Samir and Yonatan, Daniella Carmi’s novel for young people was first published in 1994 and was translated into English by Yael Lotan in 2000. Although firmly grounded in the realities of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, it is a fairly sophisticated, somewhat impressionistic piece, and there are scenes that border on the mystical. The book is focused on Samir, a young Arab boy from the Occupied West Bank, who ends up in a Jewish hospital. He shattered his kneecap, trying to be brave and daring like his dead brother, Fadi, who was gunned down by an Israeli soldier. Now he’s been brought to “the Jews’ hospital” where he must wait until a special doctor can come from America to operate on him.

Samir is given pain medication and, some nights, a sedative when he wakes up yelling. Suffering intermittent fever as he waits for his operation, he is confined to bed rest in a hospital room with several other children. There’s traumatized Razia, an Arab girl, whose drunken father struck her on the forehead. Golden-haired Ludmilla is a newly arrived Russian Jewish immigrant, who is having difficulty adapting to life in Israel. She either can’t or won’t eat, and she must receive nutrients intravenously. Hyperactive, taunting Tzahi cannot sit still, even though he’s encumbered with a catheter and urine bag, while the doctors try to figure out why he can’t pee normally. Tzahi knows that he scares Samir; he exults in the power he has over his timid roommate who understands Hebrew but seldom speaks. Samir’s fear intensifies when Tzahi’s brother, a soldier, comes to visit one afternoon. Though helmet-less, he wears his uniform and carries a rifle. Samir has spent most of his young life running from members of the IDF, but now his injury forces him to remain in a room with the enemy. The boy subsequently conflates this young soldier with the one who killed Fadi.

Finally, there is Yonatan. It’s unclear what’s wrong with him. His hand is immobilized in some sort of contraption, but the description of his thin fuzzy hair made me think he is possibly being treated for cancer. Samir develops a special relationship with this Orthodox Jewish boy, who is mostly silent and whose nose is in astronomy books all day. Yonatan comes alive at night when the stars can be viewed from the large hospital window. One night he says with a kind of a seriousness that amazes his new friend: “Your trouble, Samir, is that you’re always living in this world . . . There is another world . . . and you can divide your life between this world and that other one. Nobody ever said you have to pass your whole life only in this world, with everybody else. For example, if you run a fever you can simply slip away to the other world and live a good healthy life there.”

In the course of the novel, Carmi skillfully weaves details of Samir’s home life in the Occupied Territories. These details are mostly presented as flashbacks, memories, as Samir lies in his hospital bed. Sometimes, in a manner so characteristic of PTSD sufferers, the memories are triggered by the sights and sounds of the hospital. Samir recalls the night his brother’s body was brought home in a bloodied blanket. He thinks of his elder brother Bassam’s account of his time in jail, the Israeli jeeps moving down narrow Palestinian streets, the curfews, the power outages, the explosions, the death of a pet rabbit by tear gas, the blindness of his grandfather, and the defeated silence of his father. No one from home can even visit the boy in hospital because the roads are blocked, the territories are closed off, and no Arabs are being allowed through.

Carmi’s novel is rich, nuanced, dreamlike in sections, and . . . literary. Even though the characters, apart from the medical staff, are children, this book, in which a hospital room becomes a crucible for psychological change, is best suited to more sophisticated adolescent readers. It’s one of those books that merits a second reading. I certainly understand why it received the American Library Association’s Batcheldor Award, which “recognizes the publisher of the year's "most outstanding" children's book translated into English and published in the U.S.” As I reflect on the novel, it only grows on me more and more . . .

. ( )

This novel was interesting; however, it did not spike my interest. The voice was different and from a Palestinian boy talking about personal experiences, dreams, and nightmares. The author did a nice job of being honest about death and war. The overall message is that, it will be difficult, one can get through a through situation such as Samir did with losing his younger brother. Although this was an interesting topic and had a strong message, the writing did not intrigue me and left me bored at times.

When Palestinian boy Samir breaks his knee, he must stay in a Jewish hospital for a special surgery. There, he faces his fears of Israelis and make a new friend. This is a cute story with the we're-not-so-different-after-all moral. Although it may resonate more strongly with the Israeli kids for whom it was originally written, its translation is a good addition to English-language children's literature as well. It was enjoyable and cute, and has a moral that every child in the world can benefit from. ( )

Personal Response:
I most liked Samir's comparison of life at the Jewish Hospital with his daily life in a Palestinian village. The disparity between resources, access and freedom are shocking and puts a human face on a political conflict. Samir's initial response and gradual acceptance of the Israeli children and staff provide an honest depiction of the feeling of an outsider learning to accept others and question previously held beliefs. The overall message of peace, conveyed through an interaction between children of warring groups, makes a strong statement about tolerance and understanding.

Curricular Connections:

This book would be excellent to discuss the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict to gain a better understanding of who the people are in this area and what life is like for them. A broader theme of tolerance and understanding can be discussed with regard to how prejudice can limit social interactions between certain groups. ( )

I liked the book, but I wasn't totally on-board with the authors writing style. She jumped right in without background, setting, character description or any of the other things you generally expect in the beginning of a novel. It took quite awhile to orient myself and understand what the context of the story was. I didn't feel really involved in the story, nor did it evoke the emotional response I think it could have given the subject matter.

This book could be used in curricula when studying the Israeli-Palestinian conflicts and the impact of the violence on children. ( )