“Your child is incompetent to be here"...
The most commonly repeated rejection echoed each time I submitted a registration request for my son's school admission.
Ziad, my four-year-old son and my only offspring, came into this world on October 15th, 2019. Four months after his birth, the world began to engulf by the Corona pandemic, marking a pivotal moment in our lives, particularly mine.
For over a year, lockdowns restricted us as we are imprisoned in our homes, disrupting the routines we once took for granted.
As the months passed, Ziad, like all children, embarked on his journey of discovery, eagerly exploring his world and surroundings. However, his opportunities for growth and social interaction were almost non-existent due to this pandemic and quarantine imposed to us.
Throughout the uncertainty and isolation, I sought to engage him in educational activities, and aiming to stimulate Ziad's young mind and provide him with approximation of normalcy throughout this chaos. From the exploration of colors, numbers, shapes, to the introduction of letters, I attempted to lay the foundation for his intellectual development. Awfully, even at the tender age of one, Ziad displayed a keen interest in letters and numbers, his curiosity serving as a beacon of hope among the darkness of the pandemic.
Yet, as the pandemic persisted and the days blurred into one another, the iPad emerged as our only shelter, offering a passing grace from the sameness of confinement. Initially beneficial, it afforded me the opportunity to balance household chores, particularly during the exhausting period when I caught Covid19 virus. However, our reliance on screens unwittingly boosted an addiction in Ziad, a dependency that would later prove to be a complicated challenge to overcome.
Realizing the detrimental effects of excessive screen time on Ziad's development, I decided to gradually reduce his exposure and actively seek alternative ways for his growth and enrichment. Thus began the hard seeking to find a nursery that could provide the educating environment and social interaction that Ziad so desperately needed.
After much research and considerations, I finally found a suitable nursery where Ziad developed, his days filled with laughter, learning, and the joy of newfound friendships. However, as fate would have it, after five months of seemingly uncontrolled happiness, a sudden and unexplainable change occurred.
Ziad's joy turned to sorrow, his laughter replaced by hysterical cries every time I prepared to take him to nursery. He'd cling to me with a strength that surrounded on desperation. Surprised and worried, I struggled to make sense of his sudden hate to the very place that had once been a source of joy.
Feeling lost and alone, I turned to the nursery principal for answers, hoping against hope that she could shed light on Ziad's inexplicable behavior. But, she remained detached and unresponsive, her indifference serving only to worsen my unease and uncertainty.
Desperate for answers, I turned to the surveillance footage, hoping to reach some insight into the events that had occurred within the walls of the nursery. What I saw shattered me to the core – my precious Ziad, his tear-streaked face contorted in agony, being dragged nervously across the floor, his cries echoing through the room like a haunting melody of despair.
The sight of my son, the embodiment of innocence and vulnerability, being subjected to such torment and agony, left me swaying with a sense of helplessness. In that moment, grappling with the harsh realities of my son's suffering, I made a promise – a promise to protect and encourage him, to secure him from harm and ensure that he never again experienced the pain and torment that had become all too familiar to him.
With a heavy heart and a determine born of hopelessness, I made the difficult decision to withdraw Ziad from the nursery, unwilling to subject him to any further harm or suffering. Yet, even as I carried him home, his tear-streaked face pressed against my chest, I knew that the journey ahead would be overwrought with challenges and riskiness.
Despite the challenges and riskiness that lay ahead, I refused to give up hope, clinging to the belief that with love, patience, and unwavering determination, anything was possible.
Sadly, Ziad became two years old, but he can’t form sentences, he only say individual words. Here we began a new chapter of challenges. First, I cut off completely his screen time. Secondly, I started to seek out for the most trusted preschool nursery which I successfully found. This nursery is especially tailored for integrating special cases as speech delays, very mild autism traits, and ADHD alongside regular children
As Ziad continued attending the new nursery, the effects of excessive screen time and the initial shock of the new environment became evident. His speech delay and lack of attention and focus influenced his behavior, often causing him to appear withdrawn or disengaged. Despite his efforts to communicate, his limited vocabulary and difficulty concentrating led others to speculate that he might have autism.
The most offensive moments came when I overheard whispers from some of my relatives. “Ziad is autistic,” they said, “and he will never improve”. “I must come to terms with my son's illness”. Each time we encountered them, their looks of pity pierced through me like daggers, leaving me feeling helpless and alone.
Even when I took him to ordinal schools to register him to kg1 class, they said that he is an autistic just because of his weak eye contact and his speech delay regardless of his succession in the attendance exam.
Their words echoed in my mind, casting doubt on my hopes for Ziad's future. But deep down, I refused to accept their prognosis. I knew my son was capable of so much more than they could ever imagine. With each passing day, I vowed to fight harder, to prove them wrong.
I took my son to a neurologist who insisted that his condition, like that of many children his age, was primarily due to excessive screen time and lack of social interaction. While this explanation relieved my worries, others have ridiculed me, claiming the neurologist is unprofessional and ignorant.
Despite the skepticism and judgment of others, I remained loyal in my belief that Ziad deserved every chance to bloom. I sought out specialists, therapists, and educators who shared my vision for his potential. Together, we embarked on a journey of discovery and growth, unlocking the hidden talents and abilities within Ziad that even I hadn't known existed.
Slowly but certainly, Ziad began to go against the conflicts faced him. His speech improved, his attention spans lengthened, and his confidence blossomed. With each turning point he achieved, the whispers of doubt from my relatives grew quieter until they faded into the background, drowned out by the resounding chorus of Ziad's victory.
No longer did we receive pitying looks when we encountered our relatives. Instead, they amazed the remarkable progress Ziad had made, their skepticism replaced by admiration and respect. And as I looked into my son's eyes, sparkling with newfound confidence, I knew that together, we had overcome the greatest challenges we been through.
Watching Ziad struggle was heart-wrenching for me. I knew that his challenges were not indicative of his true potential but overcoming them seemed like an uphill battle. However, with the support of the nursery staff and specialized programs for speech development and sensory integration, I held onto hope that Ziad would eventually succeed.
