…practice your Arabic

Baha signing energetically

Today I was a bit selfish, thinking of only myself and not seeing with perspective. I wanted to be home, writing and relaxing. I wanted to be speaking with someone who knew my language. But what I was doing was communicating with a mostly deaf Arab through the obstacle course of four verbal and non-verbal language barriers. And we were talking about things like 9-11, Bush and Obama, the Iraq war and Guantanamo. What?

So I changed my iniquitous ways, but after an hour my brain was really tired so I made my leave and walked back to Dar Himony. And when I arrived I noticed the haze of a florescent light’s wan glow high above the street. Abu Majde was awake with his family; I took a big breath, exhaled every western molecule I could and took one shameless step forward. I was going up, uninvited.

See, Ramadan is now over, of course, but during those dry, hungry days, I tried to get invited into as many homes as I could for dinner. If I was unsuccessful Tim and I would go buy some food for ourselves and bring it home. But we were chastised for this as if it was our responsibility to waltz into homes and demand dinner at the fast’s end…which it might’ve been. But with American air still fueling my ego, I couldn’t do it. So I am trying to find this balance between accepting specific invitations and accepting the ever-invitation of the hospitable Arab.

My dissonant feet led me to the interior door where I paused and called out “Salaam walaykum!” making my presence known and giving any uncovered women the chance to cover. Then I stepped in and onto a roof decorated with sizable and savory grapes. Abu Majde gave me a seat of honor and introduced me to his sister and her twin daughters. Of course he, with a great big smile, told me to introduce myself. This is rote now:

“Ana Wisam Himony.”

Eruptions of celebrations ensued, and I joined with obvious pride. Abu Majde calls me son and tells me to address his wife with the affectionate Uma. This is one of my families. The other is the family of Abu Noor whose four sons call me brother and in whose house I feel welcomed and comfortable as his wife serves and sits and smiles hijab-less in front of me. In both of these homes I am frequently told that my biological mother should visit and that she has a place to stay for even a month. I find that the relationship between mother and child is very important and seeing me without mine is somehow a shame. Besides, she needs to learn how to cook like an Arab so that I can eat well when I return to the states. I smile and say Enshallah and mean it, and we move on.

Now, both of these men have sons my age, but I have long since known that they are a generation apart from one another. So last week I finally took up to making a shejerat al a’illa Himony, that is, a Himony family tree. There are so many Himonys, and some look alike, while others don’t, and most all of them disappear from the stoop into homes I have never seen before. I see grown men interacting and greeting one another with a historical kind of hello. They are familiar and familial, and after being here for four months now, my curiosity’s been piqued. After all, who is really whom?

A couple of days later and after several hours of asking questions like min abuk? (who is your father) or min hada? shu amru abu? (who is that, what is his father’s name) I arrived at a still-incomplete mess of a tree. It’s a weeping willow where generations descend into one another and cross-pollination occurs. I received many quizzical looks during the process and I heard many accusations that I was from the CIA and I was spying on them. I waved this off by explaining myself and suggesting that we paint a big family tree on a wall somewhere.

On the stoop, late at night

When I began the investigation I had to wade through the play time, jokes and innuendos of the young Himonys as I catalogued their family. And it was hard because every man we discussed has many names and they used them interchangeably as if I was following along. Abu Majde means the father of Majde, but his given name is Faleh, which I didn’t know, and because his father’s name is Abdul Fateh, he could be called Faleh Abdul Fateh (and if we kept going in a formal sort of way we’d be tripping over ourselves calling him Faleh Abdul Fateh Ramadan Omar Himony). Plus, if a man is the oldest son he is often referred to by his fathers name, thus Faleh's oldest son Majde could be Abu Faleh, Majde or Abu Ibrahim. And then, to add to the confusion, every other person is named Mohammed. As you can see, I was untangling a disturbed spider's web.

Eid shoppers...its the Christmas of Islam

A few days before I was swimming through a sea of Eid-shoppers with a couple of my brothers, Omar and Mohammed when Omar dropped back for a second, unnoticed by our brother. I learned how fruitless it is to shout Mohammed into a crowd here as I laughed when forty sets of eyes turned their gaze toward me.

My brother Ibrahim Faleh Abdul Fateh Himony

However, all this chatter was good for my family and question word vocabulary, but this whole talk-too-quickly thing, yeah, they do this a lot. Many times I get to the end of the street and am beckoned by the shop tender there, Ahmad (brother to Abu Noor whose name is Anwar Abdel Kareem Abdullah Ramadan Omar I-have-a-headache and first cousin once-removed to Faleh Abdul Fateh Ramadan Omar oh-my-gosh!Is-he-still-speaking?). Ahmad speaks to me about money, usually, and he rattles along like a runaway Arabic train full of slightly slurred speech on its way to the zoo. I have learned to test the tone of his speech and respond appropriately. Wallah?! means Really?! if you use it as a question and Woah! if you use it as a remark. Mabarifsh means I don’t know, and Tamam means Good.

Practice:

Blah blah blah blah money blah blah blah blah America blah blah you blah? (Quick! It’s a question. Say you don’t know and you gotta go: Mabarifsh. Ana bidi ruh. Salamet!)

Great! Ok, again. Blah blah soldier Israel blah blah blah Tel Aviv blah blah (motions a gun) blah blah blah. (Ok, here he obviously is referencing something about guns and Israelis. It’s more than safe to go with really (Wallah?) or woah (Wallah) depending on what outcome you want. The first option will probably bring more explanation after which you can say woah and end it. But don’t forget to tell him you gotta go: Wallah. Ok, ana bidi ruh. Salamet.)

Perfect. Ok, last one. I blah blah blah a lot blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. (So this time not much of interest was said, or at least not that much that you actually understood, and judging by the tone it wasn’t some exciting story. Say good, good and tell him you gotta go. Like this: Tamam, tamam. Ok, ana bidi ruh. Salamet.)

You’re a pro already. But back to the story…

Mostafa and Sey'r Khader Sabri 

I had to scroll up to even see where in the story I was. Right, trees. So while I was cataloging I was sifting through the silliness of the boys for answers. Tonight silly was awfully close to crazy…the lines been blurred and the juries still out. But it was quite entertaining. I had given an oversized New York Yankees t-shirt to one of them (Mohammed, of course. This one is Mohammed son of Akram son of Abdul Kareem son of Abdullah son of Ramadan son of Omar). Something was in the air because these young men tapped into a great creativity. They played dress-up, they became actors and the oversized baseball tee became a kuffiya for a strong, prideful Palestinian; it was a hijab to a beautiful woman, a skirt to some blonde westerner and the face covering for a criminal. It was even the traditional male head covering worn by the news anchors of Saudi television. An empty soda can became a microphone and this reporter went around interviewing people about the foreigner among us. 

And in the end, a gun was pulled out from somewhere and someone was shot. Someone is always shot, or dies somehow, in these games. And we roll into fits of laughter and enjoy the brotherhood of Dar Himony.

And by now I have the ever-increasing tree in my notebook and I can see exactly where I hang, as Wisam Anwar Abdul Kareem Abdullah Ramadan Omar Himony…or Wisam Faleh Abdul Fateh Ramadan Omar Himony…or just Wisam Himony. Goodness.

…take a nap

It has been three weeks since I have seen the streets of Khalil. I’ve clicked my heels, there’s no place like home, and now I’m playing catch up from the almost sleepless tornado here. Boy was it quite the storm.

It began in Freeport, Maine as I rushed home from saying good-bye to one last person so that I could collect my belongings and catch a bus in Portland. In total, I was stateside for two-and-a-half weeks…not long to see 51 people (not including the congregations of two churches), or to spend significant time on the phone with 9 others. If I only had a twin, it could’ve been more.

A teary good-bye with my mother ended my stay in Freeport; Wesley drove me to the bus. And there Tim and I boarded a bus to Boston where we sat and ate and had the last Dunkin Donuts we’d have in a while. Train 67 to Virginia finally called for boarding after an hour of waiting and we got on. It was 9:30 pm. Some sleep greeted me on the overnight ride, but between uncomfortable body positions and frequent stops, it was stunted, at best. But it got worse. At 2:15 am we chugged into Penn Station in New York City and were kicked off. Now the plan was to ditch our luggage in the temporary baggage storage and hit the town (or find somewhere to nap), but the dreams were rudely abrupted by a sign which told us that the luggage area wasn’t open until 5:15. Three. Whole. Hours. Ok, we thought, I guess we’ll wait in the station. Perhaps we’ll get some sleep…But janitorial duties said no to that. Sitting upright, trying to chase sleep, thoughts quickly turning into dreams and back again, was how we spent our time. And all the while the kind janitor kept waking us all up and moving us out of his way. I wasn’t angry, but I wasn’t happy. I finally found some floor-space and, using my bag as my pillow, slept soundly until Tim woke me up 45 minutes later; it was his turn to sleep.

Five-thirty came and we escaped the waiting-room prison without our heavy bags and we couldn’t have felt freer. I lunged for the subway eager to get moving. The A train took us to the tip of Manhattan where we boarded the free ferry to Staten Island. This was my father’s idea, and it was perfect. The sun had yet to rise as we passed Lady Liberty; the view was beyond phenomenal. I couldn’t have imagined a better morning.

On Staten Island Tim and I strolled for a bit, passing sleeping couples wrapped up in each other’s limbs, but soon found a bench to sit on. I was itching to write (it must be a gene that my father passed down to me that makes New York so inspiring…perhaps there really is no place like home). I sat down, looked across the waters and wrote this:

Sunrise on Staten Island

Ahead the skyline’s hazy,

So familiar yet so unknown;

The Queen of Freedom’s silhouette

Is grayer than her stone.

A orange blur plays hide and seek

With an undefinéd sky;

The only thing I know for sure:

That plane which soars on by.

Soon enough sweet clarity

Will split the foggy veil,

While rising tides inch up the shore

And ferries take their sail.

Morning always ushers hope,

At least, it does today,

As rising towers join Lady Free

In a hopeful, free hooray.

Feeling satisfied with my creative release I suggested we get back to the other island; sunrise over the city must be beautiful from the boat.

And it was.

On Manhattan it was time for coffee so we found our way to a small coffeeshop and I used the internet to reserve tickets to see the World Trade Center Memorial. From there we leapt a couple of blocks uptown to the visitor’s center to pick them up, then slid back down to where we were to actually enter the memorial. Over twenty minutes of security passed before we walked the serene green and solemn fountains. 

How appropriate it was to leave the space empty where once stood a tower. Nothing can replace them, nor the lives lost, whose names are forever etched into the stone border. It was truly magnificent, especially with the new towers rising quickly around them. When this project is finished it will certainly be a marvel, however arrogant as well. Ah, the American way.

Lack of sleep was catching up on us as we left the sacred ground, so we stopped in a park by City Hall to rest before the lunch date we had with my cousin. I was approached by a nice lady who I judged for a proselytizer. I wondered how I could let her know I was on her side without letting her down, for I wanted rest. Tim wonder—fell asleep. But I quickly found that not only was this nice woman a Jehovah’s Witness, but she was also more than prepared to convert me. A half an hour must have passed before I could accept the invitation for her literature and escape the relentless, cunningly coy preacher-woman.

The relationships of the rest of that day were a bit better. I saw an old friend from Forham University, who I have great affections for, I zipped up to Times Square to have lunch with my cousin, who I have great affections for, and I had some coffee at a diner with my friend from the Bronx, who I have great affections for. My heart was full as I collected my luggage and got on the A train once again for the hour long ride to JFK airport. Had I been alone on the train I might’ve found some sleep, but that was not going to be the case. The train was packed from start to finish and I was on my feet the whole time, exhausted. Two-and-a-half hours later we were boarding our plane and taking off and by that time, I was thirsty for sleep. It would be an overnight flight to Kiev, Ukraine, a perfect place to rest, but AeroSvit is certainly no British Air. The temperature on that plane was just low enough that even the little sleep one could have had in the discomfort of those seats was denied me. I resolved to pacing up and down the aisles finding small vents which pumped out a fairly pathetic warmth. It was enough to satisfy.

Church 1

We rolled into Kiev at noon their time and God-knows-what my time. I was ecstatic to get into the sun and let my marrow warm up. It took more time than it needed to get into the city, but our brains weren’t on full capacity. We had an eleven hour layover so we decided to get out and explore and even though I was running on a long nap’s worth of sleep, the day was a success. Kiev is not the most beautiful city, but we visited an area dense with old, golden-domed churches and little street shops selling beer and trinkets.

Church 2

Church 3

It wasn’t until the return to the airport that my bubble was burst. We transferred flights from AeroSvit to El Al, the Israeli airline and their security was not about to let us waltz on the plane unchecked. It was a good thing we were three hours early because it took them that entire time to empty all of our belongings on a table and sift through them item-by-item. Occasionally an object would be brought to our attention: “Whose is this?” “Uh…mine.” And then we would answer questions about its purpose and why we own it. We each got a full-body check that included dropping our drawers like we were in the doctors office; at least the young man performing this task was nice about it. I wasn’t sure if they would let us on with our all-too-truthful answers about our intentions in Israel, but we were admitted: the very last two to board.

Anxiety kept me up on that trip, but at least it was only 3 hours long. In Ben Gurion, the airport at Tel Aviv, we went through three similar hours of questioning in back rooms with intimidating women who scowled behind sharp glasses and spoke threats through deceptive questions. But finally we were let in with both a tourist’s visa and warnings about our stay here. I gladly accepted and left. All I wanted to do was get out of the airport and find my way home.

Tel Aviv sunset

But Tim and I stayed in Tel Aviv, relaxing on the beach waiting for his “suspicious” luggage to arrive, which it didn’t. So after a sweaty, fitful night in a hostel we headed southeast to Khalil. I left Freeport at five in the evening on Tuesday; it was noon on Saturday. With a 7 hour time difference, that’s 72 hours of travel.

There is no place like home. And 12 hours of sleep never tasted so good.