There's a famous quote by Aeschylus, the ancient Greek playwright, that was a favorite of Robert F. Kennedy. He recited it to an Indianapolis crowd on the night in 1968 when Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. It goes:

God, whose law it is that he who learns must suffer.
And even in our sleep, pain that cannot forget falls drops by drop upon the heart,
And in our own despair, and against our will, comes wisdom by the awful grace of God.

A New York Times story about two Israeli and Palestinian families brought together in a hospital by the grievous injuries suffered by their children at the hands of the other side in the Arab-Israeli dispute, and by the friendship of their wounded children, put me in mind of this bit of Aeschylus.

It is undeniably a sad piece, focusing as it does on two children horribly marred by violence that, in the end, arguably did little to nothing to further the objectives of either Israelis or Palestinians.

But the story also contains a hope that the two children can serve as living sacrifices on behalf of a greater understanding of the shared humanity of Palestinians and Israelis.

An excerpt:

Friendship often starts with proximity, but Orel and Marya, both 8, have been thrust together in a way few elsewhere have. Their playground is a hospital corridor. He is an Israeli Jew severely wounded by a Hamas rocket. She is a Palestinian Muslim from Gaza paralyzed by an Israeli missile. Someone forgot to tell them that they are enemies.

"He's a naughty boy," Marya likes to say of Orel with an appreciative smile when he gets a little wild.

When Orel arrived here a year ago, he could not hear, see, talk or walk. Now he does them all haltingly. Half his brain is gone. Doctors were deeply pessimistic about his survival. Today they are amazed at his progress although unclear how much more can be made.

Marya's spinal cord was broken at the neck and she can move only her head. Smart, sunny and strong-willed, she moves her wheelchair by pushing a button with her chin. Nothing escapes her gaze. She knows that Orel is starting to prefer boys as playmates and she makes room. But their bond remains strong.

 

In a way, a friendship between two wounded children from opposing backgrounds is not that surprising. Neither understands the prolonged fight over land and identity that so divides people here. They are kids. They play.

But for those who have spent time in their presence at Alyn Hospital in Jerusalem, it is almost more powerful to observe their parents, who do understand. They have developed a kinship that defies national struggle.

"The wounds of our children, their pain, our pain, have connected us," noted Angela Elizarov, Orel's mother, one recent day as she sat on a bed in the room she shares with her son. Next door is Marya, her 6-year-old brother, Momen, and their father, Hamdi Aman. "Does it matter that he is from Gaza and I am from Beersheba, that he is an Arab and I am a Jew? It has no meaning to me. He sees my child and I see his child."

At the end of the story, Angela Elizarov sounds like she's asking a question of Aeschylus through the centuries when she says:

"Do we need to suffer in order to learn that there is no difference between Jews and Arabs?"

Judging from his verse, Aeschylus would likely say yes.