…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.