Palestine

Bilal’s Story

By Khalid ⋅ April 17, 2007 ⋅  Print this post ⋅ Post a comment

‘I want you to do something for me right away!’ I was accustomed to Rughda’s ways and her orders didn’t faze me. She has a good heart and spends much of her time and money trying to help the poor and disadvantaged. So I am happy to be part of her team, on-call whenever she deems it necessary. She explained to me that there was a Palestinian mother and child in the hospital just near my house, and that they needed support in all its forms right away. She told me that the child was a boy, eleven-years-old, who had been injured by the IDF (Israeli Defense Force). I live in Jordan, but most of the hospitals here reserve a certain number of beds, and in some cases entire wards, for the treatment of injured Palestinians.

I tracked down my sixteen-year-old son to go with me, because I always like to remind my own children how lucky they are, and try and instill in them some compassion for others, which is so sadly lacking wherever you look. It’s also important that they learn about what needs to be done in the world, so that when the time comes, they can make a real contribution.

So we set off. It’s only a three minute drive and I was soon striding onto the ward. This is a new hospital and one of the nicer ones in Amman. When I opened the door to the room I couldn’t help wrinkling my nose at the contrast between the smell of the ward and the smell of the room. As I was soon to discover, there were several reasons the room didn’t smell all that fresh.

My heart went out to Bilal the moment I set eyes on him. A waif of a child, he looked younger than his years if you took in his frame and noted the cheap track suit that hung on his sharp little bones. But if you looked at his eyes you got the fleeting impression that you were in the presence of a being hundreds of years old. The wisdom of pain, I was to discover.

His mother was a tough woman. Palestinian mothers have to be because they have no control over how safe their children are, and they never know if they’re going to have all their children safely home come nighttime.

Slowly the story unraveled.

Two years before, around the time that Rachel Corrie was brutally murdered by an Israeli bulldozer, this family had been just one of those to suffer the fate of losing their home when their whole neighborhood was flattened by Israeli injustice. The mother told me her harrowing story:

‘So much happened that day, we just couldn’t keep track of it all. Of course we were all devastated watching our homes become rubble, and seeing our treasured belongings scattered like so much garbage. But worse was to come.

‘The boys of the community had gathered to throw stones at the IDF who were overseeing the destruction of our lives. They were only little boys, five, six, seven. Bilal and his his friend were among the eldest at nine years old. So the IDF focused on them when they gave chase. It was a hot, dusty day, and the boys began to run. They didn’t know where they were going, but they knew that if they didn’t run fast the IDF would catch them and either shoot them or put them in prison. Both options are terrifying for grown men, never mind innocent, defenseless children.

‘Well practiced at running for their safety, the boys managed to crawl under some shutters into a shop without being spotted. They lay on the floor behind some shelving for hours, frightened to come out in case the soldiers were still there.

‘They were so thirsty, that eventually they couldn’t be patient any longer. They crawled around in the shop to see if they could find anything to drink. They were in a hardware store, and it didn’t occur to them that the bottles of clear liquid on the bottom shelf were anything but water. They both grabbed a bottle and prepared to take a swig. Bilal’s little companion was lucky, he felt the sting on his lips and snatched the bottle away, leaving the cruel liquid to splash to the floor. Bilal, in his desperation for something to drink, took a deep draft and staggered backward, gasping for breath. The liquid was acid.

‘Despite his own pain, and blistering lips, Bilal’s companion knew that he’d have to get help quick if he was to save Bilal’s life. In desperation, he crawled back out of the shop and ran to find someone, knowing that if the IDF was still around, this trip could cost him his life.

‘Luckily he managed to find help and Bilal was rushed to the nearest hospital, ill-equipped as all Palestinian hospitals are.’

I took this opportunity to ask about the rest of the family and Um Bilal (Bilals’ mother) continued her story.

‘That day we moved in with some friends on a different street. What could we do? We were all in the same position. At first I was in a daze. I didn’t know where any of my children were, except the youngest two who were with me. I have twelve children. And I’ll have more if I can because it’s the only way we can beat the Israeli occupation. They kill and maim our children and we keep having more. They’ll never win. Allah helps us. No matter how difficult things get, He helps us.

‘As night fell, my children all found where I was and joined me. All except Bilal. At that point I wasn’t too worried. We try never to worry about anything before it actually happens, and you get used to the stress of living from day to day, not knowing who will survive and who won’t.

‘Anyway, about 9.00 pm a neighbor came to tell me that Bilal was hurt and that I should come down to the hospital right away. It was frightening to see Bilal with all those tubes sticking out of him, and looking so sick. I thought he would die. The doctors explained to me that there really wasn’t much they could do, because the acid had burned through his esophagus and all the way down to his stomach. There was no longer a link between his mouth and his intestines. They made an opening in his intestines so that he could be fed, to give us all a breathing space while different specialists were consulted.

‘After a few days of not knowing what to do, the doctors told me that his only hope would be to get to Amman in neighboring Jordan, in the hope that the surgeons there would be able to do something.

‘So I made arrangements for someone with a taxi to take us to the border crossing. We were hours in the sun waiting to go across. I was used to the hatred and contempt the Israelis have for us, but seeing how they were even prepared to make a small boy in so much pain wait for so many hours instead of letting him go through to get medical attention was new even for me.

‘Eventually we were let through and we quickly found a car to bring us to the hospital as arranged. We were there for months and they performed so many operations. But they have all been a failure up until now. We returned to Palestine because the hospital told me they really couldn’t do anything more for Bilal. They showed me how to grind his food up in a small food processor they gave me, and we packed our belongings and made our way back to our sad little neighborhood. My husband couldn’t send me any money. There’s no work. He was a baker, and he had a little baker’s shop, he and his brother. Then one day the IDF fired a rocket into the shop. They said we are terrorists. So now even baking bread is a terrorist act. Anyway, my husband wasn’t in the shop at the time, but his brother was. You know the force of the blast blew him right into the oven. It was horrible. So my husband is alive but he has no work. There is no work in Palestine. So we do whatever we can. Sometimes we go hungry.

‘I didn’t want to take Bilal back to Palestine without finding a solution. But there were no other options. Ten months we were in Amman that time, and I had my baby there. Yes, this one was born in the hospital with Bilal.’

She held up a chubby baby for me to admire.

‘Anyway, the situation continued. Bilal’s morale sank very low. He keeps talking about how he wants to die because he can no longer be a complete human being. So I asked a doctor to try and do something to help us. This time they sent us to a different hospital in Amman. So far they have operated on him eleven times. I’m praying that the doctors here can do something for us and restore my son’s ability to eat and drink, so that he can feel he’s human again.’

I did my job according to Rughda’s orders. I gathered a few of my friends around me and together we raised some cash and a selection of clothes for Um Bilal and her two children, and even for her children and husband back home in Palestine. Having some new clothes was a small diversion for Bilal in the few days it took the surgeons to plan another round of surgery.

On the morning of his surgery, I planned my visit for later in the day, when I was sure he’d have come round from the anesthetic, and they’d have had time to see if they’d been successful.

Walking down the corridor I just sensed that all was not well. As I neared the room, I could hear screaming and shouting. When I drew level with the door I was shocked at the scene inside the room. It was in a state of complete disarray. The baby was crying and there were things lying all over the place where Bilal had thrown them.

The stale smell from the hand-washed clothing and the result of Um Bilal ‘camping out’ in the room, had developed into a stench as Bilal had wrenched the feeding tube from its place and the contents of his stomach were flying everywhere. His mother was trying unsuccessfully to hold him down, fearful that he would do himself serious harm.

‘Let me die! I want to die . . . no matter how many operations they do I’m never going to get better . . .’

It was a heartbreaking spectacle. I left the room in tears, unable to control my own feelings even for the benefit of this tragic family. Downstairs I made a call to the director of the hospital and told him the situation. He promised me he’d get a counselor in there right away to talk to Bilal. I later learned they’d arranged a date for the thirteenth and final surgery the next day. If that wasn’t successful, they had agreed to leave well alone. Bilal’s tiny frame was suffering greatly from the stress of surgery and there had to be a point at which they said ‘no more.’

After his final trip to the operating theatre I approached Bilal’s room with trepidation. It was an occasion of profound seriousness. His entire future hung by a thread and we all knew that. Taking into account his weakened physical state, his inclination to keep ripping out his feeding tube, and his rock-bottom morale, we all knew that if this surgery failed it would probably mean certain death for Bilal. Not immediately, but a slow lingering death—the kind that no eleven-year-old should have to endure.

I pushed the door open gently, anxious to assess the situation before they knew I was there. I first saw Um Bilal’s shining face. She was beaming from ear to ear, so I took heart and strolled inside. With joy I saw that Bilal was transformed from the day before. His smile was bigger than his tiny face.

‘Auntie, auntie, I swallowed water. It went right down to here! I’m cured—can you believe that?’

He gleefully indicated the point where he could feel his stomach. He grabbed a glass from the nightstand and took a tiny, careful sip to demonstrate how it was ‘going down.’ I was again in tears, but this time tears of relief. Here was one small Palestinian life that would continue in hope, at least for the time being.

I haven’t seen or heard from Bilal and his family since. They returned as soon as they could to Palestine; to a life of oppression and deprivation that most of us can only imagine.

Although Jordan is a place of peace and comfort compared to Palestine, and despite the fact that they could have stayed, they returned eager to continue to resist the brutal occupation that deprives them of a future, and deprives them of the comforts of everyday life that we all take for granted.

The very least we can all do today is say a prayer for the Palestinian people, and try and feel with them.

Tags: amman, bilal, conditions in palestine, corrie, IDF, Israel, israeli defense force, Jordan, Palestine, palestinian prisoners day, rachel corrie, rughda