december 2004

To see Shadi on the merry-go-round, you may not notice that he is a little too old to be on one and enjoying it as much as he is.  He also does not appear to notice that he is the oldest child riding on a make-believe horse, bobbing up and down in a circle.  Yet for this 12-year-old, it is his first taste of the magic of a simple merry-go-round.  I can see that he wants to take a second spin around, but refrains from asking.  In the West Bank where he is from, his existence is bleak at best.  Wispy, dreamy merry-go-rounds are something one might see on a neighbor’s television and only for an instant before they are gone again – nothing one really ever experiences for one’s self.

Shadi is here in the U.S. to obtain a prosthesis for the leg he lost only last year, as he and his younger brother played with what turned out to be an un-detonated Israeli tank shell. His last memory of that incident was kneeling down to tap the shell against a rock, not knowing what it was.When he woke up hours later, he recalls seeing the gruesome remains of his leg before the decision was made to amputate it.

His magnificently long and thick eyelashes frame his large brown eyes, eyes that reflect an undeniable comprehension of the injustice and the pain of oppression that he has experienced throughout his short life. Yet he still smiles widely. His eyes willingly take in a happy moment.

Spending as many hours as I have with him as his surrogate mother, inevitably he has shared with me stories about his day-to-day life in his West Bank town.  And sadly, many of his stories revolve around his interactions with Israeli soldiers.  Most of the time, his stories leave me reeling and deeply pained.  Like the story he told me of the day he and his friend were out selling chips to people on the battered streets of Jenin as two Israeli tanks drove by.  “I had a few bags of chips in my hand,” he told me going through the motions of carrying the bags as he leans into his crutches. “But my friend had set up a table where he put his chips.  The first tank passed by me and kept going.  When the second one passed, it slowed down near us and then, ‘trrrrrrrrrrr’.”  Making the sound of a tank, he motioned up with his hand as he illustrated how it went up on the sidewalk and crushed his friend’s little make-shift chips stand.  He tells the story with a smile.  “Why do you smile?” I ask.  He stops and stares out at me, mulling over the question.  “What should I do? Cry?” he retorts, still smiling. 

Our conversations inevitably lead to other similar stories.  Teargas in his eyes on the way to school.  Soldiers chasing after him and his friends because they thought the kids had blocked the street to keep them from driving down into the heart of their city.  Soldiers driving their tank over the school’s dumpster and flattening it for no reason. 

And then, there was the day a soldier actually asked Shadi how he was.  He is still perplexed by the question.  On the one hand, Shadi seemed to appreciate the fact that there was a sliver of ‘human’ in the soldier.  But on the other hand, he could not fully comprehend why he actually asked him how he was.  “On the outside, I said to the soldier that I was fine.  But on the inside, I wished he would fall and break his neck.”  Soldiers represent the definition of all evil to him.  They shoot, kill, abuse, humiliate and bark orders on a daily basis.  They deny Palestinians their humanity and their freedom.

Given all that Shadi has been through in his short life, the child in him somehow always finds a way to surface.   He relishes simple car rides with music playing in the background and no humiliating checkpoints.  He screeches with excitement as his new, red, toy Corvette whizzes right under his pant leg with no foot to stop it.  I catch him at night just as he is about to dive under the covers of his crisp clean bed.  He is smiling and appears to look forward to falling asleep in a room that is all his own, and in a real bed, as opposed to a foam mat on the floor.  He knows that he will not be woken up by the “whop, whop, whop” of Apache helicopters, or the barrage of M-16 bullets ripping down the troubled streets of his small town. 

Shadi never complains.  He is proud.  He knows what he has and does not have, and he never asks for anything.  Sympathy for his condition is only felt by those around him. He understands what he has lost, since he is reminded of it every day as he gets around on his crutches awaiting his prosthesis.

Shadi dreams of the day when Palestine will be free, and he might be able to live the life he has seen here.  Just the thought of returning him back to his cruel existence called home turns my stomach.

The thought of home for Shadi ushers in a cloud of gloom over the otherwise smiling face and eyes of this remarkable boy.  He is old beyond his years, but his inner child is bursting to be free.

Rana El-Khatib is an author living in Phoenix, Arizona. She is the author of the collection of political poetry, BRANDED: The Poetry of a So-Called "Terrorist", which, can be found at www.palestineonlinestore.com.  A portion of the book's sale proceeds goes toward the non-profit organization Palestine Children's Relief Fund (PCRF). The author can be reached at brandedpoetry@yahoo.com

Tamer sends a message from Karama children's club in Deheishe Refugee Camp, Palestine:

I am Refugee... I am proude that I am a palestinian guy... what I wanted to say is, I wanted for the god to give me the freedom and the childhood, but now I am young man and I dont need my lost childhood any more... if the freedom come to me some day to ask me to choose between my self and the iraqi children, I will not choose it for myself, because I already felt the pain of the occupation so I dont wish it for the others... HELP THE CHILDHOOD AND PEACE....please
The Sad smile  will be happy if there will be justice and love with peace
Black Pen Friend/Tamer - we are all human beings.. .. .Palestine   phone NO. +00972-2777108
bbf_im@yahoo.com