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Caught in the crossfire
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Michael Chow/The Arizona Republic
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Ahmed El Bohisi, a young Palestinian, is greeted by Osama Mustafa (left) and Sid Ishmail as Ahmed arrives at Sky Harbor International Airport. The 14-year-old came to the United States for surgery.
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By Dennis Wagner
The Arizona Republic
June 15, 2002
Ahmed El Bohisi lifts up his shirt to show a small scar on the left side of his chest where the bullet entered, just missing his heart before it lodged in lung tissue near his spine.
He is a Palestinian boy, 14 years old and going on 40, brought to Arizona by mercy workers to have the slug removed.
But right now he is having dinner in a north Phoenix restaurant and telling the story in matter-of-fact terms with neither trembling nor tears.
Ahmed says he was walking home from his grandparents' house in Gaza on Oct. 28, 2000, passing by a Jewish settlement that was separated from the Palestinian zone by barbed wire. Up ahead, he noticed some other boys throwing rocks at Israeli houses. Ahmed says he climbed onto a stone wall to see better, and one of the boys shouted, "Get down! Get down! They're shooting!"
"I thought he was just joking," Ahmed adds. "I looked and saw a woman Israeli soldier taking aim at me with an M-16 from a window. By the time I took another look, I got shot in the chest."
Ahmed says he was knocked to the ground and couldn't move. He remembers soldiers spraying the area with rubber bullets, one of which bounced off his shoe. Other boys tried to rescue him but couldn't.
After 10 minutes, Ahmed says, he saw a dust trail from approaching tanks. He got up and tried to run. Then someone grabbed him and carried him to an ambulance.
Although it may seem unlikely for a boy to live after an M-16 shot to the chest, experts say that the bullet is relatively small, about the size of a .22-caliber slug, and that survivability is high unless a vital organ is damaged.
Now, 19 months and 7,500 miles later, Ahmed smiles nervously as he talks about his unlikely odyssey and his luck. Caught in the crossfire of Middle Eastern enmity, he has been brought to America for healing through the compassion of complete strangers.
1% chance of survival
He was born in Saudi Arabia and moved to the Gaza Strip at 11. He lives in a refugee camp known as Dayr al Balah (Village of the Dates) with his parents, three brothers and one sister. His father, Atef, is a cabdriver. His mom, Jazia, is a homemaker.
News accounts over the past few years tell of life in Ahmed's town: poverty, fear and bullets. On the day Ahmed left for America, Israeli tanks entered Dayr al Balah. Ahmed says nights are worst, especially after the 10 p.m. curfew: "If you stick your head out the window, you might get shot. . . . There's a lot of fear."
But life goes on, as it did on the day he was wounded. Within minutes, the El Bohisi family was told that Ahmed had been killed. "They said me and another member of my clan died as martyrs," he says.
In fact, he was in critical condition. Doctors gave him a 1 percent chance.
In Gaza Strip hospitals, Ahmed says, those who undergo surgery may die or be maimed. Because the bullet stopped just 2 centimeters from his spine, Ahmed's parents decided to wait, hoping they could send the boy to Europe.
Over time, he got back on his feet. He returned to school, the only student in a class of 45 to have been shot. He likes to play soccer, tennis and baseball. But he gets tired easily, and the pain is relentless.
Ahmed says he already was saved once by "a miracle from God," so now he was looking forward to an operation, more anxious than frightened.
Mission of mercy
The Palestine Children's Relief Fund secured an airplane ticket to the United States and helped coordinate Ahmed's trip. Healing the Children, a humanitarian organization that provides medical help for sick and injured kids from around the world, handled arrangements in the United States.
Johanna Ricketts, Arizona director, makes it clear that this is a mission of mercy and hope, not politics. This is a boy who needs help, and no one cares why.
Banner Health Systems donated a hospital room, medications, nurses and other resources. Dr. Dwight Lundell, a Mesa heart surgeon, volunteered to do the operation. Sid and Iman Ishmail of Phoenix agreed to be host parents, bringing Ahmed into their home.
But the logistics were difficult. Once Ahmed got a U.S. visa, his mother tried to take him to the airport in Tel Aviv, Israel, for his flight. They were turned away twice at military checkpoints.
Weeks later, they headed toward Cairo and were allowed through. Ahmed boarded a jet to Germany with an acquaintance, then flew unescorted to Phoenix.
He shrugs, saying it was no big deal flying alone to see strangers halfway around the world: "I wasn't afraid. It's normal. Don't worry, I'm a man."
He speaks little English but carries himself with a dignified politeness.
Sid Ishmail, who has two younger boys, shakes his head in wonder at the maturity. "I asked him if he wanted cream and sugar in his coffee," Ishmail said after Ahmed's first morning in Arizona. "And he said, 'No, I drink it black.' "
Ishmail translates from Arabic as Ahmed answers questions between bites of pizza. The food is good, he says, just like pizza from a shop in the Ramallah refugee camp that was destroyed last month.
He says that life back home is dominated by politics and war and that it is a subject of constant discussion even among teenagers.
"Our struggle is first and foremost," he explains. "My generation will free our country. . . . Peace can happen."
Asked about the soldier who shot him, Ahmed pauses thoughtfully. "I'm mad at her for being the occupier of my country," he says, "but not for shooting me."
When told that American boys his age are more interested in girls than politics, Ahmed laughs: "I'm not into material things, weaknesses of the human. Girls are friends only."
After 35 minutes of questioning, he tells Ishmail, "That's enough." Then he reaches out to shake the reporter's hand and says with a smile of finality, "Thank you very much."
A miracle of life
Lundell shakes his head while studying X-rays. After entering the boy's chest, the bullet apparently veered left, struck a rib and penetrated his lung. Yet it caused negligible damage.
"The entrance wound is right over his heart. . . . " Lundell says. "One way or another, it's a miracle that he's not dead."
It is 7:30 a.m. on Thursday, the day of surgery, at Desert Samaritan Medical Center in Mesa. Ahmed has been in the Valley 11 days. He smiles nervously as a nurse explains what will happen, nodding yes even though he cannot understand.
Ahmed stays close to Sid Ishmail, who says, "He's anxious to get it over. I promised I'd take him to the zoo. He wants to see a lion."
The operation is quick and simple. After Ahmed is anesthetized, Lundell inserts a needle into his back to locate the bullet, then makes an incision. Thirty-five minutes later, he reaches in with a pair of forceps and withdraws the slug. Scar tissue and damaged pieces of lung are removed before the wound is closed.
On Friday, post-surgical agony brings out the child in Ahmed. Ishmail says the boy tearfully asks, "Why me? Why does it happen to me?"
Despite the pain, the boy is also filled with gratitude toward those who helped him and vows to carry a torch of charity (as well as a souvenir bullet) when he returns to his home.
"He's humbled, very humbled," Ishmail adds. "He told me, 'I want to do the same thing for people. . . . I will never turn my back on anyone hurt.' "
Reach the reporter at dennis.wagner@arizonarepublic.com or (602) 444-8874.
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