I grew up in the city of Rahat, the largest Bedouin city in southern Israel. When I was 15 years old, I fell ill, and my health deteriorated significantly. I had to spend long periods in hospitals and intensive care. I remember being in intensive care for two weeks, getting discharged for short periods, only to return for further treatment. At the time, I was in ninth grade, but due to my medical condition, I was unable to complete my studies.

It was an extremely difficult period for me. Within a year, my health worsened even further. I was overwhelmed with distressing emotions, and my family decided to search for better treatment options abroad. Together, we traveled to Russia in search of a suitable cure, but unfortunately, the attempt was unsuccessful. We returned to Israel, and once again, my family refused to give up. This time, we traveled to Egypt for the same purpose, but that attempt also failed.

One day, my brother decided to search the internet for a specialist cardiologist. Fortunately, he found a cardiologist at Sheba Medical Center, Tel HaShomer. From my very first visit, he was the only doctor who gave me a glimmer of hope. He informed us about the possibility of a heart transplant and immediately sent me for medical examinations. At the time, I didn’t fully understand what a heart transplant entailed or what awaited me, but my condition continued to deteriorate day by day.

Despite everything, I never lost hope. My family surrounded me with love, support, and encouragement. I strengthened my faith in God and found comfort in prayer. Then, on the evening of Tuesday, August 9, 2011—a date I will never forget—I was lying in my hospital bed at Soroka Medical Center when the cardiologist entered my room. He informed me that I had been placed on the transplant waiting list and that I needed to hold on and be patient until my turn came. Then, he left.

To my astonishment, just an hour later, the doctor called my father with unexpected news: a matching heart had been found for me. When my father told me, I felt like I was nearing the end of my painful journey. All the suffering and hardship were about to end. I was overjoyed that I was about to regain my life. I remember how my entire family—my parents, siblings, and even the doctors—gathered around me, excited and happy. Within a short time, I was transferred by ambulance to Sheba Medical Center, where we waited until 4 AM. Then, I was taken into surgery.

After six and a half hours, I emerged from the operating room and remained in intensive care for a week. The doctors informed me that the transplant was successful and that, by the grace of God, I had been given a second chance at life. Thank God.

Two weeks later, I was discharged from the hospital and returned home. Per medical recommendations, I had to remain in isolation for three months to avoid infections or complications. I was so young, and I didn’t fully grasp what a heart transplant meant or what I had been through. The only thing I understood was that I had been reborn.

As I recovered, I started taking care of myself, cooking, and helping my mother. It was only three months after the surgery that someone explained to me that another person’s heart had been transplanted into my body. At first, I struggled to accept the fact that I was alive because of someone else who had died. Over time, I came to terms with it. However, there was one thing I never forgot—my deep desire to express my gratitude to the donor’s family for their generosity, which had saved my life.

I began searching for them on the internet. I looked for every piece of information about accidents and deaths that had occurred on that unforgettable day, hoping to find my donor, but I was unsuccessful. Despite this, I continued my search for ten years. One day, during a support group meeting for transplant recipients like me, I shared my story with a friend from northern Israel. She decided to help me on my quest to find the donor’s family.

We started with the transplant date, which was also the donor’s date of death. What happened next was beyond belief—something no logic in the world could explain. My friend discovered that the donor had been her neighbor. After discreetly verifying the details with the family, she was certain she had found the right people.

At first, the family struggled with the idea—it was a painful and raw wound for them. After numerous attempts, they finally agreed to meet. My family and I traveled from the south to the north to meet them. It was an intense and emotional encounter; not a single eye remained dry. My father spoke on behalf of our family, expressing our gratitude for their kindness and selflessness. He said that fate and divine intervention had brought us together.

For me, this meeting was a form of closure. I learned from the family that their son had suffered a stroke, which led to his death. I told them my story—how, thanks to them, I had been given my life back and how I had been searching for them and praying for my unknown donor for years. I even made a pilgrimage to Mecca in his honor, dedicating my prayers to him and his family. Every day, I thank and bless God for the miracle that happened to me, and I never forget to pray for my donor and his family.

During my recovery, I decided to resume my education. I enrolled in a higher education institute in Rahat and completed a diploma program in just one year. Today, I continue to take care of myself, undergo medical check-ups, and remain grateful every single day. I am thankful for the existence of kindhearted, noble people who, even in the most difficult moments of their lives, make life-saving decisions. There are so many such people in this world.