This article was originally published by Haaretz and is republished with permission.

Mariya Aman gets a kiss from her father Hamdi. (Haaretz)

A happy ending? Not an ending, and not happy. Mariya Aman was transferred this week to the Alyn children's hospital in Jerusalem, after Israel had been on the point of returning her to Gaza, paralyzed and on a respirator. The little girl, aged 3 and a half, who lost her mother, her brother and her grandmother about a month ago, will have to undergo a rehabilitation process of several months. At the end of it, perhaps she will at least be able to breathe on her own, to speak, and maybe even to get out of bed. About half a year, maybe more, maybe less, according to the doctor's estimate - during which time she will be hospitalized in this excellent hospital.

Although her father will be at her side, he will have no home and no place to stay; he will be imprisoned in the hospital, while at his home in Gaza, his young son Muaman, 2, who lost his mother and has been separated from his father, is waiting for him.

The two children, Mariya and Muaman, are survivors of the "targeted assassination" carried out by the Israel Air Force, which was planning to kill Mohammed Dahduh of the Islamic Jihad, and cut down almost an entire family. Had it not been for the intervention of Physicians for Human Rights, and the belated response of Defense Minister Amir Peretz, who acted to provide funding for rehabilitation treatment for the child, she would have been sent to Gaza, where there is not a single rehabilitation hospital, to die a slow death. This week, a similar solution was being sought for her uncle, Nahed, father of two infants, who is also on a respirator and paralyzed from the attack.

The chief of staff, Lieutenant General Dan Halutz, was proud of the work of his air force. At the end of the investigation conducted by the Israel Defense Forces, he noted that the attack was carried out "with a high level of professionalism" and "with precision." I have a suggestion for the sensitive chief of staff and former air force commander, who is familiar with every type of human suffering: Let him make an effort to go to the Alyn Hospital in Jerusalem and see with his own eyes the "high level of professionalism" and the "precision" of his pilots. Perhaps all the new pilots should be sent as well - just before they go out on their assignments, press the button and sow death - to see the outcome with their own eyes, something they never see on their sophisticated computer screens: a pretty little girl whose entire world has been destroyed, and the members of a happy family, who were taking their first drive in their new car. Now, nothing remains except bereavement, orphans and disability.

The red nail polish that was carefully applied to the tiny fingers is already peeling, and the skin on her hands is already shriveled. Only her hair and her eyes remain as pretty as they were, as pretty as in the pictures. Last Friday, she saw her father for the first time since the attack, and smiled her first weak smile. Three weeks without Mom and without Dad, only with Grandpa's brother at her side, paralyzed and on a respirator, in a cast, unable to move a muscle, except for her lips, and unaware that her mother, her brother and her grandmother are no longer alive.

They were not the last: After her, on Friday night, came the Ghalia family, killed and wounded on the beach, not far from Mariya's home in Gaza. Not the first: In recent months we have written here about an orange grove owner, Omar Abu Warda; and about a camel herder, Musa al-Sawarka; about a watermelon grower, Hassan al-Shefi; and about strawberry growers, the children of the Raban family, who were killed on the first day of their summer vacation by fire from our forces.

Maryam Raban, who lost four sons, a grandson and two nephews in the strawberry fields, came to the Ghalia home this week for a condolence visit, to share their sorrow. Shockingly, it turns out that the bereaved Maryam is the sister of Ali Ghalia, who was killed on Friday evening on the beach in front of his screaming daughter, and the aunt of the five children who were killed there. That's what blood relationships are like in Gaza.

When we met Maryam Raban after her tragedy, she only asked that the soldiers of the tank that launched the murderous shell at her children be put on trial. Mariya's father, Hamdi Aman, had a similar request when we visited his home in the Tel al-Hawa neighborhood a few days after his tragedy: To place the pilot who launched the missile on trial.

Hamdi and his uncle Nabil were sitting red-eyed this past Sunday in the family room next to the intensive care unit in the children's hospital in Tel Hashomer. In the adjacent room lay Mariya. The lobbying campaign was successful, and that day Mariya was about to be transferred to Alyn hospital, instead of to Gaza. A few days earlier, when I visited the ward, Nabil was the only one next to Mariya's bed; day and night, for three whole weeks, he didn't budge from her side, and then the hospital reported that she was about to be returned to Gaza. Her father, Hamdi, who heard the news over the phone at home in Gaza, burst into heartbroken cries. This past Sunday, next to Mariya's bed, a moment before her transfer to Alyn, Hamdi was already somewhat calmer.

The telephone of Ezer Mitzion, a voluntary organization that assists the ill, and a sign about sanctifying the Sabbath is in the family room where the Palestinian relatives stay: a grandfather from Rafah who has been next to his grandson's bed for 40 consecutive days, after the child underwent heart surgery; a father from Tul Karm next to his baby's bed, and an uncle from Gaza next to his loved one. None of them is allowed to leave the gates of this hospital, according to the rare residence permit that they managed to receive. Their ID cards are deposited with the security officer of the hospital, who keeps checking whether they are present. Nobody takes care of food for them and they spend their nights on bunk beds in the adjacent room. Some of them have been here for months.

Here is Ramzi Hashash, a native of the Balata refugee camp and a resident of Jisr al-Zarqa in Israel, who lost two of his children in a mysterious explosion at his father's home in the Balata refugee camp - perhaps caused by the IDF, perhaps not - and his two remaining children are hospitalized here with very serious burns. We met him here right after the accident, in February. Since then he has not budged from here for even a moment, for four months. His children Amir and Roni are already walking around in the corridors, with burns all over their bodies, and in their father's cell phone there are photos of them both before and after the accident, wearing frightening masks on their faces. Ramzi's Israeli wife, who is also here, was hospitalized several weeks ago with serious emotional problems, and now he doesn't dare to leave her alone for a moment with their two burned children.

Hamdi has also prepared a modest display of his tragedy on his cell phone screen. To the strains of Arab mourning music, one can see his victims: Here is a picture of his wife, Naima, 27; here is their son Muhand, 7, and here is his mother Hanan, 46 - all of them dead. And here are the pictures of Mariya, before and after. Hamdi looks and cries, looks and moans. "Look. A pretty girl, what has she done?" Yesterday he wanted to travel to Ichilov Hospital to visit his wounded uncle, but he was not allowed to leave the gates of the hospital. His sister gave birth to a girl yesterday in Gaza; and her name is Hanan, in memory of her grandmother, Hamdi's dead mother. His brother Mohammed has already promised him that if he has a son, he will also commemorate little Muhand.

A phone call to Hamdi from the Erez crossing: Yankele says that Hamdi has to come to the checkpoint immediately, to switch his residence permit to the new place, the Alyn Hospital. Hamdi listens, downcast, and doesn't know what to do. Go now to Erez? How will he get there? And how will he get back? Yankele changes his mind and says that "meanwhile" Hamdi can go to Jerusalem and "later we'll see."

The defense minister's media adviser, Ilan Ostfeld, telephones to explain that when the minister found out about the intention of sending Mariya to Gaza, he immediately gave instructions to pay for the continuation of her therapy in Israel, however long it takes.

They are waiting for the ambulance that will come to take Mariya. They are preparing huge carryalls containing toys and games good Israelis have sent or brought to Mariya. The child lies motionless in her bed, staring at what is going on with sad eyes. A fuzzy white stuffed lamb sits on her shoulder.

The Magen David Adom intensive care van is on its way to Jerusalem; inside are Hamdi, Nabil and Mariya, and with them the members of the medical team. A respiration tube is attached to Mariya's neck, connected directly to her trachea, and alongside it other tubes protrude. Her eyes are closed.

"We will do everything possible to enable her to make progress, but it will take a long time," the kippa-wearing Dr. Eliezer Be'eri, director of the Pulmonary Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, explains to Hamdi in an American accent. Hamdi and Nabil look somewhat shocked by the new place they have come to. Hamdi is grateful, Nabil is concerned about where they will be able to stay at night and whether it will be possible to place a chair next to the bed. The director general of the hospital, Dr. Shirley Meyer, is busy with Mariya and is taking care of her devotedly. A paralyzed ultra-Orthodox boy lies next to Mariya in her new room. Hamdi says: "Poor thing." Mariya observes her surroundings silently.

"The head nurse is called Inge, and she will answer all your questions," explains director Meyer, in a thick Australian accent. The hospital looks very impressive. Disabled children and teenagers, Arabs as well as Jews, paralyzed and contorted, get around on wheelchairs in the spacious, spotless corridors. A view of pine trees can be seen from the window of Mariya's new room, a view of a kind she has never seen.

Dr. Be'eri continues his explanations to Hamdi and Nabil: "It could take months. We'll see how she progresses, but you need patience. It's not like an illness, where the situation improves within a few days. We have other children with a similar problem, and I'm sure that you'll talk to them and hear about them. It will take a long time, and the improvement will be gradual. It will take a long time until she is able to sit, and it will take a long time until she is able to stand for the first time. At the moment, she is not capable of talking, incapable of uttering a sound, but she will talk. We'll work on it, so you'll be able to communicate with her. You'll see that there are many children here, but each one has a different story. That doesn't mean that she'll be like them."

Hamdi tells Dr. Meyer that on Friday, Mariya asked him with her lips where her mother was, and Meyer explains: "We don't know what the child knows. Tomorrow we'll arrange a talk for you with the social worker, and she'll explain to you how and when to tell her. It's not good to lie to her, but they'll explain to you what exactly to tell her, according to her age, her understanding and who tells her. It's better for her father to tell her. She probably won't ask about her brother or her grandmother, they usually look first for Mommy. Usually we say that Mommy is very badly hurt, and she is far away, and when the child becomes stronger, we tell her the truth."