"On Healing" November 2002

Posted on Mon, Nov. 18, 2002
Three who hold a hope of peace
By Dan Gottlieb

For the first time in the five years since she died, I recently dreamed about my mother. I met her in heaven. She was walking next to my father and describing heaven: "It's all about love here. Everyone loves everyone else."

When we think about heaven and love, the last place that comes to mind is Israel and the Palestinian territories - a land filled with hatred and violence. But I recently met some people from that war-torn land who reminded me of what can be. And it was a Palestinian educator who reminded me so much of my mother that I had my dream the night after I met her.

They are traveling this country as a part of the "Israeli and Palestinian Bereaved Families Forum for Peace," which represents about 200 Israeli and 200 Palestinian families who have lost loved ones and are committed to the peace process. They are devoted to promoting tolerance, reconciliation and peace.

Amiram Goldin is a 49-year-old engineer who lives with his wife, Tilda, and two sons in the Galilee section of Israel, several miles from the West Bank. He is a project manager for a joint Arab-Israeli industrial park and has devoted his life to improving relations between Jews and Arabs.

In August, Goldin's third son, Omri, was killed by a suicide bomber.

Goldin's eyes are dark and hollow, and his voice is quiet as he says, "That is how our life became different - in a way, it was destroyed that day. He was our youngest son." He sits on the sofa with his elbows on his knees and shoulders rounded, displaying all the symptoms of acute grief. Unfortunately, there are many like Goldin. But what makes him unusual is the woman next to him, whom he describes as his "friend."

She is Dr. Rihab Essawi, 55, an educator, professor and general director of the Ministry of Social Affairs with the Palestinian National Authority. She also teaches at Al Quds University in East Jerusalem. In the violence of the current intifadah, or uprising, and the first intifadah more than a decade ago, she has lost her brother, mother and nephew. Her husband is a chemistry professor who lives and works in Ramallah. They have a 5-year-old son.

I asked Essawi whom she was representing. "I represent the Palestinian grieving families," she said, "but most of all, I represent myself." This well-dressed and animated woman paused for a moment, smiled and said, "I would say that I also represent the Palestinian Authority.

"Two days before we came over here, Israeli warplanes killed 17 people in Gaza. In the wake of the bloodshed, nine Israelis and nine Palestinians from our organization went to Ramallah hospital to donate blood. We did this in order to demonstrate that all blood is the same."

I wondered how her neighbors felt about her traveling with Jews on a tour that is underwritten by a Jewish organization. "First, I must do what I feel is right," she quickly said. "I cannot worry about what my neighbors might think. Otherwise, I would not live my life - I would live theirs. I look at people as human beings. I look at Amiram and Tilda not as Jews, but as humans who suffer. It is their suffering that makes me feel close to them."

On Aug. 4, Amiram said good-bye to his son Omri as both left for work. Omri, a soldier in the Israeli army, and his girlfriend took the public bus together almost every day. They usually sat holding hands and talking during the 15-minute ride, on a bus that typically was crowded with both Arabs and Jews. On that morning, a suicide bomber dressed as a tourist climbed on and blew up the bus. Omri was among those killed, and his girlfriend was badly injured.

"Omri was a talented musician whose rock group was devoted to bringing awareness to the injustice of war," his father said. "The last song he wrote was titled 'The Day the Country Was Razed,' and his friends shouted the song at his funeral."

Rahib suffered a similar tragedy during the first intifadah nearly 15 years ago. She was watching television with her mother when she heard noise outside.

"When I looked, I saw the border patrol was chasing some children. Before I got back, I smelled gas and heard my mother scream. I ran down and found my mother very blue, flailing her arms indicating that she needed air, because the tear-gas canister had been fired into the house. I rushed her to the hospital, but by the time I arrived, she was gone. From the time she died until today, I am broken from the inside."

Her grief grew after she gave birth to her son five years ago, and the family was soon divided by the violence. (Her husband lives and works on the West Bank, unable to visit Rahib and the child, who live on the outskirts of Jerusalem.)

I wondered about the lack of outrage. After all, most people who experience the murder of a loved one are furious. I ask Rahib whom she blames for her suffering.

Her voice escalates as she says: "First, I would blame the leaders. But more, I would blame the people who are helping us to destroy ourselves. Because if it were left to us, Israelis and Palestinians, we would not be in the trouble we are in now. If the money and weapons were not pouring into the terrorists, we would not be where we are now. What I want the people in America to understand is that we can live together. I know we can live together, and I want the politicians to leave us alone. We can handle ourselves."

When they first arrived for the interview, I watched as my three guests engaged in small talk on the other side of the room. Tilda and Amiram Goldin had the sunken eyes of people in acute grief. But when I looked at Rihab, I had a different reaction.

Although Rihab looked quite sad, her speech was animated, and she had a sparkle in her eye. As I listened to her speak, I thought, "My God - that's my mother."

This woman had the same face, same body type, and even the same personality as my late mother. Just as I was thinking that, I heard her say, "After all, we're all cousins over there anyway." With that, she turned and saw I was staring at her. I said in almost a dazed state, "You are my mother!" I went on to explain all of the similarities. When she heard that, she put my head on her chest and held me. This was a touch I haven't felt in more than five years, since my mother passed away. For the rest of the evening, she nagged me about not eating enough, working too hard, just like my mother would have!

Before she left, she gave me a picture of her son. His was almost identical to my childhood face, my picture. That night, I had the dream I shared with my new friends in an e-mail:

Dear Tilda, Amir and Rahib,

I would like to share with you a dream I had the night we met. For the first time since she died, I dreamed about my mother. I met her in heaven. She was walking next to my father and describing heaven: "It's all about love here. Everyone loves everyone else."

Throughout the dream, she continued repeating those words. This was odd coming from a woman who, in life, tended to be pessimistic, even cynical. I was aware that my chest felt warm and expanded as though my whole body was filled with love. And there was less gravity there so you could hop onto a rooftop if you wished. When I looked around, I realized that we were walking in the neighborhood of my childhood home. I was very happy.

Thank you, Rihab, for the gift of my mother.

I don't know much about the afterlife or even if there is one. But I do know about prayer. And my prayer for you is that all of your loved ones are surrounded with love, walking lightly and finding their way home.

Bless you all.

Posted on Mon, Nov. 04, 2002
Living with her mortality every day
By Dan Gottlieb

Kathryn Voight will miss the feeling of her forehead touching her husband's when they fall asleep.

Most of us don't spend time thinking of these things. Most of us have the luxury not to.

Kathryn and Jerry Voight were enjoying their lives. In 1998 Kathryn was a 62-year-old woman enjoying her career and her children; life was going well. And then she tripped. Actually, she tripped several times while she was on vacation. Jerry was concerned, but for a year, Kathryn minimized the problems.

The following year they went on vacation and, as Kathryn was about to get off the plane, she looked up at Jerry and said, "I cannot walk."

They were referred to Penn's Neurological Institute. The diagnosis confirmed their worst nightmare: Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), or Lou Gehrig's disease.

There is no cure for this disease that affects 30,000 people in this country. Typically, the onset of ALS involves muscle weakness, spasms or stiffness. There is almost inevitably progression of muscle atrophy and paralysis that moves up the limbs. ALS affects vital functions such as speech, swallowing and breathing, but rarely the mind.

Kathryn and Jerry both felt crushed when they received the diagnosis. They described the shock, then terror, then confusion, then tears... and more tears. Fortunately, they have supportive and compassionate friends, all of whom have experienced suffering. With their care and support, Jerry and Kathryn made a decision to live with this disease as well as they could, for as long as they could.

In the four years since that diagnosis, she has regained, then lost, the ability to walk. Kathryn spends her days in a motorized wheelchair.

Now that she is more dependent, she says daily life is easier than it had been. For the last year, she had difficulty leaving the house because it had steps. When she did get out, driving was difficult, as were transfers from the wheelchair to the car.

Now, her attitude has caught up with her disability. She has given up trying to walk. She has had wheelchair ramps built in her home, and she purchased a van adapted for her to drive.

In many ways, she considers herself fortunate. Her husband is retired and very devoted to her. Between their insurance, Division of Vocational Rehabilitation, the ALS association and personal resources, they have been able to buy most of the equipment Kathryn needs. And they had the foresight to purchase long-term care insurance.

Even so, both are pretty frightened about the future. According to the ALS association, the cost of care could be up to $250,000 a year. The Voights' long-term care policy will cover only $45,000 a year.

And the relentless progression of the disease adds to Kathryn's anxiety about the future:

"Although I can still feed myself, I drop things frequently and can no longer open cans. I can almost see the motor neurons dying in my brain."

According to the ALS association, the average life expectancy of an ALS patient is two to five years after diagnosis.

Despite these facts, her daily life is manageable - even joyful on occasion. But her mind frequently wanders to what might be a dark and difficult future. Her blue eyes look sad when she says: "Thinking about the future is the most difficult part for me.... I hate to admit this, but I am jealous of the decades I probably will not see."

Because of her anxiety about the future, she is frustrated that she cannot fully experience her life in the present.

"It is a constant struggle to live in 'the now.' For example, one of my great joys is swimming in the ocean. The last time I went in, it took two people to carry me and I thought, 'Is this the last time I will be in the ocean?' I understand that this is realistic thinking, but when my mind goes there, then all I could do is feel anxious or sad about the future and I was unable to enjoy the ocean that day. So any pleasant experience I have is polluted by my fear that it will be the last. The issue of living right now becomes more important every moment, because I don't know how many moments I have left."

More than death, she fears losing human contact. She said that some people with ALS are able to communicate their emotions through their eyes until the very end. But many are not. Her fear is that she will no longer have a way to communicate with people she loves. Death makes her feel sad, but losing connection with loved ones is her ultimate nightmare.

I wondered if, despite her many losses, there was a positive side to having this disability. She answered quickly, as though she had been thinking about it for a long time.

"Yes," she said. "I can listen better. There was a period recently when my voice became very weak. Since most with ALS eventually lose their ability to speak, I thought this was the beginning of the end for me. But for some reason, there was some improvement - it could have been just a cold. However, during that period, when I thought I lost my own, I became amazed at the beauty of the human voice. I became enamored with not only the spoken human voice, but singing, music - almost everything."

On Wednesday at 7 p.m., I will be speaking at Wayne Presbyterian Church, 125 E. Lancaster Ave., Wayne, on "Illness - Its Potential Impact on Spiritual Development." The Walk to Defeat ALS will be Nov. 16 at 10 a.m., starting at Radnor Middle School, 131 S. Wayne Ave., Wayne. For more information on either event, contact: Julie McKeever at 215-643-5434 or julie@alsphiladelphia.org

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