"There are conversations that I get excited about," describes Pnina Bialik, an occupational therapist by profession.
"I had a dream that there would be a permanent camera to record the conversations, so that they would believe it was possible. It's a divine grace, something great and wonderful. I do not remember myself enjoying conversations with others like that. The truth is, it's much easier for me with them. "With all the masks and partitions, it annoys me. I tell them, 'Stop being like the normal ones' - so they can be who they are again."
About ten adults who suffer from very severe mental and physical injuries sit around Bialik.
Some express themselves only by pointing to symbols on the boards attached to their wheelchairs.
Others speak slowly and in sounds that are difficult to decipher.
Bialik manages, with endless patience, to draw complete sentences from everyone, even from those whose words are broken.
Together they talk honestly and courageously about deep and poignant questions.
For example, what does it mean to be retarded.
"I know I'm retarded," says one of the campers.
"I can not run away from my truth. It is the truth, that I am like that."
"Is he retarded?" Bialik asks the rest of the group.
"No, he's actually smart," one of the trainees replies.
"He's just a good person," states another trainee.
"The truth is I'm retarded," the first trainee repeats.
"Actually, we're all a bit," he smiles - and a rolling, liberating laugh fills the room.
Reporter: Yifat Erlich // Photography: Moshe Ben Simhon // Editing: Amir Schwartz
• • •
Every morning Bialik (74) gets up early and drives about an hour and a half from her home in Moshav Ram-On in the Tanachim region to Kiryat Ono.
She is a mother of three: Karni (49), Gadi (47) and Reut (43), and a grandmother of seven.
She could have retired a long time ago, but she is not really able to say goodbye to the trainees at Beit Noam, 72 in number.
"I came to Noam's house after years of working with children with disabilities. Everything is very beautiful and sweet with the little ones, even when they are nursing. Until I woke up to the question 'What next?', And moved on to adults, which everyone loves less. .
After learning therapeutic guidance, she set up therapy groups at Beit Noam, together with psychologist Dr. Mark Burtz.
"I believe the body does not matter, only the mind. At first, anyone who entered into such a conversation thought it was total madness. We were seated together 12-10 trainees, some can only communicate with a close companion, who reads aloud the symbols they point to. "Bursting, and listening to each other. It was not easy. Today there is silence when the other speaks, and I learn from them how to really listen."
One of the sensitive issues raised in the group discussions was the term “birth in injustice” - a legal term used in medical malpractice lawsuits filed by parents of children born with malformations.
Asking injured people "Was it a mistake to bring you into the world" is very poignant.
"Not that I asked them. After they understood the concept of 'wrongful birth,' I told them, 'Let's talk about this for a moment. Imagine your mother sitting here in front of us. You're in her womb, and you know something's not going to be good. What is she telling you? "And what do you tell her?"
Some of the trainees answered honestly that they would not want to be born if they knew in advance that they would have to deal with a severe disability.
One apprentice, who receives special support from her mother, replied that the mother would tell her an empowering sentence: "There is no such thing as a perfect child. I will always love you and I will take care of you."
Bialik: "You could hear all the opinions between the campers, but in the end we ended the conversation in a good atmosphere, and even with a laugh. After all, we all sit together, and that is a sign that we all want to live, otherwise we would not be talking here."
• • •
I walk around with Bialik among the trainees, who caress her lovingly, and ponder what the secret of her charm is.
She talks to them fearlessly, sometimes scolding, sometimes hugging, but always very directly.
"I'm like that because I'm a very direct person. I think it's against me too, sometimes. It's something very deep inside, something I believe in, period. I believe in them even more than other people, because they have some inner honesty. They know I'm not playing. When I encounter evil or hypocrisy - I should not be around, because I can not bear it and I do not remain silent.
"Being a direct person and without filters is good and bad. It helps me lead these groups, but not sure it's easy to live next to me on a daily basis. I have a girlfriend, a communication clinician, and we've been working together for years. She always tells me: 'I do not understand how there is You have so much patience for them, and you do not have a drop of patience for me. '
"It's true. I have a lot of patience, but I'm also terribly impatient. Patience and belief in trainees is a kind of religion, and religion is not something that can be taught. As a therapist, either you have it inside or you do not have it. "People with disabilities have everything."
Bialik explains that groups of discourse circles are built in a variety of ways.
Sitting side by side with people with disabilities are talking - and those who are not talking.
"We will sit next to the wise and talking guy also someone who in blunt language can be called a 'plant'. Someone who certainly has something to say, but we unfortunately can not get it out of him. Over time they learned to understand that everyone has desires and needs. They learned to decipher the feelings of "Who looks like a plant. They look at him and say, 'I think he feels good today.' It's wonderful that they see the other."
What is your dream?
"Die quietly, before Cherry," she smiles and lovingly caresses her white dog, who is close to her all day.
The elderly Sherry was a guide dog of a blind woman, and when she grew old - Bialik adopted her.
"I've seen it all in my life, and I also feel I have left a mark on the world. There are great volunteers and professionals in Noam today. They can continue the open discourse after me, so I can really die quietly. I'm really good at what I do, the happiest and saddest. ".
What's sad?
"I'm sad about the parents. I'm a great 'heroine' to be here not as a parent. Raising a child with a disability is a blow. We have at Noam's trainees who are now 60. Their parents, if they are alive, are already 80-plus. They have dedicated their whole lives "I have a shiver when I think about it."
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