At least after seven years the shelter had become a home of sorts. It was equipped with a radio and the small black-and-white battery-operated TV. Papa used it mostly to watch news programs. There were other things we could do to pass the time and create an atmosphere of normalcy. We had yarn for knitting, thread for crocheting, and old magazines and a few books to read. My father would scavenge wire from telephone poles that were blown up and strip out the smaller colorful wires inside. I would use them to weave baskets and plates using the different colors to create designs. We could play cards and backgammon, which the Lebanese call tawle. And, most important, we weren’t starving. We had enough dried meat, beans, rice, and dried fruit to survive. Mama made it a point to prepare one major meal a week, after church on Sunday, and we looked forward to it because there would be some sort of meat served. Sometimes, if the weather was nice and bombs permitting, we could emerge from the shelter and sit on the porch of our ruined house.
Israel was finally fed up with the low-intensity war of attrition that the PLO and Syrian proxy militias were waging from southern Lebanon across the border into northern Israel. In 1970, well before we began living in a bomb shelter, the communities of northern Israel started digging and building their own bomb shelters. Now Israel decided that there needed to be a more thorough effort than 1978's Operation Litani to protect its northern border. A plan to drive the PLO all the way to Beirut and to expel it from Lebanon was put together. The PLO had been terrorizing not only northern Israel, but the entire population of southern Lebanon. In addition to fighting the SLA, made up of both Christians and Shia Muslims, the PLO had been engaged in bitter, open warfare against the Shiite Amal militia for most of the last three years for control of Lebanon. If the puppet Lebanese government, the Syrian puppet master, and the UN’s worthless UNIFIL “peacekeeping force” would do nothing to stop the PLO reign of terror, Israel had to.
For its efforts to protect itself Israel would be bitterly criticized around the world and on the floor of the UN General Assembly. In Lebanon, the majority in both the Christian and Muslim communities rejoiced, but especially among the Christians.
For many in the West, June 6, the anniversary of the beginning of the liberation of Europe from Nazi domination, has a particular significance concerning the overthrow of oppression. For us, June 6, 1982, would come to share a similar meaning. It was the day Israel launched Operation Peace for Galilee, pushing PLO and Muslim forces north toward Beirut. Out of range of their artillery, we were free to come out of our bomb shelters and back to rebuilding our lives.
It began as a typically beautiful Mediterranean spring day, except for the war. We were serenaded by a choir of birds, interrupted occasionally by the sound of shelling somewhere off to the northwest. We’d been trapped in our shelter for three days, and the night before, the shelling had been particularly bad.
Since we’d gotten no sleep because of the shelling, I slept in until almost nine o’clock. By the time I got out of bed, both Mama and Papa were out of the shelter. Mama was making breakfast on the stove in her old kitchen, and Papa was sitting on the porch, having coffee in the sun and listening intently to Radio Monte Carlo, which was reporting large numbers of Israeli troops and equipment massing along the border as if to invade Lebanon. I began to say, “Maybe that’s why the shelling stopped this morning,” but I was interrupted by the blast of a 155-millimeter shell exploding fifty meters away from the house. Before I had a chance to start another thought, a second shell exploded in the backyard, and then it just started raining bombs. I screamed and dragged my father inside the door. Mama was already huddled on the floor. Shrapnel was flying everywhere. The three of us crawled on the floor to the hallway, but we were not safe there, either. We had to make it back to the shelter. We decided that my father should run first, because he could not hear, and he was the weakest of the three of us. I followed next, and then Mama. Two shells exploded ahead of me next to Papa as we ran for the shelter. I tackled him and threw both of us down in the dirt as shrapnel flew in all directions. I dragged Papa to his feet and held him up by his arm as we resumed our desperate dash for the shelter. I had lost track of Mama. As Papa and I reached the shelter door, I pushed him inside and turned to look for Mama. I could not see her in the smoke and dust, so I yelled for her to hurry up. Between the explosions I heard her say that she was coming. I turned to tell my anxious papa that she was on her way, but before I finished my sentence a shell exploded just in front of the shelter. The impact picked me up from where I was standing just inside the door and threw me on the bed. I thought that the explosion must have killed Mama. I picked myself up off the bed, ran to the door of the shelter, and started calling her name, but there was no answer.
Mama was outside somewhere in the smoke and flying shrapnel. I completely ignored the shells exploding everywhere and ran out of the door to look for her. I found her stretched out on the ground using her arms to pull her body toward the shelter one arm length at a time. She was covered in blood and leaving a bright red trail behind her in the dirt. I grabbed her arm and dragged her the rest of the way, pulled her through the door, and laid her on the bed. Blood was gushing from a deep wound in her left shin. I tore the sleeve off my pajamas and tied it around her leg to stop the bleeding. Then I checked the rest of her body, but I could find no other wounds.
Mama started to faint. Shock was quickly setting in. I tried to talk to her to keep her awake, but she couldn’t talk anymore. She was losing too much blood, too fast. I was afraid that she had pieces of shrapnel lodged in her leg. I told Papa we had to get her to a hospital. I wanted to run outside to get us help. He refused to let me out of the shelter, saying, “I don’t want to lose both of you at the same time. You stay here until the shelling stops and then you go outside.” He started crying and hugging my mother. He kept repeating that we would take care of her and that we loved her.
Again I told Papa I was going for help. I had to try I told him not to leave the shelter until I came back, no matter what happened. Mama tried to take my hand to stop me from going outside, but she was so weak she could barely move. I went back, took her hand, and kissed it. I told her I couldn’t just sit there and watch her die. As I dove through the door and into the dirt and began crawling across the yard, I heard my father’s voice cry out from the darkness inside the shelter, “Please be careful. May God protect you."
I made my way down toward Papa’s restaurant. When I reached the ruined restaurant I pressed my body up against the broken walls for whatever shelter they could offer. Shells were exploding everywhere and the air was filled with shrapnel and debris. One shell exploded nearby, picking me up and banging me against the wall. Through the noise of the blast I heard a tank approaching at high speed. I struggled to my feet and ran around the building to the side of the road and started jumping up and down screaming for help. The tank roared by so fast that no one saw or heard me.
Over the next hour I found cover from the shells and ran out for the five or six tanks that passed by, but the result was the same each time. I was falling into despair. Sad thoughts were going through my mind. I was thinking about Chuck and his death. I wondered if he could see me or knew what I was going through. If he were still alive, I knew, he would come and take care of my parents and help me. But he was gone. Nobody came and checked on us anymore. Why did I have to live like this? Why didn’t I have brothers or sisters to help me through this? Why did the entire burden need to be on my shoulders with nobody to help? And now my mama had been injured. Maybe it was my turn, now, here, in the middle of this shelling. There was no happiness in life.
I was about to crawl back to the bomb shelter to check on Mama and Papa when a battered car drove up in front of the restaurant. A young soldier jumped out and started running up the shortcut past our shelter toward the militia base. As the car was about to race off, I leaped in front it, waving my arms and crying. The driver blew the horn and skidded sideways, almost hitting me. The driver emerged from the car, and t
he young soldier ran back down the hill. I was relieved and hysterical at the same time. I told them my mother was severely wounded and she needed to get to a hospital. Before I finished explaining the situation they were running for the shelter.
When we entered the shelter, Mama was unconscious. The two men carried her to the car to take her to the hospital. I told Papa to stay put until I returned. I promised him that as soon as I learned something I would let him know. I told him God must have sent these two soldiers to save us and therefore everything would surely be okay.
As we approached the hospital in Marjayoun we could see it was being shelled. This was not unusual. Even though it was well known and well marked as a medical facility, it had been a favorite target of the Muslims and PLO since early in the war. As a result, it was barely functioning as a hospital. It was vacant with the exception of a few nuns who lived in one undamaged wing and provided rudimentary nursing services. Since 1979 the Israeli army had stationed a doctor and three or four medics there. In between barrages, these Israelis looked after our general health, and supplied us with medication and prescription drugs. When the shells and rockets started exploding, they could provide emergency treatment, but the hospital was just not equipped to take care of seriously wounded patients. Anyone who required complex or extended care had to be transported south to a hospital in Israel.
As we drove up, the Israeli doctor and some nurses were working feverishly on two other casualties that had arrived shortly before us. When we opened the car door to get my mother out a medic took one look at Mama and shouted over his shoulder to summon another medic. Then he pulled a bandage out and applied direct pressure on the gash in Mama’s leg while he asked me if she had any other injuries. By the time I told him I didn’t know, the two medics were carrying her toward the sandbagged entrance to the hospital. I followed right behind. They carried her quickly and gently as one held the bandage on her wound and the other examined her for further injuries. I was amazed at how well they moved together and calmly worked together while shells were still exploding all around us. It was almost as if they were doing a delicate dance amid the chaos, a ballet of life choreographed to a symphony of death.
The Israeli doctor knew immediately that all they could do was stabilize her and send her to Israel. I couldn’t let her go to Israel alone. But I was still dressed in my pajamas with one sleeve torn off, and one of my slippers was missing, lost somewhere in the dash to the hospital. I asked the doctor how soon she would be sent to the hospital. He told me that the ambulance had just left for the border, and by the time it was back in half an hour Mama would be ready to go.
I was able to beg a ride back to our bomb shelter. The shelling had calmed down a little, but Papa was still inside. He was overjoyed to see me, crying and hugging me as I walked in the door. He was sure Mama and I had been killed. I hurriedly changed my clothes and packed a bag for Papa. I told him that I was going with Mama to Israel, and that he could stay with a friend in town who would look after him for a few days. He started to protest, but he was too weak and tired. He pulled sixty lira (about fifteen dollars) out of the mattress and said, “Here is some money in case you need it.” This was the first time I had ever touched money. We’d lived in the bomb shelter since I was ten. I’d never had any occasion to use it.
By the time we dropped Papa off and arrived back at the hospital, Mama was already loaded in the ambulance. I jumped in and we started the ten-minute drive south to the border with Israel. I was relieved to see that the driver was a friend of the family, named Kamal. As soon as we arrived at the border I went into the control office to get visas to enter Israel while Kamal and Israeli soldiers switched Mama to an Israeli ambulance. This took less than five minutes. Our friend Kamal walked to my side and asked me if I had any money for the ambulance fee. An innocent teenager who knew nothing about money or fees, I took out the bills that my father had given me and asked him how much it cost. He looked at what I had in my hand and took half. I was left with only thirty lira to live on and pay for whatever other expenses Mama and I might have. I had no idea what to expect. Tearfully I thanked him for driving us, and then I climbed into the Israeli ambulance.
The drive to the hospital inside Israel took about an hour. I felt alone and afraid and I didn’t know if Mama would live or die. She was fading in and out of consciousness and moaning from pain. The ambulance driver was a middle-aged soldier. To my surprise, he spoke to me in Arabic, soothing me and reassuring me that Mama would be okay. He listened to the radio news reports and explained to me how the war was going in Lebanon. He told me he had a daughter my age, and she was worried about him too.
When we got to the hospital in Zefat, it was around two thirty in the afternoon. As the Israeli medical orderlies carried Mama into the hospital on a stretcher, I walked around the ambulance to pay the fee to the driver. I took what remained of the money out of my pocket, sure that it would not be enough. If the ten-minute drive from the hospital in Marjayoun to the Israeli border had cost thirty liras, I was sure, this ride had to cost much more. I held the money out to him and asked how much we owed. He looked at me with surprise and said, “You don’t owe anything. The ambulance ride is free, a service from us to you. Keep your money. You’ll certainly need it. I hope everything goes well with you. I wish your mother a speedy recovery."
I thanked him from the bottom of my heart and thought: What an honest and ethical man! He could have taken my money, and no one would have known the difference. Then I thought about the Lebanese driver Kamal, supposedly a friend of my family, who had taken my father’s money. And the ambulance wasn’t even his: it had been given to the Lebanese by Israel. Yet, he had taken advantage of Mama’s injury to take our money. I was struck by the contrast between his behavior and that of the Israeli ambulance driver, a total stranger to me. This was the first of many lessons I learned about the compassion, generosity, and morality of the Israelis. I stuffed the bills back into my pocket and ran to catch up with Mama.
All of my senses were assaulted by the scene that greeted me inside the hospital. Even seven years of war in southern Lebanon had not prepared me for such an awful spectacle. The emergency room and the corridor leading to the rest of the hospital were overflowing with wounded people: Israeli soldiers; Lebanese, both Christians and Muslims; even Palestinians. There was blood everywhere. The air was filled with the screams of the injured, the shouts of medical personnel, and the whoop, whoop, whoop of helicopters landing outside with more casualties.
As I hurried across the room to where Mama was lying on a gurney I looked around to see the others receiving care. I was amazed that the Israelis were providing medical treatment to Palestinian and Muslim gunmen. I could understand why the Israelis would help Lebanese Christians. We were their allies. But these Palestinians and Muslims were sworn, mortal enemies, dedicated to the destruction of Israel and the slaughter of Jews. Yet, Israeli doctors and nurses worked feverishly to save their lives. Each patient was treated solely according to the nature of his or her injury. The doctor treated my mother before he treated an Israeli soldier lying next to her because her injury was more severe than his. The Israelis did not see religion, political affiliation, or nationality. They saw only people in need, and they helped.
When I reached Mama’s side, my fear for her life pushed these thoughts out of my mind. The doctor examining her saw me approach and said something in Hebrew. When I didn’t respond he asked in English, “Is this your mother?” I nodded my head, and he shouted something over his shoulder, again in Hebrew. A nurse hurried over and in perfect Arabic asked my name. I told her and she said, “Brigitte, my name is Lea. I’ll find out how your mother is. Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of her.” The doctor spoke to her in Hebrew for what felt like forever but was probably no more than twenty seconds. Then she translated for me. In addition to losing a great deal of blood, my mother had suffered serious damage to the blood vessels and nerves of her leg, and her thighbone might be cracked or broken. H
er injuries were serious but not immediately life-threatening. She would have to remain in the hospital. Depending on her progress, she might be able to go home in four or five days. Nurse Lea told me she was assigned to the case so she could translate for the doctors and keep me informed of Mama’s progress.
The doctor turned his attention to another patient, and they took Mama off in one direction for X-rays. Lea told me that I couldn’t stay with her because the X-ray area was already too crowded. She said she would take me to Mama’s hospital room and that Mama would be there within a half hour. Suddenly, in the midst of the chaos, I burst into tears. Lea hugged me and said, “Don’t worry, Brigitte. Your mother will be all right."
Mama’s room was on the fourth floor. It was already occupied by two Lebanese ladies, one Muslim and one Druze. Lea introduced us and sat me down in a chair next to the one empty bed. She told me she was going to check on Mama, and that while she was gone I should sit back in the chair, close my eyes, breathe slowly and deeply, and try to relax.
I followed her orders, except for the part about relaxing. I was exhausted and terrified, somewhere between hysteria and delirium. Images of the day kept ricocheting around like shrapnel inside my head. I worried about Mama. Then I worried about Papa—how could I have left him in the middle of that hell? And then I worried about Mama some more. I hurt everywhere, inside and out. After twenty-five minutes that seemed to be another eternity, Lea walked through the door to my side and put her hands gently on my shoulders. She whispered in my ear, “I told you. She’s going to be fine,” as they rolled Mama into the room. If Lea had not been holding my shoulders, I would have fallen out of the chair. Mama didn’t look fine to me. She was almost as white as the sheets that they laid her on, and these were the whitest sheets I’d seen in seven years. Lea sensed the panic she saw in my eyes as I looked at Mama, who seemed to have needles and tubes stuck in her everywhere. Lea gently massaged my shoulders and explained, “This one is a blood transfusion and this one is a saline solution, and this one is an antibiotic and this one is for pain.” In my hysteria looking at my Mama, it sounded like a bizarre nursery rhyme.
Because They Hate: A Survivor of Islamic Terror Warns America Page 12