Hiam's first day in the US

Mazin B. Qumsiyeh

It was 5:15 AM Monday morning at Newark Airport when my son Dany and I had a glimpse of Hiam, her mother, and Aida (a travel companion continuing on to Houston). They were in the luggage area and I could see they were being delayed. They had two pieces of small luggage and I thought they must have lost their luggage because of the length of time they were at the counter.

Finally, they came out and my first reaction on seeing two girls each with a big white batch over their eyes was to lower my gaze. Introductions and the usual niceties followed. Aida is 16 years old and is heading on to Houston for follow-up treatment. Hiam is 8 years old and was coming to Connecticut for initial treatment. We learned that it was not a luggage delay but a language delay. Only Aida speaks some English and this caused them significant delay inside the terminal. I left Hiam and her mother with Dany and took Aida to another terminal for her flight to Houston. Hiam cried as she said good-bye to Aida. They had become close in the long 14 hour flight. Both identifying with each other more than any of us can imagine. After that separation, it was striking how close Hiam clung to her mother, terrified, and silent. Her mother trying to reassure her that this is for the best, that it is OK. In the 15-20 minutes on our way to the terminal, Aida and I spoke continually. She was intelligent and personable. She had intentionally let her hair dangle in front of her face on the left side, in an attempt to cover her eye patch. Wishing Aida good luck in her treatment, I went back to pick up Hiam, her mother, and Dany.

We had a 2 hour drive back home to New Haven. So much information was exchanged with the mother. Attempts at conversation with Hiam, however, were not successful. Except when we crossed the Washington Bridge, with the river and the boats, a traffic helicopter, and the bridge structure: a smile and very few words came unexpectedly from Hiam, but then sudenly faded away quickly and back she was to her silence in her mother's arms.

In my conversations with Um Yahya (the mother) in the car, I learned that she has 15 children, that Hiam was a twin (Abir was the name of her sister). I learned that the father is now unemployed (Israeli blockades) and they depend on the goodness of others to survive. I learned that the youngest are also 5 year old twins. I learned that Hiam lost her eye to an Israeli bullet when she was trying to head home, walking across another street that appeared quiet. Two kids nearby said that she rounded the corner towards her home when she collapsed and blood was shooting out of her eyes socket. They called her mother who held her screaming. Some young men arrived and snatched the girl from her arms and ran her to the hospital.

I learned that this was not the first loss for this particular family: a nephew was struck by a bullet in the head and went into a deep coma. He was later transported to Saudi Arabia but Um Yahya (his aunt) stated "haqiqatan shaheed maskeen" ("he is really an unfortunate martyr").

I also learned from Um Yahya that both sides of the family are refugees (the father's side from a village near Lydda and the mother's near Ashdod). I learned that while Um Yahya was born in the refugee camp, her parents and others told them about the horrors of the Nakba (catastrophe of 1948) and how her husband's parents left under gunfire.

Calling Gaza to tell her family that she arrived safely, Um Yahya talks and listens, then hands the phone to Hiam. Hiam eagerly talks to her father -- the first time I hear her speak in complete sentences. But suddenly, she hands the phone to her mother and breaks into uncontrollable sobbing.

We make some food, but they are both tired. Hiam has no appetite, but Um Yahya forces herself to take a few polite bites. And then they both retire to rest for a little while.