One day in April 2002 I was watching the news on cable TV. That was back when cable news still showed what was happening in the world, instead of what was happening with Kim Kardashian. CNN’s Christiane Amanpour had been banned from entering Jenin refugee camp during the Israeli invasion and she was furiously reporting on the aftermath, which included scores of dead and injured civilians and militants. A single camera shot caught my eye. It was an image of a crushed wheelchair. In that moment it occurred to me that the Second Intifada was creating an entire new group of disabled people in a society that had no idea of how to deal with them.
As far as the Arab World goes, Palestine is pretty progressive on disability. As a child I spent my summers in Deir Debwan, my parent’s village in the West Bank, and I was never made fun of. My parents were not ashamed of me and my extended family went to great lengths to heal me. They would pray for me, coat me in Dead Sea mud, make me drink the milk of a deer out of a baby bottle, and put hot cups on my back. When they failed to heal me, my family loved me anyway. They felt this was God’s will and therefore it was good.
