Precious Life

On Thursday evening, I went to see a movie at the Cornell Cinema sponsored by the Cornell Israel Public Affairs Committee and the Islamic Alliance for Justice. The film is called Precious Life and it tells the story of a family from Gaza coping with their son's immunodeficiency disorder.

The movie begins with footage of war in Gaza. I thought, it's going to be that kind of movie-the kind made by super left wing Israeli journalists who want everyone to feel sorry for everyone but Israel. As the movie progressed, I was proved wrong in so many ways. It wasn't one kind of movie or another, it just beautifully demonstrated the complexities of the situation.

The sick baby was the third child of this family to be born with the disorder (the two girls had died before the movie was made). Somehow, the family got into Israel to receive medical attention at an Israeli hospital. An Israeli doctor--or perhaps, angel--took up the case and began monitoring the baby in a completely sterile environment and searching high and low for matches. When the doctor is first introduced, we see him enter the room and give the baby's father a huge hug, and the doctor asks in Arabic, "What's up?" They joke about how they are trying to learn each other's languages. I instantly bust into tears.

The plot thickens. It takes a long time to find a proper match, although it is easier because the Arabs in Gaza marry their cousins, so there is a large extended family with similar blood. The doctor jokes about this with the family too-they laugh when they use the blood tests to find out exactly how everyone is related. Getting the blood samples out of Gaza is hard enough, though, and it highlighted the major issues with Checkpoints along the borders.

Once a match is made, the cousin is brought to Tel Aviv for the first time to donate. The journalist asks her, "Do you know what you are walking on right now?" She looks down at the grass under her feet and shakes her head no. "You are walking on plants-little tiny plants," the journalist answers. The cousin is amazed. She has never seen grass before.

The scenes that follow are tense. Everyone is worried that the baby will reject the graft. While all the waiting is going on, the journalist interviews the mother, Raida, a beautiful Muslim woman who has lived her entire life in Gaza, except for the last few months, when she has been in Israel. She has learned all about Jewish holidays and she is picking up the Hebrew from the lullabies the hospital puts on for her son. She loves her children and is extremely affected by their welfare-at one point she completely breaks down when she feels they will not find a match. So when she tells the journalist that she would be proud if her son became a shahid-a martyr-for Jerusalem, he is a little shocked. A lot shocked, in fact. An argument ensues. She has never been to Jerusalem; it is her life dream. She feels that if Allah saves her child from this disease, she owes it to him to let the child die serving Allah and the Palestinian people.

She explains that for her people, death is precious. Death is permanent, it is not a surprise, it is not rare, they must accept it and expect it. The journalist is dumbfounded. For Israelis, life is the most precious thing. That is why an anonymous Israeli donor gave all the money needed for the baby's operation, even though his own son had been a soldier and had been killed in Gaza. He wanted to give some other son, somewhere, the chance at precious life. The journalist explains how the Israelis treasure life. They simply do not understand each other.

Now the journalist shows footage of Tzeva Adom-the red alert system in Israel that is engaged whenever Qassam rockets fall on Israeli cities near Gaza. I couldn't handle it. The towns look like Yerucham, the place where I lived for four months. The lights of Gaza are the same lights I saw twinkling as I stood in the fields of Kibbutz Sa'ad on an unseasonably warm night in January, waiting for my mom to pull up in her rental car. It was all too close for comfort. I couldn't bear to see the wailing child in the supermarket screaming for her mother, with the same array of merchandise and the same arrangement of sodas that were common in every Makolet-or market-in Israel.

The baby accepts the graft and the family cal

ms down a little bit. The journalist brings up the topic again to the mother. She qualifies her statements, explaining the pressure she has felt from people in Gaza. They view her as a traitor, a Jew-lover, for accepting help from the Israelis and living in Israel. They don't understand or respect what she is doing for her baby. She says she hopes that if her son dies as a shahid, that he will die in some peaceful demonstration; she hopes he will be killed as a protester, not as a suicide bomber. But she doesn't seem too shaken by the idea of him being a suicide bomber, either. The journalist tries to shake her: WE JUST SPENT ALL THIS MONEY AND TIME AND ENERGY AND EMOTION ON SAVING YOUR CHILD-AND NOW YOU WANT HIM TO DIE?

Shortly after the family returns home to Gaza, Operation Cast Lead breaks out. There is extremely limited communication flowing in and out of Gaza, but the journalist manages to make contact once so we know the family is all all right. The doctor is called in for reserve duty and he serves as a doctor for the troops. Everything is turned upside down.

When the operation is over, security is extremely, extremely tight. Muhammed, the baby, has complications, and the journalist tries to see him at the border. He has grown a lot and he is really the cutest child. Finally, they get him back to the hospital in Israel. On the ride there, Raida explains to the journalist that she is pregnant again. PREGNANT AGAIN?!?! She explains that in Gaza, the women do not have a choice about when they get pregnant.

The doctor is back from reserve duty, and the gang is all together again. He tells Raida she will have to give birth in the hospital in Israel in case her new baby has the same immune disease and needs to be put immediately in isolation. In the mean time, they work on helping Muhammed. The new baby is born and she is not sick, thank God/Allah. There is happiness for a moment. Then the journalist unveils his big surprise: he is going to take Raida to Jerusalem!

Raida is seen pushing two strollers up the ramp to the mosque on the temple mount. Then she tells us: since she has just given birth, she is not able to enter the mosque. WHAT!!!!!!! The journalist is upset because he thought he was making her wish come true. The movie ends with Raida looking over Jerusalem--my Jerusalem, my city--and middle eastern music, the melodies common to both cultures, playing in the background.

I was astonished. What was the agenda? What was the bias? The fact is, I was more upset because there had been no bias. It showed both sides. It showed the complexities. It showed that both Palestinians and Israelis suffer because of their conflict. The doctor, at the end, says to Mohammed's parents, I hope that our children will play together, and if not our children, then their children or our great-grand children. I hope so too.

After the movie, I felt like I had been beaten up. It was so close to home, and so powerful. And I thought-how can life not be the most precious thing?

The next day, a student at Cornell died. We all got an email from the President. I overheard an EMT talking about responding to the call in the Bio study center. At night, Jewish brothers from his fraternity came to services to say Mourner's Kaddish for him. They were all such wrecks. Everyone in the service stood with them when they said Mourner's Kaddish. I gave a d'var torah (my plan is posted in the previous post) in which I focused mainly on this point: Just as God endowed Bezalel with the incredible creative skills necessary to make a beautiful tabernacle, we have all been endowed with talents and skills necessary to beautify our corner of the world and do God's work on earth. There were so many things I wanted to say, about how precious life is, but it wasn't appropriate. But the whole time I was thinking--if only we could always remember how precious life is, we'd never take a moment for granted.

The next day, I babysat for L, and it was a typical day-we walked to the bagel place, we made some bathroom stops along the way, we walked home. Then I met up with Adam in the Commons for some serious bargain shopping. I felt like we were on The Look For Less. We had such a blast...I definitely didn't take it for granted!

I went to Mann to do bio for a while, and then I went to Moosewood with Ben, his dad, and Ben's other friend Amy. We had great food and great conversation. When I returned, major evening plans were in the works. I showered, I prettied, I planned. Rachel, her sister, and I formed a group. We started to wait for rides to a frat party, but decided instead to go to a Collegetown party. We walked in the snow and it was quite enjoyable because of the company, although it was a long walk!

The party was fun for the short time we were there, and then a group of us gathered to go to Filthy/Gorgeous, a concert/party in the Student Activities Building on campus. The building had been turned into a gay club for the night, complete with strippers, trannies, drag queens, and gay people EVERYWHERE. It was magical. It was just so outlandish I couldn't believe it. Everyone was just celebrating life and who they were. It was beautiful.

On Sunday, I had brunch with Meinigs as usual and did a great deal of homework.

I also met with Risley residents, who gave me the low down on how things work

around there. Then I went to Kappa Delta for a little sorority meeting and I

memorized the KD Creed. What poetry. Then I had International Ethnic Dance

and it was so much fun, as always, although I missed Adina! I did a partner dance

with the teacher and it was so fun-it's from the Brittany region of France.

Amazing.

Today was a regular school day, plus I donated blood (life is precious!) and

got free falafel in honor of Israel Peace Week.

I am so Jordana sometimes it hurts.