...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