When America seeps on me and I look for Arabic in my sleep, I remember moments of smiles and laughter or tears, I get out some pictures and move slowly through them.
I'm engossed in high school theatre these days, trips to the gym for swimming, and getting jobs that require a completely different set of skills than I have employed the past year. In Palestine I would arrive home mentally exhausted after a day of fording language moats. Everywhere I went, I had to figure it out, or be left wanting. There was the local spice shop where I went to buy zataar--this wondrful mixture of thyme, sesame and wheat that we ate on pita bread with olive oil for breakfast, and which, with a small sip of sweet tea, set off a pop-rocky sensation dancing about our tongue. In this shop were no English-speakers to assist me through a purchase, though, so if I forgot the word in Arabic, I was left with a simple expression of need.
But the young man who works there every day is friendly and understanding. He has a perpetual five o'clock shadow--a deep, dark one--and yellowing teeth. His eyes are large, but his iris is just as dark as his pupil. He has put on a bit of weight right around his midsection--not enough excercise and too much Maqluba, probably--but this is common for men who have to work ten hours a day in hopes of a wedding someday soon. His hands are thick and their tips are tie-dyed with the greens and golds of Arab spices. I ask for what it is I think I want, but he bags me a handful of da'a, or saffron, and I'm versed enough to know that what I really want is supposed to be deep green, not bright yellow. So I quickly gesture and apologize. Not that, not that...uh...I look around hoping to find what it is I am looking for; if I see it a point would break all barriers. But he's been through this before and suggests: zataar?
I'm engossed in high school theatre these days, trips to the gym for swimming, and getting jobs that require a completely different set of skills than I have employed the past year. In Palestine I would arrive home mentally exhausted after a day of fording language moats. Everywhere I went, I had to figure it out, or be left wanting. There was the local spice shop where I went to buy zataar--this wondrful mixture of thyme, sesame and wheat that we ate on pita bread with olive oil for breakfast, and which, with a small sip of sweet tea, set off a pop-rocky sensation dancing about our tongue. In this shop were no English-speakers to assist me through a purchase, though, so if I forgot the word in Arabic, I was left with a simple expression of need.
Unhelpful in a room afume with spices, leafs, dried fruit, nuts and oils.
But the young man who works there every day is friendly and understanding. He has a perpetual five o'clock shadow--a deep, dark one--and yellowing teeth. His eyes are large, but his iris is just as dark as his pupil. He has put on a bit of weight right around his midsection--not enough excercise and too much Maqluba, probably--but this is common for men who have to work ten hours a day in hopes of a wedding someday soon. His hands are thick and their tips are tie-dyed with the greens and golds of Arab spices. I ask for what it is I think I want, but he bags me a handful of da'a, or saffron, and I'm versed enough to know that what I really want is supposed to be deep green, not bright yellow. So I quickly gesture and apologize. Not that, not that...uh...I look around hoping to find what it is I am looking for; if I see it a point would break all barriers. But he's been through this before and suggests: zataar?  |
| Zataar in many forms |
Na'am! Na'am! He knew what I was looking for and he smiles exposing his nicoteined teeth, empties the saffron back into the heep and scoops me some fresh zataar. Not an ounce of frustration does he display as he deals with my ignorance.
When I exited to the main street I would pass the furniture makers' workshop, which I honestly tried to avoid. However unreasonable of me, I would cross to the other side of the street to avoid being noticed. If it didn't work I would be beckoned in for tea and conversation. I could usually excuse myself from tea. Next time, marah jai, enshallah. But the conversation, a must. I would get questions I could understand (How are you? How is work?), and then a bunch I couldn't. These two men, one of whom was married to a Himony-so we're practically brothers-ask me all sorts of questions. I painstakingly listen for cues in tone and vocabulary I recognize. Many times we would reach some understanding of one another and smile, bless each other and move on. Sometimes I could tell that his smile was a bit pitious; he knew I hadn't understood.
The streetsweeper I'd pass next could speak English, but honestly, I tried to avoid him too. Saliva would collect in the corners of his large, cracked lips as he would tell me that he studied English in college and that it was his favorite subject and that he can also speak other languages, Oh yes, it was my favorite, my favorite subject. And you--you are Wisam. You live with the Himonys, yes--and then he would ask me if I knew Catherine, who also works at Amideast. I would answer yes every time and bless him and escape.
I was always such a Westerner on that street, but bless those men, it was just so exhausting to converse with them day after day. But my rouse would be dropped if I stepped into Ma'tam Malek, the 'restaurant king.' Here Abed worked tirelessly, waiting on tables laden with Arab spreads. His manager, Majde, spoke many English words and tried to convert me to Islam at every possible chance. It is with him I went and watched the slaughter of sheep at Eid al Adha (see blog post ...close your eyes). I enjoyed the company here, and it was less stressful in (mis)communication.
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| Majde, me and Abed |
In this restaurant the television is usually broadcasting the revolvings and pieties at the Qabba in Mecca. Majde is quite devout and would look up and greet me from out of his focused reading of the Qur'an. But one time I was in there watching that man attempt to break the world record for longest skydive. We sat around a table with vegetables, falafel and pita, hummus and tea stacked up and watched with excitement as he climbed higher and higher and higher. Our stomachs got tighter as the anticipation grew, but we continued eating and drinking to our full. There was laughter, grandiose conversation, wide eyes and even morbid predictions. When he jumped we all breathed and awed and called over people who had momentarily stepped away. We shook our heads in disbelief as he fell like a meteor, felt disappointed that he pulled his parachute so early and applauded his safe, successful landing. There was a sense of envy toward such an exciting life, toward a man who escaped it all, even for such a brief moment.
We all went on to our homes that night. I hadn't understood much more there than I had at the spice store, or the furniture workshop or on the street, but we had lived and laughed and ate together. That's good enough, really. Better, sometimes.
