I'm sitting in the 9th-floor pediatric room in the "room of waiting" as Jacob gets chemo when suddenly, chanting pierces the air. At first, I ignore it, consumed by the beeps of Jacob's machines and the weight of our reality. But a woman's voice crescendos, demanding, "Make sure those doctors hear you!" Now, she has my full attention, and the word "Intifada" reverberates through the room.
In the blink of an eye, I find myself in the lobby, with Jacob beside me. But he's not the 5-year-old I was with in the room, but Jacob today, ten years old and strong. He holds his IV stick as if it is not full of poison pumping into his veins, but a weapon, a spear ready for action. He is ready for battle. I realize I'm ready too, fists clenched, Steve's backpack slung over my shoulder. Yep. I’m ready.
We exchange a silent nod and step outside. Quickly I notice that it is winter and Jacob is in a thin hospital gown, no shoes and it's snowing. Normally this would be a horrific concern with Jacob being immunocompromised, but I don’t seem to care about that at all. And Jacob seems unphased by his lack of clothing nor upset by the weather conditions.
Jacob’s bald head and IV stand out from the masses, pausing the protesters in their tracks. Confusion spreads across their faces—huh? Is this boy the enemy? Out of pure confusion, a path just opens for him, like the parting of the red sea, but this one is green.
Jacob strides towards the woman with the megaphone, the one whose voice had invaded our small hospital room. The woman finally notices him, pointing her finger she shouts "SHAME. SHAME. SHAME." The crowd echoes, a chorus of condemnation. The crowd wakes out of its confusion. Like sheep being herded they join her chants. SHAME SHAME SHAME.
I fight through the crowd, recognizing faces from my past—students, friends, all united in a narrative that seems to exclude people like Jacob and me. Their words, echoes of my lessons on South Africa apartheid, sting with irony. But my focus is on Jacob, my heart pounding with a mix of fear and pride
Jacob stands firm, staring straight at this woman.
'My name is Jacob, and this stops now!'
And in that chaos, it does.
It starts slowly. Cracks in the voices. The crowd, initially fueled by anger and conviction, is truly taken aback by the sight of a young boy, bald from chemotherapy, standing before them with an IV pole. Their chants falter as confusion spreads among them. How can this child, clearly fighting a battle far removed from political strife, be the enemy they've been railing against? The realization dawns on them that their anger is misplaced, that the narrative of us versus them doesn't hold up when faced with the innocence and courage of a child like Jacob.
And of course it comes from Jacob. As it is Jacob according to the bible, who, after a night of wrestling with an angel, emerged with a new identity as Israel, a symbol of struggle and divine perseverance. In this moment, as his voice pierces the air, it's as though he's invoking the spirit of his namesake, calling for an end to the conflict that surrounds us.
In the silence that follows, there's a shift in the atmosphere. The anger and hostility that once dominated the space give way to a sense of humility and compassion. The protesters, moved by the sight of Jacob and the resonance of his name, start to lower their signs, their voices now hushed.
And Jacob just stands alone in the center of it all on full display as slowly the protestors walk away.
YAKOV. JACOB. ISRAEL.
What inspired this fictional piece
This week, an anti-Israeli protest targeted Zaka, a non-profit organization. Zaka is globally recognized for its expertise in identifying DNA in mass casualty situations, such as bomb explosions or plane crashes, where bodies are challenging to identify. This vital work allows families to conduct proper funerals, providing closure in unimaginable circumstances. As a volunteer-driven entity, Zaka extends its services to both Jews and non-Jews, operating worldwide. The dedication of these volunteers is nothing short of heroic, as they navigate traumatic scenes to bring peace to grieving families.
How does protesting an organization like this help Palestinians? Or anyone really? The only thing it may do is intimate and scare Jews as this protest was in a Jewish neighborhood. Was that its purpose?
This event brings to mind a similar scenario when anti-Israel protestors gathered outside Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Hospital, chanting "Shame!" Their outcry was directed at the hospital's acceptance of donations from Jewish sources and collaboration with Israeli doctors—efforts aimed at curing cancer.
Prompted by these incidents, I wondered what my experience would be if Jacob was being treated that day.
It inspired the below fictional piece, deviating from my usual writing.
—-----------------
Kommentarer