The smiles of angels

You can see the smiles of angels on the faces of these children in a land torn apart by bitterness and suspicion. Tracey McClure visits a small community of 4 Catholic sisters in Haifa, on Israel’s northern coast, whose home for severely disabled children brings together Jews, Arab Muslims, Christians and Druze, who overcome barriers of mistrust in their common suffering and love for a sick child.


TM:
What really got me were the wheelchairs. They were all lined up in neat rows and they all had little seats and low headrests: one line of empty chairs ran down the hall of one wing – another line down the opposite corridor.

I was standing on a fall evening in 90 degree heat at the center of the “U” shaped institute for severely disabled children run by the Sisters of Charity Saint Vincent de Paul. The 125 year old Arab stone convent is home to some 60 children most of whom are so severely disabled they cannot walk or even turn over, much less talk or feed themselves.

After our frugal dinner of Arabic salads, cheese and fruit, Lebanese Sister Simone was taking me to see the children – already in bed for the night. “I’m going to take you first to see the babies” she said – and as the glass doors parted we were greeted by a blast of cold air from the air conditioning inside.

As we pass one little girl, her mouth parts in a wide smile. Her eyes are closed.

Sr S “When she hears my voice, she starts to smile- really she smiles!”

To me, Sister Simone sounds surprised but she shouldn’t be. Over the course of the three days I was to spend at the Sacred Heart Home, I found more love in this one place than most homes could muster in a lifetime.

A nurse was working in the corner – there were three babies in the room. One, a tiny curly haired girl sitting in a high chair, looked no more than 2. She was holding her head in her hands and swaying ominously back and forth.

“Won’t she hurt herself?” I was concerned.

“Oh no! We wouldn’t let that happen!” Sr. Simone assured me.

A breathtakingly beautiful Arab boy with soft wavy hair was lying in a crib nearby. His big doe eyes following us but somehow, unseeing. He looked like a tiny 3 year old angel. Sr. Simone lifted his sheet to reveal a feeding tube attached to his belly. Many of her children are fed this way.

Sr S “His mother (gave) him a little piece of apple and he ate this. When his father come back from work, he was excited.”

He was so excited, the boy jumped with joy and the apple went down the wrong way, blocking the air to his lungs. It all happened so quickly – permanent brain damage at 9 months of age.

“But this story is just as dramatic,” she said, leading me over to the crib of a three month old baby boy reclining in a seat and hooked up to a feeding tube. Oxygen tubes sticking from his button nose.

“His mother had a long and difficult labour,” she told me. “The couple had tried for years to get pregnant, even trying fertility treatment. She was terrified of losing that baby but the doctors performed the caesarean section too late. The baby wasn’t getting enough oxygen.”

She explained that the father is a very religious orthodox Jewish man who had doubts about sending his child to a Catholic institution.

Sr. S “The doctor (told) them if you want to put your son in an institution, I prefer him to be in Maison du Sacre Coeur.’ That’s our home. And they said ‘no, they are a Christian institute.’ He told them, ‘Go and see (it). Afterwards, you will give me your answer.’ And when they came, I received them and they visited and we spoke together. We didn’t speak about religion. And the same day, they called us from the hospital and they told us they want to transfer (the baby) tomorrow! And after, they came here and they are very happy.”

Arab Muslim, Christian and Druze families have also found this sad kind of happiness in the care of the sisters and their staff.

Sr S “When they come visit this institution, they say ‘or here we will put our children in this institute or nowhere.’ Because they say all the time ‘here we feel humanity. Here, we feel love.’ This is what they say. And they see how we care about the children.”

As we walked into another room full of cots and beds with raised barriers so kids won’t tumble out, she explained some children are born brain damaged and with severe physical disabilities because their parents were close kins, like cousins, who married.

She takes me to the bed of a bigger boy who grins widely when she stands before him and pats his face. “Kifuk habibi?” she coos in her Lebanese dialect.

If it weren’t for the stubble on his hollow cheeks I would have said he was 12 or 13 years old.

“Omar’s 21 – our oldest child” She says. “He’s been with us since he was a baby.”

In this room, a television plays music from an Arabic MTV station, the bright colors splashing out from the screen, across the walls, dancing.

Guiding me to the end of the room, she takes me to the bed of a large boy – maybe eleven. He’s sleeping, but his hands and arms are contorted in what to me, looks like an excruciating position. Most of the children are sleeping this way – the reason why daily physiotherapy she says is so important.

She tells me “This is Aaron. He’s a 16 year old Jewish boy.”

“And this,” she said, pointing to the bed next to him, “is his brother.”

A knife blade stabs my chest - I’m finding it hard to breathe. She is explaining that after the second boy was born, the parents discovered they each carried a genetic defect that only together they would pass to their children. They wouldn’t have the problem with different spouses. But they decided to stay together and to not have any more children. They bought a specially equipped van to take the boys on outings. They come to visit every day.

“The father comes every weekend,” Sr. Simone says, and for the first time her voice cracks. “And he takes those boys home.”

Though this couple stayed together, many families are literally torn apart – especially when an accident is what caused the child’s problems. Just like the little angel boy in the baby room, and another small girl whose chewing gum went down the wrong way.

The sisters help the families by offering a word of comfort, sometimes a bit of advice, but always a warm smile and a hug.

Sr S “…it’s very, very hard for the parents. They have a sense of culpability. And really we try to accompany them how we can and really you have pity when you see them (like this).”

The rooms go on and on, some 4 to 6 children in each. One room has a small gate in the doorway – “these are our children who can move around a bit autonomously,” she explains. I peek into the darkness. There are only three children in the room.

An Arab nurse hovers over the crib of one child who looks like he’s four years old. She’s rubbing his humped back: he’s a tortoise with his feet tucked under him. He’s giggling! The only sound - outside the hum of monitoring and feeding machines.

“Poor thing,” Sr. Simone says to me. “He’s like this all night long – he can’t sleep. We try to calm him down.”

He flops on his side, giggling some more. And though I am in what should be the saddest of all places, I find myself smiling.

Sr S “I tell you the truth – (when we began) to work with children like this (it was) very, very hard for us. But after, I tell you my own feeling, you feel deep peace. Believe me, you feel deep peace. I think God gives us grace and (strength) to care about them. Really, really (we have been given) serenity – this is the word. And you saw them today; they look like angels, really like angels.”
T.M “I was expecting to feel sad here but every child has a huge smile…”
Sr S “This is what I told you! Because really, really we care about them. You saw during the day how many people are working and they have much activity.”

Where other institutions have 1 or 2 care givers per child, Sister Simone tells me her home has 3 to 4. Doctors, nurses, teaching staff and physiotherapists here come from all faiths – just like the children. A place of peace and friendship in a troubled land.

Sr S “Yes, they see what we do, we are for all (everyone). We are the same with everybody. We give every family what they need. We accompany them, speak with them. But really here (we have) no problem. We don’t feel this problem.”

She explains that the head nurse is Jewish and she points to the nurse in the room, rubbing the little boy’s back.

Sr. S “the other is Christian Arabic. We also have Muslims. Really they make a team to care for the children. And if there is some child (who is sick) in hospital, the nurse goes home and afterwards she calls us to have news. All (of them) work with (their) heart for the children.”

The children’s day is filled with activities: first, a bath, mealtime, physiotherapy and music and art classes, language training and time for strolls and rest. The staff also organize activities outside the home throughout the year.

Sr S “Some children, we bring them to the pool to swim. It is very interesting for them.
TM: “You’ve also taken some of the more able bodied kids horseback riding and to a hotel!”
Sr S: “Yes, to a hotel one week every year. This year in Haria; we have a special place (where) they go for one week.”

Parents and entire families are invited for children’s birthdays and to celebrate Christmas and Easter and Jewish and Muslim feast days. On special family days, everyone joins in the fun with cooking classes, games, crafting ceramics and dancing to music.

I pause in our walk through the ward - we have arrived at an empty bed.

Reading my thoughts, Sr. Simone reassures me. This child is staying with her parents for the night.

But an empty bed on another night would mean unthinkable sadness for one family and irrepressible hope for another. Only if one child dies is there room for another…

Listen to the full program to find out more…