Opinion | An Israeli Shot Me. An Israeli Healed Me.

As I lay on his lap in the back of the United Nations vehicle taking me to the hospital, my father kept telling me to keep my eyes open. All I could do was mumble apologies for my low grades in school. My father was my headmaster but I had no interest in school, in learning English, in reading the many books he got for me.

In bed at the hospital in Gaza, barely able to open my eyes, I realized I could not move my legs. I overheard the nurses wondering whether I would ever walk again. Then a miracle occurred. After three days, arrangements were made to transfer me to a hospital in Tel Aviv. Normally Palestinians like me were not allowed into Israel, but presumably because of the media coverage of the shooting, the Israeli government gave permission for me to be treated there and for my father to accompany me.

For the next several weeks, my father stayed at my side. He talked to me about family, country, his dreams and his understanding of life. He told me I was going to make him proud. Over and over he said: “Your life has been spared. A new door has just opened for you.”

Paralyzed in bed, frustrated and trapped and in pain, at first I found it hard to understand what he meant. Sometimes I would scream at him to just leave me alone.

Being in Israel was a challenge for me. For years, I had lived in fear of Israeli soldiers. Now I was surrounded by Israeli doctors, and yet they were doing all they could to save my life. My favorite nurse was Seema, a Jewish woman from Iraq who fed me, cleaned me, gave me my medicine and, most important, made me smile. An Israeli soldier had tried to kill me, but now Israelis were trying to heal me.

The doctors decided not to remove the bullet from my spine. Instead I was sent to a physical therapy clinic. I was put in a unit with 12 other kids, all of us in wheelchairs. Most of them were Israeli, and some were outraged by what had happened to me. Mohammad was another boy from Gaza. He had been injured while walking near a car that was bombed by an Israeli helicopter, and he had suffered much more damage than I had. He would have metal plates in both of his legs for the rest of his life.

It took almost a year, but I learned to walk again. Finally I was able to return home to Gaza. The soldiers were still there, but I could look them straight in the eye. They were now the ones who looked away. Their guns no longer frightened me, and I could see them as my father saw them: scared young men.