In search for the man who broke my neck | Joshua Prager

Summary

In this poignant narrative, the speaker recounts his journey to find Abed, the man responsible for a life-altering accident in Jerusalem 21 years prior. Despite the physical and emotional scars left by the crash, the speaker seeks not retribution but closure and an apology. His quest leads him through a profound exploration of identity, fate, and the human capacity for resilience. Upon meeting Abed, the speaker grapples with the complexity of forgiveness and the power of personal response to life's challenges.

Takeaways

• 🚗 The narrator embarked on a journey to find Abed, the man responsible for a life-altering accident in Jerusalem 21 years prior.
• 📜 The narrator had no exact address or phone number but was driven by the need to confront and find closure with Abed.
• 🏙️ The accident occurred when the narrator was 19, resulting in a severe injury that left him a quadriplegic, changing his life dramatically.
• 💪 Despite the physical challenges, the narrator learned to breathe, sit, stand, and walk again, embodying resilience and determination.
• 📚 The narrator's life took a different path, using a wheelchair through college and later becoming a journalist and author, reflecting on life's sudden changes.
• 🔍 Upon returning to Jerusalem, the narrator sought to meet Abed, driven by the desire to hear an apology for the accident.
• 🎁 The narrator prepared a gift for Abed, symbolizing the intention of a peaceful encounter and the complexity of emotions tied to the meeting.
• 🤔 The script raises philosophical questions about identity, the impact of experiences on who we are, and the interplay between nature (genes) and nurture (experiences).
• 🕊️ The narrator's encounter with Abed revealed a man who did not take responsibility for the accident, illustrating the human tendency to rationalize and absolve oneself of guilt.
• 📖 The narrator's reflections on life, suffering, and the human condition were inspired by Viktor Frankl and Herman Melville, emphasizing the importance of attitude and perspective in the face of adversity.
• 🌟 The takeaway is that while we cannot control what happens to us, we can control how we respond, and it's this response that defines us.

Q & A

What was the main purpose of the narrator's journey to find Abed?

The main purpose of the narrator's journey was to confront Abed, the man who had caused a life-altering accident, and to seek an apology as a form of closure and peace.

How did the accident impact the narrator's physical condition?

The accident left the narrator as a quadriplegic initially, and later a hemiplegic, requiring the use of a wheelchair for four years and causing lifelong physical challenges.

What was the emotional response of the narrator when he first read Abed's testimony?

The narrator experienced anger for the first time towards Abed, stemming from a sense of injustice and the realization that the accident could have been avoided.

How did the narrator's life change after the accident?

The narrator's life changed dramatically; he became a journalist and an author, and despite his physical limitations, he continued to travel and participate in activities like softball.

What was the narrator's profession after college?

The narrator became a journalist and an author, typing with one finger due to his physical condition.

What did the narrator bring as a gift for Abed when they finally met?

The narrator brought a brick of Turkish delight as a gift for Abed when they met.

What was the narrator's reflection on the concept of identity and the impact of experiences on it?

The narrator reflected on the intertwining of identity with experiences, questioning whether we are defined by our genes, our experiences, or how we respond to them.

How did Abed perceive the accident when he spoke to the narrator?

Abed perceived the accident as a punishment from God for his previous wrongdoings and believed that he was now living a religious life that pleased God.

What was the narrator's realization about Abed's ability to apologize?

The narrator realized that Abed would likely never apologize, as he had constructed a narrative in which he saw himself as a victim rather than a perpetrator.

What was the narrator's final message to Abed about the accident?

The narrator corrected Abed's misconception about the number of people who died in the accident, telling him that only one man had died, not two, and then said goodbye.

Outlines

00:00

🚗 Journey for Resolution

The narrator embarks on a quest to find Abed, the man responsible for a life-altering accident in Jerusalem 21 years prior. Despite lacking specific details, the narrator is driven by the memory of the crash that left him a quadriplegic and later a hemiplegic. The journey is not just to confront Abed but also to seek personal peace and understanding. The story unfolds with the narrator's reflections on his life before and after the accident, his recovery, and his emotional response to reading Abed's testimony.

05:02

🌹 The Search for Closure

Continuing the narrative, the narrator expresses his desire to meet Abed to hear an apology for the accident that changed the course of his life. The journey is laden with introspection about identity, the impact of experiences, and the nature of fate. The narrator grapples with existential questions, considering the roles of genetics and life events in shaping who we are. His anticipation of meeting Abed is mixed with uncertainty and a quest for understanding rather than retribution.

10:05

🤝 Encounter and Expectation

The narrator's encounter with Abed is described in this paragraph. He arrives in Kafr Qara, meets locals, and eventually comes face to face with Abed. The meeting is filled with tension and a sense of anticipation. Abed shares his own struggles post-accident, and the narrator observes the changes in Abed's life, reflecting on the mutual impact of the crash. The narrator's hope for an apology remains unfulfilled as Abed deflects responsibility and shows no remorse.

15:06

📚 Reflections on Life and Resilience

In the final paragraph, the narrator contemplates the lessons learned from his experience and the meeting with Abed. He reflects on the human capacity to find meaning and positivity in adversity, citing Viktor Frankl and Herman Melville to emphasize the importance of attitude and perspective. The narrator acknowledges the complexity of human nature and the struggle to reconcile with past events. He leaves Abed without receiving the apology he sought but with a deeper understanding of resilience and the power of personal response to life's challenges.

Keywords

💡Quadriplegic

Quadriplegic refers to a person who has lost the ability to move or feel in all four limbs due to a severe injury to the spinal cord. In the video, the narrator describes how the accident with Abed resulted in him becoming a quadriplegic, which significantly altered his life and required him to relearn basic functions such as breathing, sitting, standing, and walking.

💡Hemiplegic

Hemiplegic is a term used to describe someone who has lost the use of one side of the body, typically due to a stroke or other neurological condition. The narrator uses this term to describe his condition after recovering from the initial quadriplegia, indicating that one side of his body was more affected than the other, impacting his mobility and independence.

💡Trauma

Trauma, in this context, refers to a deeply distressing or disturbing experience that can have long-lasting emotional effects. The video's theme revolves around the physical and emotional trauma the narrator experienced from the car accident caused by Abed, which led to a profound life change and a journey of seeking closure and understanding.

💡Reconciliation

Reconciliation is the process of establishing peace or harmony after a conflict or a period of estrangement. The narrator's quest to meet Abed is a journey of reconciliation, as he seeks to confront the past, understand Abed's perspective, and find personal peace despite the life-altering consequences of the accident.

💡Identity

Identity encompasses the characteristics determining who or what a person or thing is. The video explores the narrator's struggle with identity, as he grapples with the question of whether he is defined by his past self, the accident, or his current self that has adapted and overcome challenges post-accident.

💡Remorse

Remorse is a deep and sincere regret or guilt for a wrong committed. The narrator's primary motivation for seeking out Abed is to hear an apology, which for him, represents remorse. The absence of this remorse from Abed highlights a disconnect in their understanding and processing of the accident's impact.

💡Narrative

A narrative is a story or account of events and experiences. The video discusses how individuals, like Abed, construct narratives to make sense of their actions and experiences, even when these narratives may distort or omit crucial facts, as seen when Abed minimizes his role in the accident.

💡Existential

Existential refers to the nature of existence, being, and the human condition. The narrator contemplates existential questions, such as the interplay between genes, experiences, and personal choices in shaping who we are. His reflections on suffering and existence provide insight into his philosophical outlook on life.

💡Closure

Closure is the act of concluding or resolving a matter. The narrator's journey to meet Abed is an attempt to achieve closure for the unresolved emotions and questions stemming from the accident. However, the encounter does not provide the remorse he seeks, leading to a complex sense of closure.

💡Contrast

Contrast is the juxtaposition of differences. The narrator uses the concept of contrast to illustrate the appreciation of what one has after experiencing loss or suffering. This idea is central to his message about finding joy and meaning in life despite adversity.

💡Freedom

Freedom, in the context of the video, refers to the ability to choose one's response to life's circumstances. The narrator cites Viktor Frankl's idea that choosing one's attitude is the last human freedom, emphasizing the power of personal response in shaping one's life after a traumatic event.

Highlights

The speaker embarked on a journey to find Abed, the man responsible for a life-altering accident, without any prior contact.

The accident occurred 21 years prior, leaving the speaker with a broken neck and resulting in hemiplegia.

The speaker's physical recovery involved relearning to breathe, sit, stand, and walk, highlighting the resilience of the human spirit.

The emotional journey included feelings of anger and the desire for an apology from Abed.

The speaker's life took a different path post-accident, using a wheelchair through college and later becoming a journalist and author.

The realization that the speaker's journalistic work often mirrored his own life experiences, focusing on life-changing moments.

The speaker's return to Israel to write a book about the accident, revealing a lingering desire to meet Abed.

The struggle with the question of identity and whether one's life is defined by their experiences or inherent traits.

A philosophical reflection on the nature of existence, pondering whether we are a product of our genes or our experiences.

The encounter with Abed, where the speaker hoped for an apology but instead faced a narrative of self-victimization.

Abed's lack of remorse or acknowledgment of his role in the accident, illustrating the complexities of human accountability.

The speaker's internal conflict between seeking truth and seeking remorse, and the ultimate realization that an apology was unlikely.

The concept of human narrative and how individuals shape their experiences into a digestible story, even in the face of tragedy.

The speaker's insight that Abed would never apologize, leading to a deeper understanding of human nature and the limits of empathy.

The speaker's final message about the importance of rising above adversity and the power of choice in shaping one's attitude towards life's challenges.

The conclusion that to truly enjoy life, one must acknowledge the contrast between what one has and what one lacks.

The speaker's parting words to Abed, correcting a misconception about the accident and leaving with a sense of closure.

Transcripts

Transcriber: Joseph Geni Reviewer: Morton Bast

One year ago,

I rented a car in Jerusalem to go find a man I never met

but who had changed my life.

I didn't have a phone number to call to say I was coming.

I didn't have an exact address,

but I knew his name, Abed,

I knew that he lived in a town of 15,000, Kafr Qara,

and I knew that, 21 years before, just outside this holy city,

he broke my neck.

And so, on an overcast morning in January,

I headed north

off in a silver Chevy,

to find a man and some peace.

The road dropped, and I exited Jerusalem.

I then rounded the very bend where his blue truck,

heavy with four tons of floor tiles,

had borne down with great speed

onto the back left corner of the minibus where I sat.

I was then 19 years old.

I'd grown five inches and done some 20,000 pushups

in eight months,

and the night before the crash, I delighted in my new body,

playing basketball with friends

into the wee hours of a May morning.

I palmed the ball in my large right hand,

and when that hand reached the rim, I felt invincible.

I was off in the bus to get the pizza I'd won on the court.

I didn't see Abed coming.

From my seat,

I was looking up at a stone town on a hilltop,

bright in the noontime sun,

when from behind there was a great bang,

as loud and violent as a bomb.

My head snapped back over my red seat,

my eardrum blew, my shoes flew off.

I flew too, my head bobbing on broken bones,

and when I landed, I was a quadriplegic.

Over the coming months, I learned to breathe on my own,

then to sit and to stand and to walk.

But my body was now divided vertically.

I was a hemiplegic,

and back home in New York,

I used a wheelchair for four years, all through college.

College ended and I returned to Jerusalem for a year.

There, I rose from my chair for good,

I leaned on my cane, and I looked back,

finding all, from my fellow passengers in the bus

to photographs of the crash.

And when I saw this photograph --

I didn't see a bloody and unmoving body.

I saw the healthy bulk of a left deltoid,

and I mourned that it was lost,

mourned all I had not yet done,

but was now impossible.

It was then I read the testimony

that Abed gave the morning after the crash,

of driving down the right lane of a highway toward Jerusalem.

Reading his words, I welled with anger.

It was the first time I'd felt anger toward this man,

and it came from magical thinking.

On this xeroxed piece of paper,

the crash had not yet happened.

Abed could still turn his wheel left

so that I would see him whoosh by out my window.

and I would remain whole.

"Be careful, Abed, look out.

Slow down."

But Abed did not slow,

and on that xeroxed piece of paper, my neck again broke,

and again, I was left without anger.

I decided to find Abed,

and when I finally did,

he responded to my Hebrew "Hello" which such nonchalance,

it seemed he'd been awaiting my phone call.

And maybe he had.

I didn't mention to Abed his prior driving record --

27 violations by the age of 25,

the last, his not shifting his truck into a low gear on that May day --

and I didn't mention my prior record --

the quadriplegia and the catheters,

the insecurity and the loss --

and when Abed went on about how hurt he was in the crash,

I didn't say that I knew from the police report

that he'd escaped serious injury.

I said I wanted to meet.

Abed said that I should call back in a few weeks,

and when I did and a recording told me that his number was disconnected,

I let Abed and the crash go.

Many years passed.

I walked with my cane and my ankle brace and a backpack

on trips in six continents.

I pitched overhand in a weekly softball game

that I started in Central Park,

and home in New York,

I became a journalist and an author,

typing hundreds of thousands of words with one finger.

A friend pointed out to me

that all of my big stories mirrored my own,

each centering on a life that had changed in an instant,

owing, if not to a crash, then to an inheritance,

a swing of the bat, a click of the shutter, an arrest.

Each of us had a before and an after.

I'd been working through my lot after all.

Still, Abed was far from my mind,

when last year, I returned to Israel to write of the crash,

and the book I then wrote, "Half-Life,"

was nearly complete when I recognized

that I still wanted to meet Abed.

And finally, I understood why:

to hear this man say two words:

"I'm sorry."

People apologize for less.

And so I got a cop to confirm

that Abed still lived somewhere in the same town,

and I was now driving to it

with a potted yellow rose in the back seat,

when suddenly flowers seemed a ridiculous offering.

But what to get the man who broke your fucking neck?

(Laughter)

I pulled into the town of Abu Ghosh,

and bought a brick of Turkish delight:

pistachios glued in rosewater.

Better.

Back on Highway 1, I envisioned what awaited.

Abed would hug me.

Abed would spit at me.

Abed would say, "I'm sorry."

I then began to wonder, as I had many times before,

how my life would have been different had this man not injured me,

had my genes been fed a different helping of experience.

Who was I?

Was I who I had been before the crash,

before this road divided my life like the spine of an open book?

Was I what had been done to me?

Were all of us the results of things done to us,

done for us,

the infidelity of a parent or spouse,

money inherited?

Were we instead our bodies, their inborn endowments and deficits?

It seemed that we could be nothing more than genes and experience,

but how to tease out the one from the other?

As Yeats put that same universal question,

"O body swayed to music, o brightening glance,

how can we know the dancer from the dance?"

I'd been driving for an hour

when I looked in my rear view mirror and saw my own brightening glance.

The light my eyes had carried for as long as they had been blue.

The predispositions and impulses

that had propelled me as a toddler to try and slip over a boat

into a Chicago lake,

that had propelled me as a teen

to jump into wild Cape Cod Bay after a hurricane.

But I also saw in my reflection

that, had Abed not injured me,

I would now, in all likelihood, be a doctor

and a husband and a father.

I would be less mindful of time and of death,

and, oh, I would not be disabled,

would not suffer the thousand slings and arrows of my fortune.

The frequent furl of five fingers, the chips in my teeth

come from biting at all the many things a solitary hand cannot open.

The dancer and the dance were hopelessly entwined.

It was approaching 11 when I exited right toward Afula,

and passed a large quarry and was soon in Kafr Qara.

I felt a pang of nerves.

But Chopin was on the radio, seven beautiful mazurkas,

and I pulled into a lot by a gas station

to listen and to calm.

I'd been told that in an Arab town,

one need only mention the name of a local and it will be recognized.

And I was mentioning Abed and myself,

noting deliberately that I was here in peace,

to the people in this town,

when I met Mohamed outside a post office at noon.

He listened to me.

You know, it was most often when speaking to people

that I wondered where I ended and my disability began.

For many people told me what they told no one else.

Many cried.

And one day, after a woman I met on the street did the same

and I later asked her why,

she told me that, best she could tell,

her tears had had something to do with my being happy and strong,

but vulnerable too.

I listened to her words, I suppose they were true.

I was me,

but I was now me despite a limp,

and that, I suppose, was what now made me, me.

Anyway, Mohamed told me

what perhaps he would not have told another stranger.

He led me to a house of cream stucco, then drove off.

And as I sat contemplating what to say,

a woman approached in a black shawl and black robe.

I stepped from my car and said "Shalom,"

and identified myself,

and she told me that her husband Abed

would be home from work in four hours.

Her Hebrew was not good, and she later confessed

that she thought that I had come to install the internet.

(Laughter)

I drove off and returned at 4:30,

thankful to the minaret up the road that helped me find my way back.

And as I approached the front door,

Abed saw me, my jeans and flannel and cane,

and I saw Abed,

an average-looking man of average size.

He wore black and white, slippers over socks,

pilling sweatpants, a piebald sweater,

a striped ski cap pulled down to his forehead.

He'd been expecting me, Mohamed had phoned.

And so at once,

we shook hands, and smiled,

and I gave him my gift,

and he told me I was a guest in his home,

and we sat beside one another on a fabric couch.

It was then that Abed resumed at once

the tale of woe he had begun over the phone 16 years before.

He'd just had surgery on his eyes, he said.

He had problems with his side and his legs too,

and, oh, he'd lost his teeth in the crash.

Did I wish to see him remove them?

Abed then rose and turned on the TV

so that I wouldn't be alone when he left the room,

and returned with Polaroids of the crash

and his old driver's license.

"I was handsome," he said.

We looked down at his laminated mug.

Abed had been less handsome than substantial,

with thick black hair and a full face and a wide neck.

It was this youth who on May 16, 1990,

had broken two necks including mine,

and bruised one brain and taken one life.

Twenty-one years later, he was now thinner than his wife,

his skin slack on his face,

and looking at Abed looking at his young self,

I remembered looking at that photograph of my young self after the crash,

and recognized his longing.

"The crash changed both of our lives," I said.

Abed then showed me a picture of his mashed truck,

and said that the crash was the fault of a bus driver

in the left lane who did not let him pass.

I did not want to recap the crash with Abed.

I'd hoped for something simpler:

to exchange a Turkish dessert for two words and be on my way.

And so I didn't point out that in his own testimony

the morning after the crash,

Abed did not even mention the bus driver.

No, I was quiet.

I was quiet because I had not come for truth.

I had come for remorse.

And so I now went looking for remorse and threw truth under the bus.

"I understand," I said, "that the crash was not your fault,

but does it make you sad that others suffered?"

Abed spoke three quick words.

"Yes, I suffered."

Abed then told me why he'd suffered.

He'd lived an unholy life before the crash,

and so God had ordained the crash,

but now, he said, he was religious,

and God was pleased.

It was then that God intervened:

news on the TV of a car wreck

that hours before had killed three people up north.

We looked up at the wreckage.

"Strange," I said.

"Strange," he agreed.

I had the thought that there, on Route 804,

there were perpetrators and victims,

dyads bound by a crash.

Some, as had Abed, would forget the date.

Some, as had I, would remember.

The report finished and Abed spoke.

"It is a pity," he said,

"that the police in this country are not tough enough on bad drivers."

(Laughter)

I was baffled.

Abed had said something remarkable.

Did it point up the degree

to which he'd absolved himself of the crash?

Was it evidence of guilt, an assertion

that he should have been put away longer?

He'd served six months in prison, lost his truck license for a decade.

I forgot my discretion.

"Um, Abed," I said,

"I thought you had a few driving issues before the crash."

"Well," he said, "I once went 60 in a 40."

And so 27 violations --

driving through a red light, driving at excessive speed,

driving on the wrong side of a barrier,

and finally, riding his brakes down that hill --

reduced to one.

And it was then I understood that no matter how stark the reality,

the human being fits it into a narrative that is palatable.

The goat becomes the hero.

The perpetrator becomes the victim.

It was then I understood that Abed would never apologize.

Abed and I sat with our coffee.

We'd spent 90 minutes together,

and he was now known to me.

He was not a particularly bad man

or a particularly good man.

He was a limited man

who'd found it within himself to be kind to me.

With a nod to Jewish custom,

he told me that I should live to be 120 years old.

But it was hard for me to relate to one

who had so completely washed his hands of his own calamitous doing,

to one whose life was so unexamined

that he said he thought two people had died in the crash.

There was much I wished to say to Abed.

I wished to tell him that, were he to acknowledge my disability,

it would be OK,

for people are wrong to marvel at those like me

who smile as we limp.

People don't know that they have lived through worse,

that problems of the heart

hit with a force greater than a runaway truck,

that problems of the mind are greater still,

more injurious than a hundred broken necks.

I wished to tell him

that what makes most of us who we are most of all

is not our minds and not our bodies

and not what happens to us,

but how we respond to what happens to us.

"This,"

wrote the psychiatrist Viktor Frankl,

"is the last of the human freedoms:

to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances."

I wished to tell him

that not only paralyzers and paralyzees must evolve,

reconcile to reality,

but we all must --

the aging and the anxious

and the divorced and the balding

and the bankrupt and everyone.

I wished to tell him

that one does not have to say that a bad thing is good,

that a crash is from God and so a crash is good,

a broken neck is good.

One can say that a bad thing sucks,

but that this natural world still has many glories.

I wished to tell him that, in the end,

our mandate is clear.

We have to rise above bad fortune.

We have to be in the good and enjoy the good --

study and work and adventure and friendship,

oh, friendship,

and community and love.

But most of all,

I wished to tell him what Herman Melville wrote,

that truly "to enjoy bodily warmth,

some small part of you must be cold,

for there is no quality in this world

that is not what it is merely by contrast."

Yes, contrast.

If you are mindful of what you do not have,

you may be truly mindful of what you do have.

And if the gods are kind, you may truly enjoy what you have.

That is the one singular gift you may receive

if you suffer in any existential way.

You know death,

and so may wake each morning pulsing with ruddy life.

Some part of you is cold,

and so another part may truly enjoy what it is to be warm,

or even to be cold.

When one morning, years after the crash,

I stepped onto stone

and the underside of my left foot felt the flash of cold,

nerves at last awake,

it was exhilarating,

a gust of snow.

But I didn't say these things to Abed.

I told him only that he had killed one man, not two.

I told him the name of that man.

And then I said, "Goodbye."

Thank you.

(Applause)

Thanks a lot.

(Applause and cheers)