Cruel Possession

Hazem loves music.

Along with several other children in the deafblind unit, Hazem can hear a very little bit. One of his favorite things to do is sit on a comfy sofa, hold a music-playing toy to his ear, and gently rock back and forth, mesmerized. He could do this for hours.

In fact, he used to. 

For hours. 

For days. 

For years.

Like most people, Hazem’s family had no idea how to raise a deafblind child. But they had a very good idea of the stigma that their culture places on people with disabilities and the consequent shame that it places on their relatives. No doubt Hazem’s family was relieved to discover that they could keep their son occupied and out of the way with a little hand-held electronic device. 

Though he probably didn’t sit on a comfy sofa in his house. 

But as I was saying, Hazem loves music. More than that: because music so cruelly possessed his early childhood, he is dependent on it. Or at least he was when he first came to the Holy Land Institute. Even now, though, if the teachers here allowed Hazem to listen to music all day, he would do so and wouldn’t learn or experience anything else. 

As you can imagine, then, the teachers have worked hard to wean Hazem off of music. He can only listen at certain times, and for a certain period of time. 

My fifth or sixth day in the deafblind unit. Three o’clock in the afternoon. Hazem, his primary teacher, and I are sitting on a porch swing, gently rocking back and forth. I am sitting on Hazem’s right side, the teacher is sitting on his left, and the three of us are squished closely together. 

Hazem’s right hand begins to rub my jeans on my left thigh. He is slowly running his fingers over my cell phone. And suddenly, something clicks in his mind.  

He tries to force his hand into my pocket, and I know that he isn’t allowed to do this, so I try to push his hand away, which causes him to scream, and somehow this 13-year-old boy is using more force than I am, and his fingers are going deeper into my pocket, so I stand up, forcing his fingers out, but I cannot step away and I am bent over because Hazem now has a death-grip on me, with one hand clutching my shirt near my left shoulder and the other hand clinging to my right arm, and he is crying and screaming, and somehow someway his teacher and I manage to release his grip and distance ourselves, leaving Hazem crying and screaming at the top of his lungs on the swing. 

We must give him at least five minutes to calm down. 

And he does. It used to take him a lot longer.