…fly with me

For the last two months of Freeport High School’s school year, I was a long-term substitute teacher. That meant full-time teaching plus my work for Bow Street, which made me a busy, quiet bee. Despite the lack of sleep or really, just down-time, I was quite happy, for I attended that high school myself, and so I was a Freeport Falcon again, perched at the blackboard this time, and the copy room and the teacher’s lounge, instead of at those small begummed plywood desks.

And even though I have been somewhat steady in this small town, I’ve done a fair bit of traveling. Three short weeks ago I completed the Trek Across Maine, a 180 mile bike ride from the mountains to the sea in three short days. It was gorgeous, intensely. I watched suns rise, pavement pass and lakes, trees, rock, mountains, rivers, towns, dams, mills spring out of the landscape. The weather was only what we could have wanted and the thrill and challenge of the ride was something to think about and be proud of tackling.  

And three short months prior I flew to the mid-west for a wedding, and some other reconnections. The mid-west, where you trade open watery breezes for sweet people and open waterless views. I found myself in familiar territory, surrounded by faces I’ve seen before and places I’ve roamed. The NW Arkansas—SW Missouri region is another home of mine from my days working at Camp Barnabas.

And so I’ve noticed how this blog remains with function even though I am no longer with Arabs. It has morphed into a travel blog, perhaps; the reveries of a peregrinator.

Ah, that little gem I’ve found and resonate with…

per·e·gri·nate |ˈperigrəˌnāt| verb archaic or humorous

ORIGIN late 16th cent.: from Latin peregrinat - ‘traveled abroad,’ from peregrinus ‘foreign, traveling.’

travel or wander around from place to place.

DERIVATIVES

peregrination |ˌperigrəˈnā sh ən| |ˈpɛrəgrəˈneɪʃən| noun

peregrinator |-ˌnātər| |ˈpɛrəgrəˈneɪdər| noun

Yes! Travel or wander around from place to place. That is something I love to do, something I am, and something for which the peregrine falcon, interestingly enough, gets his name. The peregrine falcon is known for being one of the fastest in all the animal kingdom, small yet fierce, and we at Freeport boast pride in our peregrination (here not correctly meaning “the act of traveling from place to place” but instead creatively used as an adjective meaning “the likeness of Freeport students to the greatness of the peregrine falcon). He is the Freeporter; I am him. And I especially appreciate the humorous connotation, for I find myself chuckling at those insignificant differences that two peoples discover make all the difference, really. And I hope you do as well.

But the story isn’t over—as if the coincidence of my high school’s mascot and my self-identification wasn’t enough—or as if 9 months in Palestine was the end! Oh, no. I dug a little further and found that as languages diverged, Latin’s peregrinus was split. On one hand, the word developed into our modern counterpart; on the other, the first ‘r’ was replaced with an ‘l,’ making something like Italian’s Pellegrino, or Old French’s pelegrin, or Middle English’s pilegrim. Or modern English’s

pilgrim |ˈpilgrəm| noun

a person who journeys to a sacred place for religious reasons.

Nepal, picture courtesy of my friend, Bonnie

No. Way. No way! In a short week I will be traveling, peregrinating, pilgriming to the Holy Himalayas and the Holy Land. I will be four weeks in Nepal and one in Palestine. I will meet and speak and make eye contact with Hindus and Buddhists and Muslims and probably Christians, Jews and Atheists too. I will pass through the Middle Kingdom and the Middle East and be both half-way to Heaven and practically there already.

So follow my peregrinations as I go. I will be a pilgrim again. I will be a traveler, near-wanderer, as I fly around the globe. And you too will spread your winds and soar with, through words and descriptions and stories.

See you in Nepalestine.

...point and laugh

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. 

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. 

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. 

...pick a size

At Starbucks I sit and wait. I am not always sure what it is I am waiting for; a call? a smile? a sideways glance or dubious eye? Perhaps just a familiar face, tanned and crinkled with too much gel atop his head. He greets me with every ounce of himself, kisses my bearded cheeks and embraces me. Salaam Walaykum! Keif inta habibi? Keif Sahtuk? Habibi. His hands are still holding mine as he exposes his eyes, naked, and undresses each one of his teeth. 

Nope. Here we grow agitated with strangers, ashamed of eye contact, dishonest with our own desires, afraid of their voice. Children play near me and a bashful man shoos them away. Don't bother the man. He bows slightly and smiles to pay for the offense. Mish mushkilla. But he doesn't understand me. He wouldn't even if I said it in English. 

I look around at the infinity of expensive choices around me. I can't help but notice that a coffee here is ten over there. But I am not sad to be home; I'm just sad that a disant and evasive horizon separates me from dari (my home). 

But there is this crazy thing called wifi which has made the horizon humbler. My phone vibrates next to me and I look down to those sweet words I didn't realize I was expecting. They don't come with a smile, a hug, a kiss, but they warm me with the comforts of those things. We are planning to use Skype to "see" one another. I look out the window and see Maine, glorious Maine. Tomorrow I will look at my computer and see Palestine, sweet Palestine. What a world this is. What a world. 

My friend works behind the counter and I smile, my foot taps to meaningful music that drips with memories of those I said good-bye to. Life isn't bad, it isn't uncomfortable, it isn't undesirable. It is American, with everything this country offers. It is warm showers and choices choices choices. So I sit in Starbucks, adjusting and looking over the horizon, beyond her line in the sand, into time herself, her flowing gown and ask if I will sit someday in dari wondering about my home.

…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.  

…distinguish between the one

This is a land of collisions. For centuries it has housed the great crossroads of three entire continents, Europe, Asia and Africa, and still displays the tread from the wheels of ancient trade. Even ideas, entire religions, began and expanded from these sacred hills. Not without reason has Jerusalem been referred to as the center of the world.

A picture from Google of his final day

But there are many kinds of collisions in the Holy Land besides accidents of Pangea. There are the clashes between nationalities, where lives are at risk, and often taken. Last week Hebron suffered again the loss of a young man. In the excitement of not only his birthday, but also the twelfth day of the twelfth month of the twelfth year in this millennium, Mohammed, a newly seventeen-year-old was shot several times by a young Israeli soldier. The news reports conflict: was he shot 3 or 6 times? Was he holding a toy gun? Or was it his birthday cake? Was he hard of hearing or ignoring the soldier? As of yet, we are only sure of one thing: that the day of his birth has become the day of his death; this collision’s become so costly.

Tree's alit!

But some collisions aren’t always so, like the community of religions here, where Muslim and Christian live side-by-side, and worship similarly. In Bethlehem the toll of bells and call to prayer both color the air with hymn. I attended a large tree-lighting event in Manger Square, and in the middle of the mayor’s speech a loud call to prayer echoed from the tall mosque behind us. There we waited for the religious man to finish his duty before we continued our quite Christian tradition. In all of Palestine, the twenty-fifth is a holiday, as are the Muslim holy days, and well-wishing a ‘Merry Christmas’ is almost always returned with smiles. I spoke with my students about this brotherhood and was reminded of the sweetness in it from a shared story. One of my students works in Bethlehem and all his Christian colleagues fast at work with their Muslim friends during Ramadan. For many parts of the world, these two peoples cannot seem to live next to one another, but it is not so as they collide here.

There is a collision of eras, where the contention between modern and ancient can be both humorous and frustrating. I’ve been to many celebrations of engagements, marriages or graduations, and they all look quite similar. There is a silliness of grown men and their sippy cups and juice boxes. With traditional headscarves they arrive from this age’s past; slurping juice, they come from their own. But it is normal here, as we sit and chat and shake hands in celebration of love. A man absentmindedly clinks his car keys and stares off into some remote memory of his own love-life. Others toke on their cigarettes. Still others use their cell phones to call over their friends from the other side of the hall. Past and present collide here like tides in transition.

 

Then an important man quiets the crowd and begins the prayerspeak, where Allah and Islam are celebrated first, the marriage second, the families third and Allah again while they open their palms face up and pray. In tight jeans, leather jackets and waxed hair or long robes and beards, they all simultaneously lift up their hands, then bring their palms down over their face to seal the prayer. I sit quietly and make note of the people who wonder who I am and why I’m not joining.

For these traditions are deeply rooted in both culture and religion, and are not frequently ignored. And it has been that way for so long, but with smart phones in hand, a connection with the West has been tied, and where once the negative influence of the modernizing West was successfully quelled, now it is united with one of those knots tied by the ignorant that never undo. Hence the contention. I see the frustration in the eyes of young men who wish so badly to have a girl at their side, but know it is actually impossible outside of an expensive, almost unattainable and altogether too permanent marriage. In fact, their despair is quite the focus of their days, for its forbiddenness makes it consuming. And so we find ourselves here, celebrating yet another young man’s ‘ultimate’ success. And the man with his keys thinks of the woman he loved but couldn’t marry while my friends think of the girl they know they’ll never even kiss, and look at me with a certain envy for not being governed by the same social rules. But we snap out of it to join in a more immediately satisfying tradition: to chow on some incarnate pastry, both fully dough and fully sugar…

Likewise, as Christmas draws near I think of one more collision, one I see within my very self: the coalescence of what I was and am, and what I’m becoming and have become.

I was at church the Sunday after the UN’s validation of the Palestinian State and I was wearing my kuffiya for both warmth and in pride. There a man greeted me, kissed me and looked at the scarf.

Love the Kuffiya

“Ah, now you are Palestinian” he said. I smiled and thought for a moment about how I must be if I just accepted a kiss from a grown man. And then I looked back at him and replied,

“And now you as well, my friend”

But it isn’t just the scarf that makes me Palestinian, just as one vote doesn’t change who these people really are. No, the fact that I am becoming Palestinian was most notable a few days after Thanksgiving when I was eating some leftovers at home. Here people seem to eat pita bread with everything: breakfast, lunch, dinner, vegetables, meat, other carbs, hummus, everything. And I like to think that I haven’t adopted this habit, if only for the health reasons, but then I look down and realize I’m using it to eat stuffing. Stuffing. I was stuffing pita bread with pita bread. And eating it. What have I become?

But it doesn’t rest there. Even walking arm-in-arm seems natural, like I’ve been doing it my whole life. Once I absentmindedly stuck my arm in the elbow-crick of my American friend before we both made weird eye-contact and separated. On the rare occasion that I see a foreigner walk by, I stare, wide-eyed, as if I’m at the zoo, with the question why? on my lips, before I’m caught by a Khalili for being so, well, Khalili.

 

I remember the first word I ever learned here: habibi. It means something like ‘my lover,’ but is used for so much more. It has a certain flexibility among the Palestinians, but a subtle one found in how you say it. You can look at your wife and say Habibi. It’s like any other term of endearment: you say it with earnestness. Easy. Then you can see your good friend and greet him. Habibi! You hit the ‘H’ a bit harder in this one, and drag the rest of the word out a bit. It becomes endearing and affectionate. Not too hard. Well, then you can run into a stranger and ask him to take your picture, or something. Bidi ishi. I need something. Habibi. This one comes after a few words have been exchanged and he is ready to take your picture. Or something. His payment: being addressed as such. It isn’t rocket-science, but it requires a bit more finesse. But then you can use it to say thank you. Down the street and to the left? Habibi. This time it flies out quickly, like we might say ‘thanks.’ If you want, you can even use it with hints of sarcasm to mean the opposite. Habibi. I don’t like you. Please leave. I, of course, have no need to ever use it this way. But perhaps the most exclusively native way of using it is in accepting a complement while simultaneously saying you’re welcome.

I was speaking to someone the other day and he called me his Maine Man for the help I was providing him, and, of course, the place from which I come. Then he complemented my work. My immediate and completely natural response: Habibi.

We paused for a moment and looked at each other. Then, on the brink of continuing our conversation, we were interrupted by our own simultaneous laughter. It was really funny and we didn’t need to say anything for we both understood. “You know,” he said to the others in the office, “his habibi is, like, perfect.” My response of course: habibi.

But this collision of identity, this coalescence of two-in-one, draws me back to the message in the music I so nostalgically listen to these days. It is what we are celebrating now, both in the West and here, where it all began. It is Him, a man of two identities. Despite what you believe or the traditions you practice, Christmas is about a being who was God and still is, and is becoming and has become a man. But our focus lies not just in his birth, for we celebrate a man who was born to die, and so my thoughts drift back to our late friend Mohammed, and I feel a certain sorrow in such a collision of fate as theirs.