but she could not face her dying child and do nothing … even if it meant reaching out to the Jews.
The armed hospital guards, who checked every vehicle entering the Emek campus, had been notified and allowed their car to drive directly to the children’s oncology building. Through her window, Fatma saw oak and palm trees standing tall in the well-manicured hospital landscape. Grass and flowerbeds garnished the paved pathways connecting each building and it all looked most welcoming. Their car stopped in front of a white one-story building: the Pediatric Oncology Department … Sharif’s last hope.
Fatma slowly walked through the entrance with Sharif clinging to her long traditional Muslim dress. She was surprised when she was greeted with outstretched hands and soft voices in Arabic, “Ahalon wahsalahon, welcome … welcome.” Dr. Gavriel, a Jewish Oncologist and the head of the department also greeted her in Arabic and with a warm smile, he invited her and the boy into his modest office. An Arabic speaking nurse offered Fatma and Sharif tea and cakes and only after they felt at ease did the session begin.
Dr. Gavriel asked Fatma’s permission to examine her son and it was much easier for her to agree than she would have ever imagined. The doctor’s gentle hands stroked the boy’s head to make him feel more relaxed and then slowly felt his stomach for what he knew was there. There was a lot of eye contact and understanding smiles between Fatma, Dr. Gavriel, Sharif and the attending nurse during that initial examination. There also was calm and an instinctual awareness on Fatma’s part that they were where they needed to be. In those few moments, her fears subsided and stereotyped images of vengeful Jews evaporated like a cold mist in a warming sun.
“The tumor is very large … too great to remove surgically at this time.” The physician looked directly at Fatma and spoke as his nurse translated. “We’d like to begin chemotherapy immediately to hopefully shrink the tumor and then later remove it. Sharif will need to be admitted today. These treatments will take weeks – and maybe even months. Do you have a place to stay?”
As Dr. Gavriel’s words sunk in, the reality of her awkward situation brought tears to Fatma’s eyes. She was only a few miles down the road from her home and family, yet she was utterly alone with her struggling son. Her family would not be allowed to cross the checkpoint into Israel and she had nobody to turn to for support.
The staff of that cancer department had seen so very much pain and suffering over the years. They did not need to be told what had to be done for this woman. One of the hospital’s Arab social workers spoke with a Muslim family in nearby Nazareth and arranged for Fatma to stay there whenever and for as long as she needed. The family would not even discuss compensation.
Fatma was not from a family of means and she had no way to pay for what would be the costly treatments her son would be receiving. Why were these people, the Jews and Arabs of Israel being so kind to her? They were supposed to be the enemy.
“First let’s do what we are able to do for Sharif. We can later discuss those other matters.” Dr. Gavriel smiled as he continued, “Nobody will turn you away, Fatma. Everything that can be done will be done for your son. That is the way we do things here.”
So began their six-month saga. It was after a few months that I heard about the mother and boy from Jenin in our midst and that was when I decided to speak with them. I will always remember that day in the early winter of 2003 when the punishing heat of summer was behind us.
I entered the Pediatric Oncology Ambulatory Clinic that is accentuated outside with colorful playground toys that hint of health and happiness. Inside I was introduced to Fatma and her son, Sharif. The boy was bald, thin and glued to his mother’s floor-length embroidered dress. An Israeli Arab man was there with his child who was receiving chemotherapy and he volunteered to act as translator. We sat in a comfortable office and during the customary small talk, I observed the proud young Arab mother seated before me. We gazed intently into each other’s eyes during an unspoken moment as we worked to construct an invisible bridge that might connect her world to mine.
We spoke of her home in Jenin, her husband and other children. "How long has Sharif been receiving treatment here now?" I asked.
"Five months." She looked to the department's nurse who stood in the doorway and they smiled at one another. That smile transcended borders and politics. It was the smile of mothers and in it I saw hope for both Palestinians and Israelis.
Fatma told me that after months of chemotherapy, Sharif’s tumor had been considerably reduced in size and then surgically removed. He was now continuing his chemotherapy as an outpatient.
The Jewish nurse in the doorway said she had to leave and Fatma rose to say goodbye. They hugged and I felt the love that passed between them.
Knowing that other residents of Jenin have been treated in Emek Medical Center yet were afraid to speak openly of their experiences, I asked, "Do your family and friends in Jenin know about Sharif's treatment here?"
"Yes. And not only them. Because I am grateful for all that has been done for my son and me, I volunteered to tell our story to an Arabic language newspaper, Al-Sinara, which is published in Nazareth. My people need to hear the truth in their own language." She hugged little Sharif who stood close to her while connected to his intravenous drip.
I wondered if more Palestinians who were treated here would speak out publicly like Fatma – if that would make any difference. Could their voices turn back the tide of hatred? I wanted to believe that it would, but I suppose I will never know. They are not speaking.
Our translator then asked Sharif, “Do you know that Dr. Gavriel is a Jew?”
Little Sharif shyly lowered his head and nodded yes.
“What do you think about him?” asked the man.
Sharif’s voice was barely a whisper. “He’s a good man.”
I thanked Fatma, Sharif and our translator for sharing their story with me. We parted as friends and I wished them all health and long life.
A month or so after that, the day came for the mother and boy from Jenin to return home. There were teary farewells and long embraces where each was afraid to let go of the other. They were driven to the Megiddo checkpoint where Fatma’s husband waited for them on the other side.
A few months later young Sharif’s condition worsened. Fatma declined to journey again to Afula with her ailing child.
I do not know if we will ever understand why she decided not to come back.
Little Sharif has since passed away. He touched so many of our hearts and so many people who read Fatma’s words know the truth.
Fatma has maintained contact with the friends she made in our hospital. Her story is another thread of hope for us all.
*****
“I think of a hero as someone who understands the degree of responsibility that comes with his freedom.”
Bob Dylan
“You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”
Lee Iacocca
Abed
If you travel west from the Megiddo intersection along highway #65, you will enter Wadi Ara. Wadi is Arabic for valley and this is the main artery through the Arab populated hills connecting central Israel to the northeast of the country. Half way through the wadi is the large Muslim Arab town of Adnon. Its Israeli Arab population is closely linked to their Palestinian brothers and sisters residing in the West Bank. The town’s political makeup includes both fiercely pro-Palestinian and pro-Israel elements. Pragmatics, nationalists and extremists can be found on every street corner; when the intifada broke out in October 2000, the young men of Adnon rioted and blocked highway #65. The Israeli police responded in force to this and other areas of Arab violence. Thirteen Israeli Arabs were killed that day, several of them from Adnon.
Historic animosities and lethal mistrust once again reared their ugly heads and cast a dark shadow over efforts of the people of Armageddon to coexist in peace. In the eyes of the Arabs, the Jews proved that Israel would kill them off if given the chance. In the eyes of the Jews, the Arabs of Adnon represented a fifth column who could not be trusted and would undermine the security of the state whenever possible. Four thousand years of history had taught these people nothing.
In 2002, Abed Dahlan was a seventeen year-old resident of Adnon. He was born into one of the larger Arab clans, the Dahlan family, who enjoyed the respect of their neighbors. They are hard working people who pay their taxes and enjoy a lifestyle that would be envied by their Palestinian brethren. The Dahlan family were shaken by the violent events of October 2000, but managed to maintain equilibrium that is so necessary to function normally in this part of the world.
One morning, as he had done countless times before, Abed walked down to the highway to catch a bus into Afula, only about fifteen-minutes down the road. He came upon another young Arab he had never seen before who was already waiting at the bus stop. Abed noticed something strange about the large black backpack he had over his shoulder and when he saw wires sticking out of the flap, he froze.
Abed knew the bus was only minutes away and instead of returning safely to his home, he calmly walked up to the man and said, “Hi. Ok if I use your cell phone to call my mother? I think I might be late in getting home today.”
Smiling, the man handed it over.
Abed thanked him and stepped off to the side. He didn’t call his mother. Instead, he dialed 100 – the emergency number for the police. In an urgent yet controlled voice, he said, “There is a suicide bomber waiting to board the bus at Adnon. Please, stop the bus before it gets here and send help. I don’t know what else to do. Please, hurry.” And he hung up.
News like that travels quickly through the Israeli security network. The bus was halted a couple of miles away from Adnon, while Abed politely returned the phone. Even then, he decided to remain at the bus stop. He didn’t want that man to succeed in his mission of wanton death. He also was not sure what he would do if the bus did suddenly arrive.
Within minutes, an Israeli border patrol jeep stopped several meters from the two lone Arabs who were waiting for the bus. The armed men got out of their vehicle and began walking towards the man holding the large black shoulder bag. Abed, who was slightly further away, smiled and nodded to the approaching men.
That was when the bomb detonated. The blast killed the bomber along with one of the security men and seriously injured Abed. He was rushed, unconscious, to the Emek Medical Center.
Following emergency surgery, Abed Dahlan was placed under armed guard and handcuffed to his bed in the surgical department. Everyone thought that he was an accomplice to the bomber.
The next day when he awoke, Israeli internal security people questioned him at length. .They did not believe a single word of his story.
“Take your hands off me and let me see my son,” shouted Abed’s father at a soldier in the hallway who physically blocked him from reaching his son’s room. “My son was on his way to Afula … he has done nothing wrong! Get out of my way!”
More security men joined the confrontation and warned the elder Dahlan to leave or be arrested.
Abed’s older brother then jumped to his father’s defense. “Don’t you dare touch my father – or I’ll …”
“Or you’ll what?” snapped a burly menacing soldier with a rifle over his shoulder as he moved towards the two Arabs who were then being restrained by four fellow security men. “Your brother didn’t succeed in blowing up a bus. Is that what you are so upset about?”
“Yah-Allah (a common Arabic call to god) – are you all crazy? My little brother wouldn’t hurt anybody!”
“Not now he won’t. Get out – go home with your father and visit him later in prison. As for here and now – no visitors!”
The human wall was impenetrable and the father and son shook their heads and walked away. They were joined by Abed’s traumatized mother and sister who watched in horror as the scene unfolded.
Abed’s family was not allowed to approach him since they were looked upon as an Israeli Arab family who had nurtured a terrorist.
Comments such as, “Shame on your family, “and, ”You don’t deserve to live in a civilized country!” were hurled at the retreating Dahlans by other Jewish families who had come to visit their loved ones.
The Dahlan family suffered four intolerable days before the truth became known. The call that saved so many innocent lives at the gateway to the valley was finally linked to the suicide bomber’s phone. The handcuffs were removed and Abed was hailed as a hero. His family, bitter and disillusioned, was finally allowed to hug and kiss their son.
Flowers, speeches and a citation for bravery replaced the armed guard in Abed’s room. A sour after taste of unfounded suspicion lingered in the atmosphere.
Abed healed and returned home to Adnon, but not to a hero’s welcome. He and his family were greeted with mixed emotional responses; “Why did you get involved?”
“The disgraceful behavior of the Jews only proves that you should have let more of them die.” “That is the thanks you get for risking your life … being handcuffed like a criminal and denied to see your family.” “A Jew would never have been treated in such a despicable manner. Now you see the truth and how we are only second class citizens.”
The conversations among the Israelis of Afula were of a different tone. They were relieved that the young Arab from Adnon was not a terrorist. That would have further soured relations between the two communities. They were sorry for the ‘minor inconveniences’ to the Dahlan family, but certainly, they could understand the suspicion and necessity to maintain security. After all, it was the young Arabs from Adnon who had rioted and blocked the highway. Why shouldn’t we have suspected him?
Abed is an exceptionally brave young man who stepped into a historical maze where generations of hate and mistrust meet at every turn. There are too few examples like him in the cursed Valley of Armageddon.
****
“Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities.”
Voltaire
"Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully than when they do it from religious conviction."
Blaise Pascal
Between Heaven and Hell
I received an anonymous call to my office phone in the hospital. An Arabic male voice greeted me, “Please excuse me, Mr. Rich, for not introducing myself. I heard about the book you are writing and I think you should speak with my friend, Nabil. His story is most unusual.”
I thanked him, knew not to ask many questions, wrote down the number and made the call. He was right about the story.
If you were to pass Nabil on the street, you would probably not look twice at him. He is just another average looking Middle Eastern young man in his twenties who could easily be mistaken for either Arab or Israeli. Nabil is an Israeli Arab Muslim from a village not far from Nazareth.
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-33 show above.)