Читать книгу I Am Like You! - Ali PhD Kian - Страница 10

During my second year of high school, a decision was made that we should go to Israel so that I might have an operation. Some of the best doctors in the world (who happen to be Jewish) had moved to Israel to show their solidarity with the only Jewish state in the Middle East. Other Jews have migrated from Iran to Israel as well; however, it's also true that many Jews have chosen to stay in Iran. Their view is that Iran is their country as much as anyone's and they love their country no less than any other citizen.

I was 12 years old during my first major operation. The doctors had decided to operate on my ligaments rather than my bones. The hope was that the operations would allow my ligaments to interact with my nervous system in a way that might allow me to walk or to at least have some increased mobility. The series of operations required me to be confined in a hospital in Haifa, Israel for months.

Unfortunately, there was no one who could remain with me while I was in the hospital. My mother had to take care of too many kids, and my father had to return to Iran for his business and to support the rest of our family. This left me alone, in a foreign country, with no ability to speak Hebrew. The good news was that there were a great many Iranian doctors and nurses in the hospital who I could communicate with in Farsi.

The memory of the pain I endured during these operations remains with me to this day. After each operation, a tape was put on from my knees to my ankles on each side of my legs. My legs were hoisted in the air and ten-pound weights were attached to each leg in an attempt to straighten them. My bandages needed to be replaced frequently and each time the duct-like tape was removed, patches of my skin were ripped from my legs with it too. In order to muffle my screams I would cover my face with a pillow. I don't recall a single night I didn't cry myself to sleep.

My operations went on for four months. The pain might have been worth it had the operations been a success, but they weren't. I returned to Iran in the winter, still unable to walk. As I looked out my window on a snowy day, my mother tried to reassure me. I was told that my condition was part of "God's will" or "plan" for me. What kind of God forces a child to suffer and shouldn't I have some say in whatever "plan" God might have for me?

It was one of the most depressing times of my life but, at some point in the middle of my despair, I remember making a conscious decision to rise up. Perhaps I would never be able to "stand tall" physically, but I became determined not to allow my disability to define who I was or limit what I might accomplish in life. I knew it was going to be a struggle, especially living in a Third World country where the disabled are practically ignored and shunned.

Sadly, not only were my operations unsuccessful, I was actually left in worse condition. Prior to the surgeries, I was able to fold my knees and move along the ground. When I returned to Iran, I was left with even less mobility than I had before I went into the hospital. Initially all of my issues affected my schoolwork and, though I did make it through the school year, my grades were not up to my usual high standards.

One of the greatest blessings in my life has been my friends. Upon my return to school, schoolmates greeted me with open arms. At the age of 13, I recall a conversation I had with my dad about having a villa near the Caspian Sea for vacation times away from Tehran. I thought it would be more pleasant to go near the Caspian Sea or in western Iran where the weather was much cooler. "Couldn't we build a home somewhere else?" I asked. My father smiled. "Ah, but son, we have houses all over the world." I was puzzled. What on earth was my father talking about? "If you have good friends," my father continued, "their homes are like yours and, wherever you may go, you will always have a home."