…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.