…grieve with me

Can there be joy amidst such anguish? Can we say ‘bye’ and mean it? Or are we merely saying words to pass time and friendships?

Saying bye to the Danes

Abu Monsur

A Himony passed away a few days ago, one with whom I had shared sweet time and tea. His proud kuffiya was always worn in memory of the great Abu Omar, and he delighted insharing how ‘it wasn’t always like this’ through wrinkled expressions. He had a hut on the roof of the building in which I work and sometimes I would escape up there for a warm friendship. Now we remember these moments as we visit the Himony Hall, as is custom.

Here waves of men rise and fall to greet and console. Kisses are exchanged and young Himonys run around serving dates and black coffee. Faces resemble one another, not only in expression, but in structure and detail. They are cousins, somehow, if not siblings or offspring. Here we gather on Friday for lunch, much like we do for a wedding, however this time each Himony (except those immediately related to the man who passed) pay in order to cover the cost. As I was beckoned to eat, I saw Abu Majde pay for me; he treats me as a son. Earlier I had greeted him and he motioned for me to bring a chair so I could join him. I set it in front of him and the distant Himony he was sitting next to and plopped down. Harram! Of course. Why would I put my back to people in a set-up so clearly avoiding that? I guess that in my last days here there are still things to learn, then. How interesting it is that being able to see everyone around you is so important in these moments.

But it’s all a bit surreal because my grandmother passed too, yet I am so far away from it. I learn of it in electronic notes and digital updates. This isn’t normal. And it has heaved my departure backwards two weeks, so now, as I grieve a grandmother I said good-bye to months ago and an uncle I said hello to months ago, I look into the deepness of dawning departure. It feels like a constant twilight, no matter how oddly warm it is for winter.

In lieu of this separation I visited Nablus and Ramallah, two of the big cities in the West Bank. I woke up at 4:30 in the morning to hop into a truck with my friend Mostafa and joined him as he lugged some solar water heaters to Nablus. It was a seamless ride except for the blown-out tire, which took an hour to deal with. Oh, and the random Israeli inspection, which took us deep into a settlement in order to be weighed and interrogated. I sat quietly in the front seat. When the officers asked Mostafa why his friend wasn’t speaking to them he chuckled and told them I was an American. They eyed me and then told Mostafa it was his lucky day. He got away with a one-thousand shekel fine.

Nablus was beautiful and the famous kenafe held up to its reputation. Nablus hangs between two sizable mountains like a hammok, and its residents are sprawled up and around them. One of the mountains provides a phenomenal view of the city and Mostafa and I enjoyed taking some pictures from a good spot.

Ramallah is the closest thing to a big city in the West Bank with her tall-ish buildings. The city center has a nice theatre and I went into see a play brought down from Jenin (a city up north I didn’t get to see). Though I didn’t understand much of anything, it was nice.

To sit and drink tea with Khalilis

But every time I leave Khalil, my love for her is only intensified, this time by two young Khalilis on the serviece ride home. These shebab heckled me a bit, as is their wont with foreigners. They asked me where I was from, really, and what kind of passport I hold and tested the limits of my Arabic. And then, minutes later they were asleep on each other’s shoulders as two doves on a wire. I guess we have different definitions of ‘tough.’ Sofie and I looked back and couldn’t help smiling widely at the adorable couple and feel affection for them. Yeah, Nabulsis are cool, but they aren’t Khalili; Ramallah is nice, but it isn’t Khalil. So it is there where I am spending my last, quick hours, of course.

His namesake

The last night in Khalil I spent on the brink of Palestinian land and a Settlement. The light is sparser on the Arab left of the inkiness that marks the ‘no-man’s land’ (which is really, of course, some man’s land). I ate stuffed zucchini, drank tea and coffee, got a tour of the new floors being added, and spent quality time with my barber ‘Claws’ and his family. His dad works in the Old City, right next to the checkpoint and speaks decent English from behind his more-than decent mustache.

When I got back to my neighborhood I greeted my cousin, Abed, and told him of my unfortunate news; it comes as a surprise to everyone. He was actually angry at me for not giving him and his family time enough to feed me and sit to chat over coffee. Ah. Well, a cigarette is enough, then he decided and I accepted his offer and took a couple minutes with him to stand and chat over nicotine. In ways like this, though each as different as the relationship itself, I have been saying good bye to some of the people I love the most. I feel some rising tension in my esophagus, and I am sure it shall reach some focus of emotion and turn into a rising geyser.

But I’m going out with a bang. I parted with Abed and played billiards in a cloud of Hookah smoke with some of my best friends, Ihab, Noor (whom I’ve named Jag) and Mostafa who tell me how much they love me. When Jag found out I was leaving he responded “Well I’ve got to buy you something!” How Arab of him. He came over that night with a nice gift to remember him by: a piece of wood with a message carved into it. I embrace them, we kiss and bless one another, and then say until next time. I walk away warmed from love, cooling with distance.

And for my final day, the plan is to eat maqluba, the most Khalili of meals, at my first home with Abu Majde and his family. And then to begin the journey westward…

So, yeah, there is joy in these good-byes. Great joy. My heart is overwhelmed with love, my imprint on this place is satisfyingly noticeable, and the imprint of this place on me, satisfyingly permanent.

Abu Majde and I

…prepare for war

Well, there has been more fighting in Khalil, but you probably haven’t heard about it on the news. The entire city has erupted into war; men, women, children, all are fighting. And there isn’t one Khalili who wouldn’t find some pleasure in nailing a foreigner with good chuck. My friends and I are highly prized targets; it isn’t safe out there.

Each time I step out of my apartment I must prepare for war. My roommate David and I strap on gloves, wrap our heads in our kuffiyas and fill plastic bags with snowballs. See, an a’sifah has descended and covered the city with beautiful, sweet, peaceful snow. And everything has shut down (except the bakeries, of course). It means snowball fights and long cozy days (if you can get cozy in your icebox). No one goes out for any other reason.

Snowbride

If you can imagine it, I am not kidding. My neighborhood thunders with squeals and shouts of puffy militants. A delight has fallen with the snow and we cannot walk for ten minutes without greeting and joining any number of battles. You don’t have to know anyone to roll a tight-packed grenade and lob it into the fray. In fact, if you aren’t careful you may be the victim of some strong arm. And you don’t have to know who it belongs to. It is the absolute fruition of a winter wonderland. Snowmen, snowbrides and even snowtanks have risen into form.

Armed and ready

David and I needed to visit our friend, so after arming up, we plowed through the enemy defenses, wielding our makeshift machine-guns. But we only made it through one line of defense, one battle, before we were faced with another onslaught of artillery. Despite my kuffiya’d attempt at concealment, a shout arises “Hada Simon!” and our cover’s been blown. Everyone seems to forget past woes and unites under one purpose: destroy the foreigners. Occasionally we get an ally, but they usually defect fairly quickly and we even get backstabbed by malicious smiles and batted eye-lashes. It is a war, albeit one fought with smiles and laughter. In the slue I see someone I don’t recognize. “Dar min inta?! Himony? Ana keman!” My plea for brotherhood gives me some air and I use it to run. Wet, panting and laughing we escape to the street, leaving the fog of Himony battle behind.

Escaped and proud

It has been a good year so far, and a welcomed change from the constant and cold rain. New Year’s Day was quite fun as well. It arrived with a Danish welcome: I jumped off a piece of furniture “into the new year” and greeted it with hugs and well-wishing and some secret champagne. A delightful feast and a failed cake ended twenty-twelve. The Danes made a lasagna extraordinaire, I made the cake; I think my kitchen-luck expired with that turkey…

At three in the morning I was able to see my family through the internet and tell them how twenty-thirteen felt, since they were still in old time, and I spoke a sweet promise. See, I couldn’t sing it for the holidays, but I decided a remix would do: I’ll be home for Valentine’s Day, you can count on me, for I am returning to the States in February. My mother, of course, did a bit of a dance not unlike the ones she does when she shows off the food she is cooking. I smiled and we talked about what life will look like this year, as is custom on the first.

But it is more bitter the more sweet. I may be excited for Dunkin’ Donuts, but my coffee will be glaringly American; I may be anticipating old friends, but my conversations will be dreadfully English. So, as I did with my family, I do with my friends, though this time I emphasize the bitter. My news that I must leave is usually greeted with wide eyes, questions and sweet words of sadness. But I know I’ll miss them more.

And as we do at the heads of years, and especially in seasons of partings, I looked back to see what trail I blazed, and was almost shocked to realize it was a year ago I first stepped foot on the holy land and first inhaled the tense, Mediterranean air. And so a truth I was told in my youth has proved itself again, and I found it to be ugsome: the puissance of time is indomitable, and I am merely a pawn.

Goodness, that was a bombastic sentence, for, let’s be honest, the influence of time is what’s really unstoppable, and I am powerless to do anything about it.

Struttin' in style

The streets of Bethlehem play this poetic part in this whole adventure of mine, and I’ve been on them a lot lately. The Orthodox celebrated Christmas on the 6^th and 7^th and I was able to attend the midnight service. And so once again I was able to observe the birth of Jesus, though you don’t have to enter the church to do so for it is in decorations all over Bethlehem this time of year. And I remember walking down Manger Street a year ago, in full rebellion of the touristy funnel gimmicks, where my love for Palestine was birthed, and how it swelled when I bought dates and oranges in Ariha (Jericho) and took root when I visited the Israeli-Arab town of Nasrah (Nazareth) where great churches commemorate the immaculate conception, though I ignored them for the immediate connection with some Palestinians.

Waltzing down Manger Street

So I visited Stars and Bucks and was able to speak with my friend there, the first Palestinian I jawed on the first Palestinian street I trod, and I told him of his place in my great story. I did not spare the details: I was standing there partly due to him. He beamed with importance and I bought a Mocha.

And I was blessed by this much more than the service, for he is why I came: the Palestinian who goes to work and speaks Arabic and smiles in such a way that I cannot understand. I didn’t come to go to church. So I find myself in the living room of Abu Noor, with his wife and children laughing, enjoying a gas heater and whatever we can find on YouTube, whether Arab music or American, or some Saudi insanity or Palestinian patriotism. And we learn and share and stumble through translations and stories. Here I am always welcome as a son, and it is the room that is most sweet, where I make deep-contact with sparkling irises, eat delicious food, and regret my plane ticket in the quiet places of thought.

Cozy dar Anwar

Last week we watched the Nativity Story with Arabic subtitles to see how the Christian version of the Christmas story goes. Anwar agreed that it was “too similar to Islam.” And by too he means very, though he can’t seem to get that one down. I spend most of my time here at Abu Noor’s. If I have weeks left, I will get as much out of them, for in this way I prepare myself for the great battle with depression that I will face when I cross the Atlantic. I have sworn to myself not to let the days pass without engaging with that which I am here for: the Palestinian who goes to work and speaks Arabic and smiles in such a way that I cannot understand. And now, after living here, I cannot forget it either. And I won’t. I will study Arabic, find Arab friends, and never forget what I have seen and heard and who I have met in this bittersweet land. Those are my New Year Resolutions. Those, and going to the gym, of course.

…have yourself an authentic little Christmas

I don’t mean to brag, but I was in Bethlehem for Christmas, and that’s about as genuine as you can get. And I looked forward to the holiday in a way I hadn’t for a long time, for I assumed there would be something special, something unique, about celebrating it here. I think that when we are young, Christmas is magical with its stories of rooftops and mangers and the excitement of gifts and decorations and music, and that thing in the air that everyone feels. But as we age I think we lose our grasp on that. We become consumed with the changing drinks at Starbucks and the pressure of getting everything set for the big day. It slowly becomes more and more normal, more familiar as years come and go and Christmases future become Christmases past. And this has been the case for me, but this was to be my first Christmas away from family. So I wondered what it would be like and decided it would emphasize the normalness, for really, it’s just another day.

A week before Christmas throngs of people stood in Manger Square. A big tree was dark, but promising. A big stage supported the feet and instruments of many performers and speakers. We may have been anticipating a visit from Baba Noel, as they call Santa Claus here, but instead we got the Prime Minister who, after a few gentle holiday words, spoke fiercely about the state of Palestine. He didn’t mention the birth of Jesus but the birth of Justice and how it shall grow into a man someday and perhaps a sacrifice will have to be made for our freedom. And then the tree was lit. As Christmassy as it gets, I suppose.

Baba Noel

Afterwards I walked around, bought some watery coffee and saw Baba himself being merry and blessing children. I grew weary and a bit awkward all alone so I walked to a coffee shop where I was included and destroyed in a game of cards. Merry Christmas.

Theatrical pizazz

So I anticipated my Christmas Sunday, but it too was quintessential. We pulled out the theatrical stops to convey the meaning of Christmas in this universally unusual way. And then all gathered for a big church-wide meal. It was nice, but I couldn’t stay: Sunday is a just another work day in the Muslim world. Merry Christmas.

Catholic Service

On Monday, on Christmas Eve, my friends and I caught a taxi to Bethlehem for the day. The taxi driver is a friend of mine and after he stopped the car and let us out, he got out himself and locked up. Guess he’s coming with us. AHlan wasaHlan, was my hospitable Arab response. I grew excited as we pressed through the host toward Manger Square. Certainly this would be an Eve to remember. We met a parade of Catholicked cars moving towards the church with bishops waving out the windows at mostly unimpressed onlookers. We grabbed some tea for the moment. The rest of the day was nice for the company I was with, the laughter and sunny wanderings we partook in. But the highlight was the service we slipped into. Though the midnight service is only for those with a ticket, this midday service seemed to be more open. We promised we wouldn’t take pictures and entered, only to greet fifty other onlookers with their cameras and iPhones high above their heads; we broke our promise. If the Magi can, so can we. I stood with the taxi driver, Anas and we listened to the sweet sounds of the clergy songs and recitations of scripture. After a flurry of pictures we couldn’t help but settle into a moment of awe. We made eye-contact with one another and smiled, words unneeded. The songs wafted above our heads as incense, and the sweet fragrance of friendship and wonder tied us together, Muslims, Christians and Atheists.

Anas and I

When the service was over we engaged in more wandering, companionship and coffeeshopping, and as the sun set, I shepherded the group to a restaurant I had never been to, but heard good news about. And we were blessed by the best pizza I have had since America. Oh, the pleasure of real Mozzarella cheese.

So it was a wonderful day, but I admit, it wasn’t what I expected. Though I am not sure exactly what it was that I expected, I guess I was a bit afraid that it would be too normal here, providing no story to tell of my Christmas in Bethlehem for years to come. But my worrying was greatly outweighed by my joy, for if it was to be normal, so be it. It would still be Christmas. But we felt we had seen what Bethlehem had to offer and decided that for Christmas day we’d stay at home, as we do in America. Danes have their big Christmas celebrations on the Eve, but we agreed to have American Christmas day. For me.

Hazily Beige

It came in an unusual way. The streets were so quiet as I trudged over to the Danes’ place. The day wasn’t exactly white, but it was kind of hazily beige. Good enough? I though so. I was up early to buy some last minute gifts. Our celebration had increased in number and I felt it important that everyone open a gift on Christmas. I mean, what’s Christmas without wrapping paper? I had bought the Danes some cool mugs at Stars and Bucks, the obvious and fun knock-off coffeeshop, and so I decided to make it a Drank Christmas. No Meat Santa this year, my dear family: we celebrated Made-In-China-Mug-Christmas. 

Only one store that I know of in Khalil was selling Christmas related chocolates and gifts. I grabbed a couple mugs, and some chocolates, then visited a bakery-sweetshop-pizza-making-grocer and found some cocoa powder. For a third of the price of hot cocoa mix, I decided I could add the sugar myself. After that, I trudged all the way to my friends’ place, stopping one more time to buy some surprisingly Christmassy wrapping paper and tape. Finally I made it, heavy laden and sweaty, and burst through their door with a Ho! Ho! Ho! (puff, huff, puff). Christmas had begun, and they were up making crafty decorations.

Would this Christmas be bittersweet so far away from home, from family? I was sure it would be, but something happened this year: the magic returned. Though being away from home emphasized my ‘matured’ perspective that Christmas is just another day, it also ushered in what was authentic about Christmas, that which we called magical in our innocence.

A Crazy Elf

As I ran around Khalil gathering gifts, unashamed of their simplicity, proud of their significance, I thought of my father, who delights in blessing those nearest to him with gifts of gold and frankincense…or poetry and steak. And as I burst into the apartment dressed as an elf, I realized I was so much like him, taking pleasure in the laughter of others by his silliness.

Our Humble Tree

And as the party grew to six, I found myself in the kitchen, making stacks of pancakes for my hungry friends. I heard chatter and chuckles coming from the table and I thought of my mother who is an endless blessing to stomach and heart, and says “I love you” through her servanthood and seeing you well-fed. I smiled deeply and realized I was so much like her, taking pleasure in the joy of others by her hand.

And even as I hurriedly wrapped gifts on Christmas morning, I thought of my sister, who would be proud of me for getting everyone a gift, and often wraps hers at the eleventh hour, for she has a heart that is large and thinks of all else before herself. My wrapping, however, would not have made her proud, for it was sloppy and wasteful, and she cares for things greater than herself.

A Star to be proud of, too

In this way, each of my family members visited me on Christmas. In the afternoon I was able to Skype with them while the Danes created a lasagna Christmas miracle. From Vietnam to Palestine to Maine, my family gathered in one place. I saw and heard my sister through screens that punctured and defied many time zones, and my mother led us in some of our favorite Christmas classics, namely Lo! How a Rose E’er Blooming. It was the most magical of all moments and of all Christmases. I sang along to the familiar voices of those I am closest to, and yet, so far from. We laughed, and shared some stories and then said good-bye. I stood up, warmed to my core. Pardon the dangling preposition, but it was a reunion to be proud of. I followed my nose to the kitchen where my eavesdropping friends greeted me. Sofie’s eyes sparkled, for in eavesdropping she found herself drawn into the Christmas spirit for the first time that day, and the blessing of family spread across continents, as it did two thousand years ago.

Celebratory muggery

I looked around at our international group: two Danes, a German, a Palestinian and two Americans, with two more on their way, and I thought, Isn’t this was Christmas is about? So despite my fears that the normalcy of Christmas would infect us even here beside Bethlehem, the authenticity was there. The real meaning of Christmas was palpable. The magic, indeed, had returned.