Miracles Know No Borders

By Kelly Hayes-Raitt | September 13th, 2007 | 4 Comments »

While feeding her infant son dinner, a shot came through her window, piercing her son’s head. For the next 9 years, Imad el-Ali lived with the bullet lodged precariously, paralyzing his right side and threatening to send him into seizures should he fall wrong.

Today, at 26, his engaging smile belies the years of surgeries and therapy that have miraculously restored most of his motor functions.

A Palestinian refugee living in Burj al-Shamali after his family fled their home in Sidon where Imad’s father had been rounded up, imprisoned and beaten so badly he died from internal bleeding, Imad had little chance of surviving the random bullet fired by the Israeli army during the 1982 war.

Unable to get medical care, the infant was patched up and sent home with little hope.

Until Hugh Storey stepped in.Before his death 5 years ago, Hugh was an Australian quadraplegic living in Malaysia with his own personal philanthropic endeavors helping other disabled people. He heard of Imad’s plight (no one is quite sure how) and flew the boy, his mother and a social worker to Malaysia for evaluation. During 2 subsequent trips, also financed by Storey, the 10-year-old underwent extensive brain surgery to remove the bullet and restore damage.

Over the next decade, Hugh became an honored uncle, financially sponsoring Imad’s recovery and enjoying a lively correspondence.

“My uncle never talked of these things,” said Martin Storey, 43, Hugh’s biological nephew, a petroleum engineer in Perth. “He just did it. He helped hundreds of people this way.”

Upon Hugh’s death, Martin took over supporting Imad and his family. During his first trip to Lebanon to meet the young man he has been sponsoring for the last 5 years, Martin unsuccessfully tried to contain his exuberance. “After meeting at the airport, they took me home and I immediately became a victim of hospitality. We ate and drank and ate again,” his Aussie accent rising. “Imad showed me every letter my family has ever sent.”

“I call Imad a brother,” said the jubilant and jet-lagged Martin on a busy street in Sidon outside Imad’s original home. “After all, he and I share an uncle.”
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