23/2/98

Through Shimon's Eyes

Meeting Shimon Navon for the first time, you fix on his eyes. You want to look away; you dare not. You want to scan his face, as you would when meeting anyone for the first time, but you'd feel like a shameless gawker.
    You want to see the hand that grasps yours in a handshake, for this is no normal handshake. But you fix on his eyes only.
    After some time, you'll catch a glimpse of more of Shimon -- you can't help yourself -- but you return to those beautiful, soft, brown eyes because that's all that's left of him, as he was, as he really is.
    Shimon looks monstrous. His face is the product of dozens of operations that gave him a nose, mouth and ears, and something resembling skin, replacing the handsome features he lost in the conflagration nine years ago. But the doctors could do nothing with his hands.
    Ten gnarled nubs. The fingers on his right hand form a claw that can grasp larger items, on his left, a pincer that can handle smaller things.
    But, he says with a smile, he can still talk with his hands, like everyone else.
    Right down to his knees, the only part of his body unscathed are those wonderful, big eyes.
    Shimon suffered unimaginably, lost his very identity, but he cannot feel sorry for himself. He feels pity only for people who give up.
    Never, ever, did Shimon give up. When he was being consumed by the maelstrom of fire, gasoline, glue and piercing nails, something inside him  screamed out: "I have to live."
    In 1988, while on reserve duty during the intifada, Shimon took two or three firebombs dead on. While some Palestinians danced around gleeful at their marksmanship, Shimon slowly melted.
    He had called the warning, his mates jumped out in time, but their jeep crashed, pinning the 25-year-old Jerusalemite platoon commander. He would spend many months in intensive care at Hadassah Hospital, a year in rehab, seven years in and out of surgery, and the rest of his life in recovery.
    "It was ironic. I had fought in Lebanon for years, many people died around me, but nothing happened to me. After I'd left the army, I volunteered for the reserves, and on the last day of this stint, that's when it happened.
    "We were on patrol near Halhul. We decided to enter the village of Beit Omer, despite my objections. I felt, you know, a knot in my stomach going in there. I said to the others, 'this is not a place for us.' And then...."
    After an extended career in the army, his greatest battle would be fought wearing hospital pajamas.  
    He won.
    Today, Shimon, 34, has pretty much what he wanted before it happened. A home, a wife and children, a business. He completed his education. A productive, normal, happy life.
    Shimon's girlfriend at the time, a lovely 21-year-old brunette named Miri, stayed with him throughout the ordeal. "She really didn't have to. I couldn't have blamed her, if she had backed out of our relationship. She was young and beautiful, and, you know, there was no moral obligation on her. At the time, we had never even discussed getting married.
    "I didn't propose until I was sure... I didn't want her to say yes out of pity, or duty. I wanted her to marry me because I was Shimon, not Shimon the Wounded.
    "We were married 15 months after it happened."
    Their seven-year-old daughter, Reut, became aware her Daddy was different, from the taunts in kindergarten, in the streets.
    Your Daddy is a monster.
    Your Daddy looks like a clown.
    "I told her what happened, that I was hurt in the army, that her Daddy was a gibor  [hero]. I took her to kindergarten every day, and the other children got used to me, asking why my hands look like they do, and my face. I explained to them, openly, honestly."
    He will face more of the same when two-year-old Yonatan grows old enough to see his Daddy through others' eyes.
    Shimon is accustomed to the stares and comments, but it smarts when his wife and children have to deal with it. "Israelis can be so insensitive. Oh, brutally insensitive." He understands, though. "I know I look ... grotesque. Frightening. I know what people think. It's OK, that's natural. It doesn't bother me. No, of course it bothers me, sometimes, a little bit. But I'm used to it.
    "The important thing is, I don't broadcast myself as someone with a problem. Sure, I know I'm not normal, but I accept myself, so I feel normal. And of course, people learn to see who I am under this skin.
    "The way I look now, this is much better than when I was in hospital. Now I have a nose, and ears, which were entirely reconstructed. My lips, the doctors did the best they could. But sometimes it's difficult to eat because they made my mouth too small." He shrugs good-naturedly. That's life.
    He is a level-headed, practical, gentle soul. No trace of bitterness, self-pity or hatred, not even haughtiness for the heroism of his superhuman endurance. When he credits, in part, his own courage for pulling him through, he's not boasting: he recognizes what's what.
    The outer man is unrecognizable; the inner is the same old Shimon -- only better. "No, I wasn't changed by this. I believe an event like this only bolsters who you already are. If you were weak, you become weaker; strong, stronger."
    He's got simple, unpretentious philosophies.
    "In the long run, it's much harder to give up." In whatever form, to live is worth the fight. "Weak people take the easy way out, and they pay for it with misery. Look, everyone needs support, but if you depend on it, that's