...dream deeply

I have been looking into my future lately, and trying to make some sense of direction. I am not lost, just deep in a forest, and I need to decide which road to take to get out. In doing so I have let my mind wander back Stateside to wonder what would be there when I return. Much of this was fueled by the very real understanding that I may have had to go home if the recent violence had escalated. In my thoughts’ pasture, I saw Maine, my feet swirled cold water and stirred the mud and led me to eyes I haven’t looked into for so long, where I sang Christmas carols amidst deeply familiar voices. I dreamt of art, of making movies or directing plays and the joy that it brings me to see people marvel. But that is only one road that I strove with; the other brought images of deep conversation with those around me, not in English, but Arabic. I had visions of knowing what was really on the minds of those I love here, what they doubt, desire or dream of. In this reverie I was proud and loved and able to love. How long will I really be here?

In reality, the grape leaves have turned those lovely lime greens and goldens and brick reds that light the valleys with a simmering napalm, and though it can be oddly warm, December has arrived. Bethlehem has taken no time to honor base lampposts with string-lights like cookie-cutters of trees, bells and holly. I remember being here almost a year prior, abandoning my tour group and buying pita bread on the street, talking with a local and purchasing his fresh-squeezed pomegranate juice. I remember falling a bit in love. I had no idea then that I would walk down that same street and salute that same man many more times in that same year. And then my mind slips momentarily into the discouragement of another year that passed so quickly. Where does life go? And how long will I really be here?

But even the knowledge that I could leave is one reserved for those few of us who weren’t born to the sons of Ishmael. However, that might change someday, for a historical vote was cast, and with almost global support, Palestine achieved member-state status in the UN. We were at al burj coffee shop saying goodbye to a French friend of ours and watching the television when it finally happened.

After some cheering and applauding we paid and left and once outside, followed the music that was electrifying the air. We found its source at a great stage that had been set up in front of the balladia, or municipality. A large screen was projecting, with bright LEDs, the news. A pick-up was parked as a platform for the news crew, and in between, there were hundreds of men (and a few ladies even) with flags and scarves and kuffyias and the dancing was grand, for music beat their hearts together and arms felt tired not to wave in such victory. Palestine…138 to 9, with 41 abstainers. That’s a landslide if there ever was one.

So myself and seven other foreigners arrived on the scene and stole too much of the attention. I looked up to iPhones turning and recording our happiness and suddenly flags were put into our hands and we waved them proudly. Ditte and Sofie couldn’t dance, because that would be inappropriate, but I got sucked into the slue and was once again swirling my hips and lifting my hands and holding up the flags. I couldn’t help myself in elation. Around me were people glowing with something I haven’t encountered before, and small men became bigger when their colors were wrapped around them. Shoulders fell into place, wider, eyes burned with some flame from the stars, and smiles were generated from the very organic seed of humanness. Deep within these men something was taking root…

A dream is a lofty and powerful thing that can keep one walking in the darkness of a forest, but in the hands of Hope, it becomes something unstoppable, like a light in the very midst of the trees. And things once unreached quiver a bit closer.

The international celebration

That morning I had an Arabic lesson with my friend Nasser and we had grumbled about our financial situations together. He is jobless and after we griped, I decided we needed tea. I returned from the kitchen bringing two steaming cups, and found that I had to pull Nasser out of a deep daze of hopelessness. He knows there aren’t any jobs here for him, for he has been on such a prowl to find one. But he also knows that he probably can’t go anywhere else, whether because of denied permission or lack of funds. I could see the haze in his eyes, no longer bright and youthful, but hoary. And I felt as if I had nothing to offer him, except a little warmth afforded by a small glass of tea. Little did I know what the next phone call would bring.

The glasses were drunk, the class ended, and we walked together to the street. I called Ditte to check in and she answered with an euphoric Marhabbah! I soon found out that the vote was going to be cast and Palestine would probably succeed. I felt it well up in me, like a deep, dormant spring. I looked around me and found the air sprung with joy and vibrancy. And something deeper than that. I broke the news to my friend and every part of his face suddenly jumped as far away from every other part as possible. He was elated. “Wow! Maybe we’ll change our passports” he cheered. Inwardly, I thought it was silly that his passport was his first concern, but perhaps I didn’t understand something at that moment. Looking back I see that perhaps his I.D. is a constant reminder of his situation, and a change in it would mean that all else he hopes for for Palestine has come to pass.

Imitating a foreigner he cried, “I want to go to Palestine State, I want to go to Palestine airpor—” He cut himself short in silent wonder about where that place might be. “Maybe I will travel to America easily. Maybe I will travel to Europe, to Denmark easily.” After a pause he said with such earnestness as I have never heard these words spoke before.

“I will achieve my dreams.”