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Arabic:
رفقة وأمي
Hebrew:
øá÷ä åàîé
What are your thoughts about Israeli medical care for Palestinians and
Palestinian reactions to it?
Rifkah and my mother
Tala Abu Rahmeh RAMALLAH – Today was the first time in the past seven years that I entered
Jerusalem legally. I have a green West Bank Palestinian ID, which means that since the 2000 intifada started and the
wall was built, I'm forbidden from entering any part of Israel as well as Jerusalem, which is only 20 minutes away from
my hometown of Ramallah.
However, this hasn't stopped me from going there. I would climb sandy hills opposite to Qalandia checkpoint (the main
checkpoint at the entrance of Jerusalem), hide behind buildings from the sight of the Israeli soldiers, and sneak into
Jerusalem. The danger was worth a chance to get into the town for the day, walk through the Old City, and be in the
world on the other side of the wall.
It was also important for me to see Israelis, to be able to interact with them and see them stripped of the army
uniform; it was important for my sanity, and a necessary need to destroy the image of a collective nation of
green-uniformed monsters.
Today was different. I was given a permit to accompany my mother to the hospital for her chemotherapy, a treatment that
is not available in Ramallah or any other Palestinian city in the West Bank. Basically, cancer gave me the green light
to step into Jerusalem.
The trip started very early in the morning. As we got to Qalandiya checkpoint where Israel controls movement between
Ramallah and Jerusalem – and which is now more of a border or terminal than a simple checkpoint – we had to prepare our
green IDs and permits, walk through a metal detector, and then hold up the IDs and permits to a glass window for the
Israeli soldier behind it to see and enter our information into a computer. As I stood there with both my hands holding
my papers against the glass, I could only think, "I hate the occupation, I hate cancer, and I hate our desperate need
for this city and the hospital."
As we walked through the border, there was an empty vast space. We crossed and looked for a cab to take us to the
hospital, and the first question the cab driver asked was, "Green [Palestinian] or blue [Israeli residency] ID?" When
the answer was green, we had to take an alternative and much longer route to the hospital. The colour of our IDs
determines which roads we can and cannot drive on in and around Jerusalem.
The hospital was huge; it consisted of a number of old buildings. It was the typical Israeli hospital, metal detectors
and Israeli flags at the entrance and on the inside, large pictures of the "pioneers" of the state of Israel. It was
nothing very unusual. The structure of the Israeli society could be clearly understood by walking through the hospital
halls. The janitors were Palestinian, the doctors were Israeli. On the oncology floor there were renovations underway
and the workers were, of course, Palestinian.
The oncology unit was very neat and had a lot of nurses, and after we talked to the doctor we headed to a section to get
the IV and start the chemotherapy. Soon after we found out that the pharmacy did not approve my mother's insurance
because it was being paid by the Palestinian Authority. What came next was a bureaucratic fiasco to get the insurance
cleared, but one person came to our rescue: Rifkah.
Rifkah is an Israeli nurse, probably in her thirties, who works full-time in the oncology unit and administers medicine.
She was one of the few in the entire unit who spoke English, and she fought half the staff to get my mother's insurance
approved. She stood in front of my mother, opposite to the administration desk responsible for approving the medicine,
and yelled in Hebrew at a couple of employees who were in need of an additional signature to get the dose ready. She
kept checking up on my mother for the entire day to make sure got the attention she needed and to make sure all her
questions were answered.
The oncology unit in Shaare Zedek hospital in Jerusalem is one of the very few places were Palestinians and Israelis are
humane to one another. There was so much kindness and friendliness going on. Everyone on that floor felt the need for a
connection, and forgot about the walls, checkpoints and hatred that exist outside.
A few of my friends, my aunt and I sat around mom for the few hours. While the medicine was slowly creeping into her
blood stream, we talked about cancer; Jerusalem; positive energy; Washington, DC; my apartment; and a million other
topics. Conversations in the chemo lounge were conducted in Arabic, English, Hebrew, and sometimes even Russian, and no
one seemed to mind the weaving of words in all accents and languages.
When the treatment was over Rifkah came to say goodbye to my mother. Mom asked her if she would be in tomorrow, but
Rifkah said that unfortunately she had taken the day off. "No! It's my bad luck you won't be here," Mom laughed. I knew
that during that brief moment, my mother forgot the checkpoint, her aggravation with Hebrew – the language of the
occupier – and the endless days of curfew and only remembered Rifkah, the helpful nurse, who made her day slightly
easier.
Before going back to Ramallah, we took a stroll up the Mount of Olives, and through the Old City. Jerusalem didn't seem
that cozy, familiar, or breathtaking, but I couldn't help but think that somewhere in West Jerusalem sits an old
hospital where understanding, and perhaps even a strange form of love persists.
* Tala Abu Rahmeh, born in Amman and moved to Ramallah in 1994. She has a degree in English Literature and Political
Science from Birzeit University, and is now pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing from American University in Washington
DC. She is currently writing her first book of poetry.
This is one of three winning articles in Search for Common Ground’s 2008 Eliav-Sartawi Awards for Middle East
Journalism. The article originally appeared in The Electronic Intifada on 9 August 2007, and is distributed by the
Common Ground News Service (CGNews) with permission from the author. Copyright permission is granted for publication.
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