…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