Late last year, my father was diagnosed with an occluded aortic valve, and replacement surgery was needed before his condition worsened. Gaza/Palestine doesn’t have the advanced health care expected in the West, and he did not believe he would survive, which worried us all. We prepared for the worst.
Then it was decided his surgery should be done in Nablus in the occupied West Bank. This news heightened our fears. For Palestinians, traveling through the Erez crossing from Gaza into Israel is a journey fraught with risk. Tales abound of people, even those with injuries and illnesses, being interrogated on their way through. And one friend, who had been accepted into a U.S. scholarship program, was sent back to Gaza because he had a threatening-looking beard!
Fortunately, my mother was allowed to travel with him. That’s because she is older than 55; anyone younger is believed by Israelis to be dangerous because he or she will do something “bad”—like the West Bank teenager Ahed Tamimi, who had the audacity to slap an armed Israeli soldier when he invaded her family’s property, an hour after her cousin was severely wounded by an enemy bullet. Most of us are terrorists – or so the Israelis believe.
Traveling from Gaza to Nablus meant by mother and father had to travel through numerous checkpoints. Getting through without being harassed (or worse) means remaining completely silent and uncomplaining, no matter how badly you’re treated. After all, we’re Palestinians. As former Israeli Army Chief of Staff Rafael Eitan once said, “When we have settled the land, all the Arabs will be able to do about it will be to scurry around like drugged cockroaches in a bottle.”
My father was scheduled to have surgery at noon December 11. When the time came, however, the doctors told him the previous operation had taken more time than expected, so my father's surgery had to be delayed. My father had no choice but to say a disappointed, faint “okay,” with my mother praying for the best.
The operation was rescheduled for 8 a.m. December 13. On that day, my mother was allowed only to stand by the door and pray. Knowing my mother, she probably read every single verse in the Quran, praying and hoping God Almighty would end this “adventure” with great news. Three hours later, she finally was told the operation was successful, and my father was transferred to another room to rest.
Initially, my mother still was not allowed to check in on him. But she insisted on seeing her partner of 31 years and she got what she wanted, more or less. She was able to see him through the small window in the door, and my father was half awake. With difficulty, he raised his hand to give a victory sign. After seeing that, my mother fainted, with tears sliding down her cheeks.
My father recuperated. Three weeks later, it was time to leave Nablus and return to Gaza. Of course, the same procedures had to be followed, checkpoint by checkpoint. Finally, they reached the Erez crossing point.
I went with two of my brothers to fetch our parents from Erez and bring them home. We waited for three hours. Finally, we saw them emerge from the hulking, gray terminal and immediately ran to help them with their luggage.
Everything seemed to stop when we saw them. An aura of silence hovered and everything froze as if time had slowed down. My father, whom I believed I would never see again as a healthy man, stood before me, with his medical mask over his mouth. My mother broke the spell by commanding us to help with the luggage. We hugged our adventurous father, who had just faced death and come back alive. Once again, I heard the words I treasure, which are my father’s trademark, uttered whenever he sees us: “God bless you.”
We held a small party to welcome our father and mother back home and to bring a smile back to their faces. I repeatedly asked my father to describe his journey, but he couldn’t come up with the words—probably because it was an “adventure” he wants to wipe from his memory. Indeed, it was a journey no one wanted to be repeated.
