...be thankful

You all saw it on the news: Gaza and Israel at it again. And many of you sent quick notes to me, checking in on how I was. I appreciated that. It was a strange night, when it all began. I was in Jaffa, a city just south of Tel Aviv, when we first heard the rumors of war. My friends David, who left for America a couple of days later, and Ditte and Sofie, the Danes, were all dressed up and going to see the new Bond movie, Skyfall. At dinner we chuckled uneasily about the all-too appropriate title to that movie.

Tel aviv, from Jaffa

The next night was interrupted by tremors of war as rockets missed their mark, or sputtered out early, and landed in the Mediterranean nearby. We thought we might go dancing, but the mood sort of died amidst the already-growing suffering.

The week passed like a fitful night of sleep. Even the weather groaned and tossed and turned…nothing was at ease. Every day we counted the fresh graves with solemn souls. At night I heard the firing of gas or sound or light grenades as people threw stones at Israeli soldiers, and they responded. The unrest has stretched into the West Bank and many people joined Gaza by strike, by stone, or by prayer. 

Imagine the honking

The greatest of all the shocks in Hebron was not from a stray missile, though. No, we were hit hardest and closest when one of our own was shot and killed in the street, amongst his brothers. The pictures and phone-recorded clips found their way to YouTube and Facebook instantaneously; I saw grief I have never known, blood I’ve never seen shed, and it sunk heavy as stone in my heart. This was no news reel—this was a friend of a friend who lived down the street. I could have seen him, perhaps purchased something from him. His hands were Khalili, as are mine, and as I type this, I know he never will. The grief was overwhelming, and it carried him through the street the next day, held aloft, proudly, in a bed of wood and covered by the colors of Palestine, black, white, green, and red. Here is our martyr.

Two days later I sat atop a high place in Hebron and overlooked the hills in the shadow of war and approaching night. Lights shivered in the distance: that was Gaza. A flare in the darkness was no celebratory firework, but a presage of grief. I found myself in a coffee shop later, joined by foreigners and Palestinians alike. We wondered with shaded hearts what tomorrow would bring. That a ceasefire was being discussed behind doors where lives are saved and wasted, we knew; that the ceasefire may not work, we feared. As we looked out to the street and watched the parade of honking fury pass below, we acknowledged that our time in Hebron might be cut short. We looked at our Palestinian friends who sat among us, whose hospitality we had so generously been recipients of, whose love for one another bled even for us, who had known them for so little. Could we leave? Must we?  

We will if we must.

The anxious gathering

And with that we saw to our homes for another tormented night.

I woke up on Thursday to a strangely golden room. There was an afternoon’s light bursting into my room and I fumbled for my watch to answer a question I knew to be impossible: was it still morning? It was. I ventured into my kitchen and looked out the window. Away in front of me a tall mosque thrust itself into a sky so golden and overcast I felt uneasy. There was something apocalyptic about it and without internet or television to inform me, I feared the worst. But I had to prepare a pancake breakfast for the Danes and my two roommates, as promised.

I noticed something, here. In all this turmoil I saw many people who fought, many who cried, and many who stood, stone statues of old kings besieged, but untoppled by breaking crests. And in every moment I only thought about food. The day before I had kept my friend company, making pancakes to fill her worrying mind and body. I prepared coffee and small snacks for my roommates, and in doing so, I suppose I felt human in something that can confuse even that foundation. 

My roommates creaked out of bed slowly, with joints unoiled, and Ditte and Sofie arrived while I built an impressive stack. The girls have internet at their place and so were bearers of great news. Besides the fact that Ditte had all week been in Jaffa, alone, and had just arrived yesterday in Hebron, the ceasefire was successful. We celebrated over starch and brown sugar, and it was a Dane that first said ‘Happy Thanksgiving!’ And so it was.

The sun came out in full glory that day, and most of the morning and afternoon was spent joyfully doing errands. I had planned to prepare a traditional meal for some of my friends here, but the whole conflict had closed roads and checkpoints and raised tensions in many places, including Jerusalem, where I needed to go to purchase some important ingredients. Now, with rocketless skies, I made the trip into the holy capitol. I was looking for one rumored store in a place called Beit Hanina that apparently sold pumpkin puree and who knows what else. But I had no idea where it was, except that a stop on the train in Jerusalem was called Beit Hanina.

A half an hour of walking after I got off the city train I finally found Jafar Supermarket. I was in an Arab town between Jerusalem and Ramallah at this point. Two hours prior I had left Hebron, and when I didn’t find pumpkin puree there, a flicker of frustration caught flame. But I found sweet potatoes and butternut squash instead, so I grabbed some with my other groceries. However nice this small market was, I grumbled for I could have bought these things most anywhere in Jerusalem at least. So I started my trudge back, but I had scored little that I came for, and I was still turkey-less. I had thirty minutes of walking and I knew I had passed a couple butcher shops on my way. I walked into the first one.

Salaam alaykum. Ainduk deek rumi? 
              (Peace be upon you. Do you have turkey?)

La. Djej, bas. (No. Only chicken)

Ah. Shukrahn. Yatik Allafiya. Salaam. 
              (Ah. Thanks. God bless you. Peace.)

Shop number two was the same, but third times the charm, as they say, and soon I was on my way with the smallest turkey they had: a 20 pound doozie. I actually called a friend of mine to get a second opinion. Was I really about to purchase a toddler of a turkey and attempt to cook it? And they sell by the kilo: this was no cheap steak. She cleared my head with strong affirmatives, and so I paid and left, heavy laden with a long road ahead.

The Danes had joked earlier that I should buy the turkey in Jerusalem and travel home with this frozen hunk of meat under my arm. I wasn’t laughing as their premonition became all-too true. I initially had a frisson of excitement, but soon my breath swam away in front of me as my arms ached for breaks they could not have. My legs stung and my left shoe began to dig away at my Achilles. I made it back to the train and knew the walking was over. But it was not. In less than a short hour I was standing by the road outside of Bethlehem wondering where all the shared taxis were in this fallen darkness. At this point I did not laugh, but sneered inside at the fact that my groceries had depleted all my cash save barely enough to get home. I couldn’t afford a taxi from here. I looked away down a dimly lit road where I knew I could be led to the main street in Bethlehem. The problem was, it was a few miles down that road. But twenty minutes of thawing turkey made up my mind and I started off. The familiar aches, stings and groans of my body quickly resurfaced and I found myself whimpering in pity.

She finally made it home. Subsequently, she lost her head.

But on I walked motivated by some apparition of a brown turkey before wide eyes that I had conjured, and I was determined to see it through. I revisited every prideful act I ever committed those miles of the night, and was strangely strengthened by them. I would see this bird to the stove, and my spent arms couldn’t wail loud enough to stop me.

I had been 5 hours from Hebron by the time I reached the main street, and I could only pitifully deplore this white man who stumbled out of the darkness with full bags into the usual going-ons of the neighborhood. It was some divine gift that brought me a car less than ten minutes later. The driver recognized me, and took me to Hebron and the whole way I sat in the back, on brand new leather seats, fearfully cradling the dripping turkey in my lap. I reminded myself that it was thanksgiving, and so I counted things I was happy for. A ride. A turkey. Absorbent jeans. When I finally got out of the car, I looked as if I had wet myself, but I saw no gleam on the seat. Alhamdulillah. Thank God.

Palestinians with Pies

The day ended weeks after it began. I had done some surgery on the bird, disrobed her, spiced her, and tacked her skin back on before putting her in the fridge. Then I walked home and fell into sleep. And the night ended only minutes after it began. Soon I was back at the Danes’ place, improvising some pita bread stuffing, and getting the bird a-cooking by ten-thirty. I had never done any of this before, but I felt confident…for some reason. I spent the entire day cooking and preparing. The stuffed turkey was in the oven, the potatoes were ready to be mashed, the pecan pie and butternut squash pie were ready to go in once the bird was out, vegetables were cut for roastin, the cans of cranberry sauce eager to be opened and served, salads on the verge of being thrown together, flour out and ready to become gravy in her marriage to turkey juice, and then it all happened; the puzzle began to take sudden form. 

Though it was all a bit impetuous I was proud of the table that was laden. Two Danes, two Aussies, two Palestinians and I all sat down and feasted. Only two of us had ever known this meal before. Even the Arabs kind of liked it, and they are not known for their tolerance of different foods.

And with a bit of wine in me, and the merriment of company filling all the spaces within me not already occupied by tender meat and perfect pies, I slept well on the couch, and I was quite thankful. We had all agreed at the table: this was one to remember, with Gaza quiet, the air still, and hearts and stomachs full. Happy Thanksgiving, we said. And indeed, it was.

Oh, he beems with pride

...google Wadi Rum

I remember it as a dream, even though it was only this past week…Wadi Rum. I could have been on the moon, in a painting, but not in reality.

Where are we?

Three days ago I left for my first trip to the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan. Yes it’s a kingdom and there is a king and his picture is everywhere and people generally like him. I have been wanting to go, but necessity breeds action and my tourist visa was running out. So I went into Jerusalem and after scheduling an appointment for a work visa interview, I caught a bus far up north by means of the Jordan River Valley to a place called Beit She’an. There I grabbed a taxi to the border and after a series of questions, security checks, taxes and fees, I entered Jordan. At one point in the process my traveling partner and I had received our exit stamps, which means we had left Israel, but were waiting for a bus to take us over the river to get entry stamps into Jordan. We wondered where we really were and who would put us in jail if we committed a crime…

But wonder is all we did, and soon found ourselves under royal, setting sky. 

The setting sun from Jordan looking west

Something was different about this place. It was more open and expansive as if the land itself spoke of her freedom. This is a nation without Occupation. It is a land full of people just like the Palestinians but without checkpoints and tension. This is a place to come and go as you please without walls and gunman and x-ray machines to delay you. I could feel it in the air; it was refreshing.

My homebase was at a friend-of-a-friend's apartment. His name is Samer and he lives near the University of Jordan in Amman, a capitol city where there are millions of people and many foreigners. At one point during my trip I spoke in English and Arabic to a young Kazakh. That’s a first.

I spent the first morning grabbing a cab to Jabal al-Qala’a, or the Citadel. Atop this mountain (jabal in Arabic), there stand ancient ruins of many civilizations built atop one another, as is common in this part of the world (‘it was a temple, then a church, then a temple, then a mosque, then a church, then a mosque, now a crumbling tourist attraction’... it's a familiar mantra). 

From here we could walk around and get an exceptional 360° view of modern-day Amman, while prancing around this old fort-city. There were gorgeous ruins of a temple to Hercules, a palace, a mosque, a church, a bathhouse, a guard tower, old whispers of walls and rooms upon rooms upon underground cisterns. And when I looked up and out I saw towers and theatres and mosques and churches and hotels and houses upon houses upon the seven mountains of modern Amman. And I saw the world’s highest flag.

Amman, with a huge Roman theatre sometimes still in use.

But the focus of this trip wasn’t the citadel, or even Amman: it was Wadi Rum. I was traveling with Sofie, my Danish friend who is living in Palestine while she completes a paper for her Master’s program, and we were both eager to get out of the city. Palestine is crowded, sometimes claustrophobic. It is noisy and a bit cagey. Amman is some of those things too, and we both wanted space and quiet. So we rented a car, Sofie, Samer and I, and drove into the night, due south until we reached our destination.

The Desert Wolf at camp. He rocked my hat
so well, I gave it to him.

We were greeted by Ahmed, our Bedouin guide, the Desert Wolf, as he called himself. He was a pirate of a man who took us out into the middle of the desert, turning off his headlights at one point to look at the dark mountains for direction. I thought he was pretty cool, and I thought myself so for being there with him.

And then we stopped at our campsite.

I had a spiritual moment when I stepped out of the car. Looking up and around, letting my eyes get used to the dark, I saw massive shapes jet into the sky like the great teeth of a huge jaw. They surrounded me and would have swallowed me if not for the endlessness of the eternal night above me. Suddenly I was small and insignificant enough to gaze on the Milkiest Way I have ever seen. Honestly, I am having trouble choosing words to describe what I saw because it goes beyond what breath and tongue and lips can forge. This place awakened the vocabulary of angeltongue, of which I know not. But sometimes our bodies are smarter, or perhaps more enlightened, than our worldly-wise minds, and it knew what to do. So instead of saying anything, I ran, jumped, cartwheeled, spun, stretched and fell into a heavendance where my tongue could form no intelligence, my toes swam in the cooling desert and my entirety longed to make one grand jump from where I was to any of the infinity of stars that formed my canopy.

But my lungs exhausted long before my spirit, and I sat by the cooking fire to learn more of Ahmed and prevent my very cells from splitting from one another in ecstasy. We chatted, laughed, wrapped ourselves up and occasionally I looked up at my brobdingnagian ceiling.

Sofie and I didn’t sleep save for an hour or so. Instead, we strolled and explored, confined only by our moat of mountains, speaking of life, or silent in awe. The half-moon glossed everything, and we were quite able to find our way. We felt like we were on the moon, really, but when we looked up, we knew we couldn’t be: high and bright the arching moon chased the stars in an Olympian game of tag, and we found ourselves bewildered to look at something that couldn’t be real, could it? This place is a land one comes to in his dreams and has tea with God, finding clarity in something wholly heavenly and wholly earthly at the same time. It was incarnate, and I understood suddenly the reaction within me, of twins—no, more than twins…halves, perhaps—uniting in divinity unfettered by humanity.

Sofie in the sun.

But we knew it wasn’t over…morning was coming, and we were eager to see the sunrise and to see what our shelter looked like in greater light. A small nap sufficed to pass the time between the stars twinkling out and the sun peeking in. Tired and clunky, we rounded the corner of the nearest mountains in order to see the sun come. I have always found the sunrise to be one of the most beautiful things we can see with our eyes, but here, what he illuminated was so much more glorious. The golden light cast shadows as icebergs of stone rose out of a sandy sea around us. Ann-Sofie sat in awe; I ran into the horizon that never got any closer. Movement seemed the only proper response I could muster for such as Wadi Rum.

And then it was light and we welcomed the warmth of the sun, ate a modest breakfast and packed up camp. Ahmed drove us back to our car which we had abandoned near the road while we listened to some traditional Bedouin music and watched the gathering of the camels. We happened to be near a massive camel racetrack and today was a big day for racing. Some were being fed or watered, others walking around, awkwardly, like something out of a Dr. Suess tale. They are perhaps the only animals that ambulate by moving the feet of the same side at the same time. And then with their cleft lip, underbite and misshapen humps, they really are the goofiest of animals. And they got attitude, too. They spit and look at you with long lashes, bending their necks away from your approaching hand as if to say, “Nu-uh, not today brutha.” So sassy, they are. 

Driving in Jordan

But we had traveling to do so we couldn’t stay. The car hit the road again, this time with me at the helm. Driving is a pleasure I thoroughly miss, so guiding our rental up and down the hills and through the dessert, dodging Maersk trucks and other semi-trucks was quite the gift.

Later that night I found myself back in Palestine, having crossed the King Hussein or Allenby Bridge and passed through three sets of customs (Jordanian, Israeli and Palestinian), being driven from Arriha (Jericho) back to Khalil. I passed into that place between wakefulness and sleep and visited Wadi Rum all over. When I got out of the van and walked to my apartment I wondered if I had really been there, or if it was a dream all along...

Jordanian Desert

The World's Highest Flag

Can you find Sofie?