The old man who lives above me on the third floor calls out for his aide, his voice muffled by the concrete that separates us. The elevator opens and closes delivering children from the fourth floor to the foggy street where they walk to school “as usual.” But nothing is usual. Not even in Jerusalem, far from rockets and bombs. Even my neighbor’s rooster crows an uneasy and foreboding sound.

Just a few weeks ago we were complaining about the calm. “Nothing is happening,” friends said. “This occupation will go on for decades if we don’t do something.” At that point, we wanted the youth to take to the street. We wanted the world to pay attention. And now they are, but what will come of it?

“What should we do?” another friend of mine asked yesterday. A palpable helplessness traversed the phone line in both directions. Most of us here know someone in Gaza. We can visualize young parents, their in-laws, aunts and uncles, children, all huddled under a dirty blanket in the corner farthest from the windows, their lips moving in prayer, even if they never prayed before, and trying, against all forces, not to cry in front of the children, because isn’t the worst thing a child can experience the look of terror on their father’s or mother’s face?

I am glued to Aljazeera just like you are. The kitchen smells faintly of the unwashed dishes that are piled on the counter, and I have trouble finding my sweater in the mess of sheets piled on the bed. There are so many, many things to do. I should write. I should read. I should demonstrate. I should shout, demand, shake some sense in the people firing on 1.5 million people in the prison that is Gaza, and I should do my best to dislodge their confusion, stop the madness, remind them of their humanity.

But there is no stopping a war during a war.

We must protest, and it will make a difference, but it’s not enough.

I’d like to get this message out: it’s important to give support and sign petitions. I’m doing the same. But it’s not enough. We must prevent the next attack, and the one after that. So many lives can be saved, and so much fear avoided if we do the much harder work of war prevention. Now.

Preventing war is not an impulsive act of compassion. Preventing war is an ongoing commitment to fighting injustice and inequality wherever it exists. It means that in those periods of calm, the times when we let our attention be diverted to deadlines at work and soccer competitions, in those months and years when Israel and Palestine seem so far away and not in need of attention – that’s exactly when your attention is most needed.

Let us be a visible part of the constituency for peace with justice, make bold claims on the public discourse, watch the powers that be and let them know that we are watching. Let us develop real relationships with people on the ground, support activists, connect the issues in our minds and in our lives. Our actions matter.

And let’s start now to prevent the next war. Yes I’m talking to you. And I’m talking to myself, too.

I hate the untenable situation faced by the Jerusalem hospitals serving Palestinians. The problem isn’t theoretical. It’s real. It affects people.

A Friend of a Friend is Bleeding from Her Brain

A couple of weeks ago, a friend of a friend got an excruciating headache and started vomiting and seizing. The family rushed her to a clinic in their remote West Bank village, and the clinic put her in an ambulance and sent her to Rafidia Hospital, Nablus’ largest. Rafidia’s doctors decided to send her to St. Joseph’s Hospital in Jerusalem. But getting out of the West Bank and into Israeli-controlled Jerusalem requires “coordination” (the Palestinian Authority and Israeli officials must agree to allow this patient to reach the hospital) and it requires a referral (the Palestinian Authority must agree to pay for the care).

It took three days for the girl to get the paperwork she needed to go to Jerusalem. Three days! At least she got approval – not everyone does. And after all that, the coordination wasn’t done properly. Since West Bank ambulances aren’t allowed to enter Jerusalem, patients (or corpses) are transferred out of the back of one ambulance into the back of another. But no Israeli ambulance was waiting at Qalandia checkpoint, and the girl, with tubes draining fluid from her brain, had to wait.

At St. Joseph’s (locally known as the French Hospital), the girl was put in intensive care. The surgeon who cares for her is renown for his excellence, and the nurses are dedicated and caring. But that wasn’t enough to get her an MRI. It was ordered on a Thursday but the Palestinian Authority Ministry of Health was on strike – they didn’t even answer the phones! After the strike, they couldn’t find the referral request due to the backlog. When they finally approved the referral and the MRI was scheduled, six days had gone by. Six more days!

The Patient’s Mother Sits on a White Plastic Chair

Meanwhile, the Israelis have refused requests from the girl’s father or any other relative to enter Jerusalem to visit or provide support. Is that legal? I really don’t know. He’s in the village with their other children while the girl’s mother sits next to her daughter on a white plastic chair. The chair is uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as the whole situation: Why should a mother be forced to make big decisions alone, deal by herself with confusing medical information, not to mention trying to handle her fear, sitting by her daughter’s side alone day after day?

Given that the French Hospital treats severely ill patients from the West Bank and Gaza, and given that each patient is allowed one accompanier or perhaps two in some cases, you would think the hospital would make it more comfortable for those who are far from home with absolutely no local connections. These are people who left home with their sick loved one in an urgent situation – they didn’t think to bring a change of clothes or a toothbrush or a magazine to read.

Of course, some people are fortunate enough to pay for private rooms, but there is no place for family members of patients in intensive care. I feel terrible seeing patients’ family members sitting on those plastic chairs all day long, often sleeping there. Sometimes women lie down in the public waiting room where men also sleep. There is no shower, so they wash the best they can in the public bathroom. People may be sent clothes and blankets, but there’s no place to wash and dry them. There is no locker, so people’s belongings, crammed into multiple plastic bags, are stuffed into the corner of the public area where there is a high rate of theft. The hospital has a small kiosk they call a cafeteria, but when the lone worker goes home, there is no more coffee, no more sandwiches. There is no refrigerator to store families’ food or drink, and no microwave to heat up leftovers.

The Patients’ Families are Sick Too

Due to the nature of the patients’ conditions, family members may wait weeks or even months while their loved one gets care. They are stuck in Jerusalem, a place many of them can’t move without risking arrest by police (they don’t have permission to wander around), and there are no stores or restaurants in close walking distance of the hospital. Not to mention that most of these folks are poor, very poor. Having a loved one in treatment is one more major drain on their already strained finances. Imagine having to shell out an extra $10 or $20 dollars a day on food for the accompanier.

According to the General Administrator of the Hospital, Jamil Koussa, the Hospital tries to support families, though he wishes they could do more. They have a small room and bathroom where men can sleep (70% of the accompaniers are men), but other efforts he’s made have been met by sabotage – stolen blankets, broken beds, and more. “Someone even stole the faucet handles on the sink in the accompaniers’ room,” Jamil Koussa told me.

Why? Why would people whose loved ones are in the care of the Hospital, and who are receiving generosity from the Hospital, act in such uncivil ways?

These patients’ families are sick, too. On my daily visits to the hospital, I have met many of them. Having been imprisoned for so long under the restrictions of occupation, they find themselves in the place they most dreamed about but thought they’d never visit – Jerusalem. Many of them are overwhelmed and desperate and scared and excited. Their normal social networks – the ones that have kept them alive through decades of occupation and siege – are out of reach; sometimes they beg and sometimes they harass. Many of the families of the patients in the hospital are sick too –  sick of occupation – and they have no one to care for them while they wait to find out if their loved one will live or die. This situation would bring out the worst in anyone.

The Hospital is Sick; the System is Sick

St. Joseph’s Hospital, owned by a Catholic religious order, has 73 beds and is a referral hospital for the Palestinian Authority Ministry of Health in neurosurgery, coronary care, and urology. On average 60% of the patients are from Gaza and 40% from the West Bank. Some of their patients are covered by Israeli insurance, but the Israeli HMO system (cupat holim) doesn’t pay the French Hospital the full reimbursement rate set by the Israeli Ministry of Health. The French Hospital gets only 40% of what Israeli hospitals get.

Even the Palestinian Authority pays more – they pay 60% of the rate set by the Israeli Ministry of Health. At least that’s what they agree to pay. Jamil Koussa has only seen 273,000 NIS (about $70,300) out of the 10 million NIS ($2,580,000) that the Palestinian Authority owes. They haven’t paid  since the beginning of 2012.

How is this hospital supposed to function? They have 140 employees, though they should have 180. Even Jamil Koussa himself is doing multiple jobs (general director, fundraising, public relations, and finance and administration), and it shows in the stress on his face. “I already put three doctors into one room and now I’ve added a transcriptionist in the same room.” My heart goes out to this man. When I suggested that perhaps the hospital could use a social worker to help the families of patients, Jamil Koussa pushed back, “I can barely take care of the patients. You want me to take care of their families, too?”

The Whole Situation Makes Me Sick

I go to the hospital every day, but I don’t stay long. It hurts to feel so helpless. I wish I could help her, but I know she’s in good hands medically. What’s left for me to do is figure out how to help the hospital. These people are doing life-saving work under conditions made difficult by an indefensible military occupation. The whole situation makes me sick.

I hate this trash container:

This trash container sits on the block where my youngest daughter goes to school. Can you see the school just beyond the trees on the left? It’s a big school: thirteen grades with 3-5 over-enrolled classes per grade. Hundreds of children have to get to and from the school every day, their parents negotiating the narrow street made even more narrow by the volume of traffic, and the fact that there only about 15 parking spaces so parents park on the sidewalk and double park on the street during drop off and pick up times.

The school is in East Jerusalem – the part of Jerusalem that Israel annexed illegally and has cut off from the rest of the West Bank with an 8-meter high concrete separation wall, checkpoints, and Jewish settlements. Palestinian Jerusalemites pay taxes to the Jerusalem Municipality, part of the Israeli governmental system, but the services we get are inferior. This trash container symbolizes, for me, that Palestinians in Jerusalem are, at best, neglected.

Notice that the trash container, like many others, fills the entire sidewalk. That means that pedestrians who need to pass by the trash container have to step into the street. Watch a few seconds of this video (by clicking on the image below) to see the result: Children step into the street; cars come from behind them at very close proximity and often too fast.

Accidents do happen, and I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. So yesterday I took myself down to the Jerusalem Municipality to ask the sanitation folks to move the trash container to a safer location.

I entered the parking structure and leaned out my window to ask the guard if I was in the right place. He shouted (I think), “Pay when you leave!” so I drove down 5 levels and parked. All the signs were in Hebrew – no English (okay) and no Arabic (despite that it is also an official language of Israel). I made my way through the beautiful open square all the while thinking “we don’t have such nice landscaping on our side of town.”

Several different, friendly Israelis directed me to the sanitation department.

But none of the professional staff spoke Arabic or English. I attracted a small crowd of employees who chattered loudly to one another and waved their hands not knowing what to do with me. Finally a janitor came forward to translate. I explained to him about the trash container. He explained it to them. They told me to call 106 and make a complaint, but that I needed the street name and address. Street name? We don’t use street names. Addresses? We call the buildings by the name of the owner. I told them it was near the school and that would have to do. When I doubted that the complaint line staff would speak Arabic, the woman picked up the phone on her desk and dialed. She pushed this and that and handed me the phone: “I selected Arabic,” she told me through my trusty janitor friend. I waited. There were many announcements in Hebrew and I was supposed to press something, but who knows what. The woman hung up and called again.

The woman got me into an Arabic queue, but the operator who answered didn’t speak Arabic. Luckily, she spoke English. I asked her to arrange to move the trash container to a location where it would not require children to walk in front of moving cars. “Get the record number!” the woman who was helping me said, but the operator on the phone didn’t want to give it to me, or maybe she didn’t know what I was talking about, or maybe I didn’t know what I was talking about. I handed the phone to the woman at the desk and she wrote down the number.

I retraced my steps (again noting the big, beautiful expanse of public open space) and got my car. Five levels up, I couldn’t get out of the lot. You have to pay 12 shekels at the machine on the first floor. Is that what he meant by “Pay when you go out”? I had to go re-park my car again! And of course the parking ticket machine on the first floor is in Hebrew and Russian. Luckily another nice Israeli came along. Not only did he work the machine for me, he also gave me change for the only bill I had, which was too large for the machine.

Wouldn’t you know it? The exit put me heading straight into the heart of busy West Jerusalem traffic, the opposite direction to where I live. It took 25 minutes to turn around. I am not exaggerating. By the time I got home, I was exhausted. I’d been gone for hours. I have a PhD but the whole experience made me feel as if I had regressed to first grade. It is no wonder that Palestinians do not like to engage with the Municipality or any official Israeli body. The system is not meant to serve anyone, but especially not Palestinians, and no one makes any effort to hide that fact.

My complaint number? It’s 16737.