Paralyzed girl's fate in hands of Israeli courts

As her father disconnects the plastic tube from her throat, six-year-old Maria Aman's face contorts as though she has been pushed through an air-lock in space. Hamdi, her father, has 50 seconds to clean her breathing tube before she runs out of air. Paralyzed from the neck down, Maria cannot breathe without a special ventilator. She has gasped her way through this ritual every morning for more than a year since the tragedy that wiped out most of her family and left her quadriplegic. Now her fate rests with the Israeli Supreme Court, which will decide next month whether she should be deported from Israel. Her struggle is a compelling case of how even the worst aspects of the conflict can bring people together–and how bureaucracy and politics can tear them apart. It began in May last year, when her uncle invited the family out to test-drive his new car in their native Gaza. They did not know that the car ahead contained Muhammad Dahdouh, a senior Islamic Jihad leader visiting his wife, who had given birth in hospital. Suddenly the family heard the roar of an Israeli aircraft, and a missile slammed into the wanted man's car, killing him. Maria's mother, seven-year-old brother, uncle and grandmother also died in the fireball. Maria's spinal cord was severed and her lungs were punctured by shrapnel. The Israeli Army, learning of the horrific fallout of the attack, brought her to a Tel Aviv hospital for emergency treatment, then to the Alin specialist rehabilitation clinic in Jerusalem, where she has received the best treatment in the Middle East, paid for by the Israeli Ministry of Defense. Doctors say that Maria will never walk again and will be on a respirator for life. There is no more rehabilitation they can do. The Ministry of Defense wrote to Aman last month and informed him that it was preparing to move him and his daughter–who do not have residency permits in Israel–to a hospital in Ramallah. Aman, 30, says that the Abu Raya hospital in the West Bank city lacks the necessary facilities and experienced staff to keep his daughter alive. The ministry informed him that to help him out it would provide $600 a month towards his rent for a year. "I don't think this is justice. This is a joke," Aman said on Aug. 10. "Basically, sending her to Ramallah is sending her to hell," said Dalia Beker, aide to an Arab Israeli member of Parliament who has championed the Amans' cause. The Supreme Court has postponed any final decision until it meets again on Sept. 25. Aman, who worked as a construction worker and taxi driver in Gaza City, and who was unable to visit his daughter for seven months until he received the right paperwork, said that the least the ministry could do would be to provide his daughter with the basics. An electronic wheelchair, specialized bed, electronic respirator and battery charger would cost at least $30, 000–only slightly more expensive than the Hellfire missile that inflicted so much tragedy on his family. "I haven't even asked for any compensation for the death of my mother, wife and son," he said. "This is the only place that can treat people like Maria. I don't know what I'll do if they tell us to leave." Aman now plays father and mother to Maria, cleaning her respirator, feeding and showering her, combing her long frizzy hair, applying skin cream and lip gloss and putting gold studs in her ears. "I'm just asking to look after Maria and stay here. This is what I'll dedicate the rest of my life to," Aman said. "I don't feel hate. As a believer, I believe this is what God meant to happen and I have to deal with it." The children's wards of Alin hospital–where Aman and his son Muaman, 4, also have a private room–show what can happen when Israelis and Palestinians are brought together in adversity. Wherever Aman goes, a small, sad-eyed Israeli boy, Toma, goes with him, clinging to the Palestinian like a limpet. "His father was killed in a car crash and his brother was crippled," said Aman. "Now he looks at me like a father." To keep his paralyzed daughter from growing up in hatred, Aman told her that she had been hurt in a car crash. When she heard from the television that they had been hit by a missile, he did not tell her that it was fired by the same Israel that now cares for her. Nor has he told her that she will not walk again. "She's starting to realize what happened," he said. "I tell her, 'Don't forget who's looking after you. The doctors and nurses, your friends are Jewish. Not all of them are bad. I don't want her to grow up full of hatred."