…make eye contact

I love Palestine.

Let me, for a minute, try to capture within the realm of words, the real world.

In this concrete apartment I hear the cries of a young child above. Her mother calls out: Naam! Naam! Yes! Yes! On the street below I see the litter of an urban people with other, more pressing cares than street-sweeping. Men walk in each other arms, always stylish, friendly. Women, fully covered save their faces, link their elbows and speak huddled, hurriedly, hushed. Children chase nothing, or each other as they play. Sometimes they throw rocks like in the exciting stories of the intafadas, told by their fathers and brothers, perhaps. Above it all, the many minarets call out with the pious voices of the mu’addin (or muezzin) five times a day.

The border between sidewalk and street, is undefined. The curb keeps no one back though the taxis blur by with a short beep-beep to see if you’re interested. Traffic is damned by street lights, but little else as vehicles play games of leapfrog (and we play games of frogger). When wedding parties drive by, the bride encased in white, the gang of celebrating cars honk and wail and drive with their e-brake pulled to full-screech; everyone else pulls over. This parade repeats itself daily, and especially on Friday.

The sun bakes in the morning and cools as it sinks, ushering in a gush of wind that chills considerably. This was a surprise. At night, on the roof of the Excellence Center, we look over the main street, Ain Sara, and a football (soccer) stadium, and wrap ourselves up, and practice Arabic.

I learned this: Inta ayuni (if you are speaking to a male) or intih ayuni (if you are speaking to a female.) It is an idiomatic expression meaning “I love you.” Literally, it means “You are my eyes.” (N.B. the appropriate use of literally).

The poetic side of me thinks this: that eyes are one of the strongest places for love to exist, to begin, to reside, to end. The man looks upon the woman and so finds love; the lovers opens their eyes, look at one another, and so love; the lover closes his eyes in death and loves no more. Perhaps the metaphor is perfect, then. The person of your affection is the place love dwells. You are my eyes. I think it is one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard.

It is the full moon now, and today it hung over Bethlehem, bright like a star. Yes, Mike, Megan, I was at the Church of the Nativity again. With my Palestinian boss we skipped the long line, talked to the police, and slipped right down into the ornate would-be cave. Again, full. Again, uninspiring. Neat, I suppose, but lacking in something. Perhaps it is…well, never mind. I’ll keep these feelings behind my sunglasses.

We stayed briefly for we wanted to explore the streets of Bethlehem, the sweet streets of Palestine. I was only able to do this for a moment last time I was here, though I wanted to do it for days. We walked down the same street I visited last time I was here, with the cheeky Stars&Bucks Café. And I remember: this place was the birthplace of something, just not…well, now I said I’d keep that to myself. Right. So these streets birthed my love for the Palestinian. I snuck away from the funnel gift-shop and bought pita bread and pomegranate juice. I met Arabs and conversed with them. I left the West behind, finally, and visited the West Bank, finally. And I loved it. That day I knew I would be back, and here I am.

Palestine, inta ayuni.