…catch a leaf

It has been busy, I have been quiet, the blog remains untouched by any. Wild things can change the course of one man, a leaf in the wind fearing the impact and finality of the grass, his grave, and the unknown cold emptiness of atmosphere, unable to choose in which he’d rather bed.

Teaching continues; she is the course that runs sure. No, that’s not it. Streams change when trees fall or stones roll into their paths…Teaching is a waterfall where rocks, fish, trees, hydrogen-dioxide have no choice but to plummet, violent in nature, but peaceful in method. Students thunder into class, absorb, try, extend, leave, still water but impacted by the fall. There is comfort in this vehement routine. It is all else here that is different, even opposite: peaceful in nature, but violent in method, the stone that rolls into the stream. At once it is sturdy, unchanging, calm. A flick of the eyes to a passing songbird or a fox on the prowl and you suddenly see the stone differently (did it move? change shape?) for its power, dormant kineticism, preying for destruction:

I go to buy a gas burner, I look for life’s necessities, I find myself accused of theft and robbed of prior pieties. The rumor rolled into my stream, and stuck itself in the mud. How common this act of necessity was, and yet, how disruptive it’s become. But I’ve kept moving, flowing and soon I trust that it will dislodge, only to leave the bank quite different than it had been.

Some belongings have been sitting in my apartment, their owner a previous tenant or two who seem to have forgotten. But today a gentle rap on my metal door, once opened, revealed the young hand of a slender woman. I let her in, but left the door ajar. The prodigal daughter came and collected her things with smiling nostalgia. As the transaction ended, for that’s all it was, a passing, two winds, or just one and the wood, with the door left open for all to observe (and they did, all of the children who live around me in this hive, buzzing curiously into my empty cement cell), she waved and parted, bearing her new-old burden.

But the bees stayed and they asked me if I was afraid of God, which I’ve been asked before and still don’t know how to answer. Do they mean merely that I know God is powerful, that I should fear him in my love for him? Or do they mean, as I think they do and are taught, that one should be afraid of God, and should pray to appease him after offense? This was the course of action I was strongly advised to take after choosing my response: No, I am not afraid. With a simultaneous, seemingly rehearsed gasp, they leaned back, forced by the blast of blasphemy in my words, and I went from neighbor to infidel.

I blessed them good-bye and sank into my room where their atavistic noises surrounded once again. Children, so peaceful when tucked in, so innocent of worries to come as they tie string to twigs to plastic and call it a kite, so angry and raw, bearing milkteeth in disgust.

And Tim leaves too, in a month, to ingest the New England autumn like apple crisp and cranberry sauce. The quietness I’ll know will be a cacophony of absence. So I’ll pick up more classes and keep myself busy.

But busy-ness doesn’t mean absent-ness, though I find myself on the stoop less often, my passing breezy and quick, neither warm to notice, nor cold to hunch in. An autumn lull has settled here, and common living rooms have lost their detail in my mental frames.

Fall only exists in evening, summer reigns all day. Winter peeks in the stripes of night that descend as does the sun, but her pale face has yet to emerge from her sneaky, mischievous hibernation. I grow enamored with the language as she becomes familiar, and conversations are had where we dip into each other’s tongue and taste what we think we know and ask about what we’ve never had.

And meanwhile I soothe something within or around or holistic with the differently familiar sounds of the Mumford & Sons new album; sometimes I read or sit or pray or do push-ups. As I make coffee on the burner I bought to calm my accusers’ pointed fingers, I catch up on world news that I downloaded onto my phone the day before and wonder how Morsi or Hadi’s trip to the UN will be received and if Palestine will get her borders, if Obama will listen or if Romney will rise, or if Ahmadinejad will ever put his foot in his mouth or even use it to step down next year…and my thoughts drift, papery, colorful.

I suppose I choose the grass, I say to the wind. Though final, it’s steady. I want Niagra; though brutal, it’s sure. Not the sweet, calm atmosphere that will change in an instant and thin in oxygen and loose its hold on you then gently drop you off into space where the last thing you see is the smile of the moon before asteroids and a once-planet become silhouettes by a dim star and Hubble catches sight of you causing scientists to wonder What is that? and you’re classified as UFO in science books that gather dust on the shelves of libraries.

And its what I’m getting in the Arab Autumn where crispness lacks in air and stove, but heat exists in both, and tumbling over waterfalls seems a bit dramatic as I lay in the grass and look up at stars. Who knows who’s up there, and down here in books.

...honk your horn

Dusk settled onto my city tonight as I approached home, and in the ephemeral twilight I stopped for a pensive moment to look around at the many neighborhoods built on the hills in view. Around me were the homes and shops I knew; in the distance, the tide of the Israeli settlement crept higher and wider; and in the middle were the crumbled cement and gnarled rebar of homes that once stood. There was a haze everywhere, a kind of mixture of two bloods. Because a coldness has visited Palestine, a refreshing chill from the blazing heat, condensation takes a visible form now, as it dances in the air above stone houses and vineyards. It is clear and fresh, but it isn’t alone. A grimy cloud also floats—over pavement and car graveyards. Every dumpster in Khalil is smoking, sickly and rotten, with the unnatural stench of things thatought not burn, and tires char in the street as monuments of youthful defiance. The two hover, swirl, blurring my usually clear view.

It was such a quiet moment, which was strange for where I was standing, because usually stoop-sitters are calling my name or a mob of young children surround me here. But I was alone.

I was in a ghost town.

Empty Shuhada Street

If you’ve done some research you know that ‘ghost town’ is the sardonic name used for a once-busy area in the Old City of Khalil called Shuhada Street. This road used to teem with Arab merchants and patrons, but has now been shut down by Israel to be used as a sort of buffer-zone between Palestine and the Israeli Settlement. For those whose livelihood existed on that pavement, this has been the most detrimental; for everyone else, it is a fraternal frustration they share. Fight Ghost Town is the cry one can find spray-painted on walls around the city.

But that is not where I was today. I was on the main street in Khalil, Ain Sara, and it was a ghost town. Everyone was at the city-center joining in on the protest. Or denned up in their homes. No shops were open save the bakeries, which closed early. Wind blew vacant bags like tumbleweed and stray animals took their chance to bolt across the street. Schoolchildren in their uniforms disappeared into homes and group of young men all headed to the demonstration.

It was a bit creepy, actually, everything flowing like a river down toward some rapids of social frustration. The higher I got up the street, away from the protests, the more post-apocalyptic it felt. But I think it was smart to stay away. The Palestinian men were reacting to the cost of fuel going up, and, subsequently, everything else. Even bread, a staple here unlike anywhere else, is more expensive, but salaries aren’t raising to compensate. People’s livelihoods are being threatened by an internal force now, too; this is no battle with Israel.

My friend Ihab snapped this earlier in the day.

And it all began in the morning when trucks of all kinds paraded down the street, blaring their horns unremittingly, getting our attention. It was enough to boil my blood. Demonstrations like this occurred all over the West Bank; it was quite the operation. In Khalil it ended with a kind of riot, where windows were broken and the police station was targeted. Billy clubs were passed out to policemen and even the army got involved. But I was safely tucked away in my home avoiding the streets, listening to the sirens of ambulances taking patients to the nearby hospital every few minutes. I even heard a string of shots fired in the distance, but they sounded like warning shots rather than offensive ones.

It is exciting to think what sort of change this might bring to Palestine. The call of these men is for the resignation of the Prime Minister, the need is for lower prices, and apparently he has the power to do something about it. And at the end of this month the President is going to the UN to make another bid for statehood. It's not just crisp Autumn and rank garbage, now; revolution is also in the air.

The protests at the city center...notice people on the billboard.

So schools and shops were closed for one day, but they will be back in business tomorrow. If nothing changes, perhaps something like this will happen again; if something does, they’ll refocus on the Occupation. That cloud never leaves their horizon no matter the waves they deal with today. They greet it at the checkpoints, see it on their hillsides, and feel it in their hearts. And often talk to me about it.

My day ended with tea and fresh-off-the-vine grapes at my cousins’ house. A man with his kuffiya draped on his neck rolled strong cigarettes in front of me while his guest, the soon-to-be father-in-law of his son, engaged me in conversation. He spoke some English and was delighted to share. There was another man there too, who I never fully identified. Certainly Himony, uncertainly who. And it was that man who sent the question my way: Do you love the Jewish people? It’s a question whose answer is deep and delicate, and as I go to speak, I feel like that man, taking his first step out onto the tightrope between the towers of the World Trace Center.

“I love all people.” It is the answer I have settled on, and one the good Muslim cannot argue with. So I am safe. We can agree that people don’t always do the right thing, but my answer serves as a dead end, and we move on to other topics.

Now (two days later), I am finding myself apologizing for a movie about Mohammed I knew nothing about. Some research filled me in—there has been an offensive movie toward Islam posted on YouTube and, as a result, some Americans in Lybia were killed. Here people express sadness or anger, but the don’t justify the murders. All I can say is “I’m sorry.”

“You are a good man, Wisam, but…” It is the response I hear repeatedly. People aren’t too happy about it, and with the passing of 9-11, all these tensions seem to be fuel for something…fuel that has been much more expensive than the rise of gas prices.

Revolution is indeed in the air.

As is this.

…make a mistake

Oh the differences between the West and Mid East…It’s Kansas and Oz. If you’ve been following along down the yellow bricks I’ve been laying, you may have already noticed and experienced many of them yourself. Yesterday I was thinking more intentionally about them as I walked hand-in-hand with my friend, Saleh, around town. Shwarma and taxis and heat—oh my! We had been meaning to go to a coffee shop and enjoy each other’s company for some time and it worked out that we finally both had time. Now—and I am sure you’ve guessed it since unmarried men and women don’t spend time together in public here—Saleh is male. Yes, Saleh is twenty-two years old, has finished university as an accountant, works in a bakery-sweetshop, and likes to slip his hand into mine as we meander and ambulate between falafel vendors and fashion shops.

Now, I knew that Arab men were more physically expressive before I got here, but I found out to what degree when I started to get to know them. If I enter a room, I find the seat not safely distanced from my host but right alongside of him. If I’m beckoned to the stoop I find myself snuggled between relatives, and if I am indeed sitting next to someone, we are inevitably making contact. Perhaps my hand has become the play-thing of an absent minded cousin or we’ve linked arms, me and my seatmate. Most of the time an arm rests on my thigh instead of its owner’s own.

But I have gotten used to it, I noticed, as I walked through town, interdigitating with a well-dressed young Arab. It used to be that every time I held hands my mind would vacate my head and swim down to my phalanges. I would have a hard time focusing on anything else except the fact that a man is holding my arm and we are waltzing down main street—oh my goodness, now he’s holding my hand—ah! we’ve slid our fingers around one another’s! Seriously, its hard to navigate through a crowd with so much mental noise.

And as I reflect, I think about the many cultural chasms I’ve stumbled across and all the faux pas that I’ve made, or barely avoided, as an ajnabi (foreigner). Indeed, I’ve yet to fully correct this wicked glitch from the west.

Some of the blips come from the difference in our ways of communicating…

There is a favorite treat of mine I’ve so creatively named ‘two-shekel ice cream.’ Not only is it cheap, but it’s also really tasty, especially while walking in the heat. And I’ve been adopting a greater sense of hospitality here too, so a few times, while walking with a Khalili (local), I’ve offered to purchase a couple for us. Biduk means (Do) you want and booza means ice cream. Biduk booza? I was confused when people not only denied my offer, but also looked at me quite strangely. What? It’s just two shekels? Really, it’s no problem…It never worked. Why? Well, I received quite the surprise when I realized that I was mispronouncing booza as boosa…Boosa means kiss.

Tim and I both have stories of the next lingual flop. We like to speak as much Arabic as we can in our classrooms, especially when congratulating students on good work. We’ve developed a vocabulary of classroom-words, and one of those words is smart. Easy, right? Inta zeki. Well, not really, because a slight vowel shift in the word changes zeki to zaki, which is the difference between smart and delicious. No, it’s never been considered good form to tell students how tasty they are.

The Palestinians have quite the collection of gestural vocabulary, too. This is something I didn’t know, and I am learning many of them. A scoop of the hand from palm-down to palm-up stands in for the most pertinent question at the time. Perhaps it is why, what’s up, or where were you…but the most frequently used gesture is a quick jump of the eyebrows. Sometimes it is accompanied with a click of the tongue, but it always means no. In the States we tick our head and flick our eyebrows as a kind of silent hello to passerbys. So, now that I think about it, there are scads of Palestinians who are at home now, wondering why that ajnabi walked passed them and “said” NO! How rude.

But cultural differences aren’t just found in communication styles. Social relationships, as you know, are also vastly different. I have learned to keep my eyes steady as I walk past any number of women. Though it isn’t as strict here as in other Arab countries, I still avoid eye-contact as we pass. Children are my only exception, that is, if the mother hasn’t pulled them in close and tight. And I am used to hijabs, the head coverings of the women here. They frame the face, close and tight, while safely covering every strand of hair from unwanted sight. This is the norm. One thing that tells me I am becoming like the Khalili is how I stare when a women doesn’t have a hijab on. Oh, it was just hair when I first arrived, but now it is something so foreign, so strange. I have to correct myself as I ogle with a dropped jaw.

And while these differenced are so obvious, some are not. I observed one instance of this in a recent and unfortunate incident. Safety is a surprisingly low priority here. Every construction site I walk past is lacking in hardhats and overflowing with casts. Every family, it seems, has a story of a relative who passed away unnaturally or who has brain damage from an accident later in life. I know people who lost their fathers when they were teenagers or younger. One of my students at the Excellence Center came into class, heavily bandaged because of a recent bike accident. And everybody has a noticeable amount of scars all over their body from something. This is very different than the US.

Last week a nine-year-old Himony was climbing up the side of something—a building, maybe—when he lost his hold and fell. I wasn’t there to witness the event but I heard about it. It was as bad as you wouldn’t want it to be. And the second thing people asked me when they talked to me about the boy, whose name is Mohammed, was did you go see him yet? I was slightly confused, for I was just hearing about the incident. But apparently the family rallies around events like this. It seems to be expected that everyone visits the hospital and sees the patient, no matter how distant the relative. But I don’t know where the hospital is, and across the language divide, the details were hazy anyways.

Besides, I’ve been told many times about the death of someone I know, only to find out later that it was a complete exaggeration or just outright lie. Not funny to me, though somehow so to them.

Last week I was offered the opportunity to join the father at the hospital. Great, of course, I’ll be there. So Tim and I got up early and hopped into a taxi with him. This was actually the second time I was going. Two days prior I caught a ride with my brother, but we weren’t able to actually see Mohammed. I gather that seeing in important, so I went again.

This time Tim and I got to witness Mohammed as he came out of surgery and was transported to get a cat scan. He was asleep, bandaged and swollen. His eyes were plums, and his cheeks were no longer clinging to his bones as they usually do. Where his skull was put back together there was a large bandage. But his chest rose and fell with the promise of life and the monitor that traveled with him displayed a steady heart rate. As we went with him to the cat scan we found ourselves being ordered, in a foreign language, to help with some medical procedures. I mean, it was only helping transfer the small body from one bed to another, but with the tubes and wires and chords everywhere, it was a bit stressful. This would never happen in the States, I thought.

Mohammed is still in the hospital but we hear good reports. And I can now join in the conversation. When someone asks, I can tell them I saw the young boy and then offer up a blessing on him or a praise to God. We agree: it is up to God. But however different and sad it was, I was happy to visit and see Mohammed after his operation. I fulfilled my familial duty and was able to keep the waiting family company. And in my great capacity for sentiment I offered a worried cousin a kiss. And this time I meant it: Biduk booza?

Oh, shoot. That means ice cream.

…practice your Arabic

Baha signing energetically

Today I was a bit selfish, thinking of only myself and not seeing with perspective. I wanted to be home, writing and relaxing. I wanted to be speaking with someone who knew my language. But what I was doing was communicating with a mostly deaf Arab through the obstacle course of four verbal and non-verbal language barriers. And we were talking about things like 9-11, Bush and Obama, the Iraq war and Guantanamo. What?

So I changed my iniquitous ways, but after an hour my brain was really tired so I made my leave and walked back to Dar Himony. And when I arrived I noticed the haze of a florescent light’s wan glow high above the street. Abu Majde was awake with his family; I took a big breath, exhaled every western molecule I could and took one shameless step forward. I was going up, uninvited.

See, Ramadan is now over, of course, but during those dry, hungry days, I tried to get invited into as many homes as I could for dinner. If I was unsuccessful Tim and I would go buy some food for ourselves and bring it home. But we were chastised for this as if it was our responsibility to waltz into homes and demand dinner at the fast’s end…which it might’ve been. But with American air still fueling my ego, I couldn’t do it. So I am trying to find this balance between accepting specific invitations and accepting the ever-invitation of the hospitable Arab.

My dissonant feet led me to the interior door where I paused and called out “Salaam walaykum!” making my presence known and giving any uncovered women the chance to cover. Then I stepped in and onto a roof decorated with sizable and savory grapes. Abu Majde gave me a seat of honor and introduced me to his sister and her twin daughters. Of course he, with a great big smile, told me to introduce myself. This is rote now:

“Ana Wisam Himony.”

Eruptions of celebrations ensued, and I joined with obvious pride. Abu Majde calls me son and tells me to address his wife with the affectionate Uma. This is one of my families. The other is the family of Abu Noor whose four sons call me brother and in whose house I feel welcomed and comfortable as his wife serves and sits and smiles hijab-less in front of me. In both of these homes I am frequently told that my biological mother should visit and that she has a place to stay for even a month. I find that the relationship between mother and child is very important and seeing me without mine is somehow a shame. Besides, she needs to learn how to cook like an Arab so that I can eat well when I return to the states. I smile and say Enshallah and mean it, and we move on.

Now, both of these men have sons my age, but I have long since known that they are a generation apart from one another. So last week I finally took up to making a shejerat al a’illa Himony, that is, a Himony family tree. There are so many Himonys, and some look alike, while others don’t, and most all of them disappear from the stoop into homes I have never seen before. I see grown men interacting and greeting one another with a historical kind of hello. They are familiar and familial, and after being here for four months now, my curiosity’s been piqued. After all, who is really whom?

A couple of days later and after several hours of asking questions like min abuk? (who is your father) or min hada? shu amru abu? (who is that, what is his father’s name) I arrived at a still-incomplete mess of a tree. It’s a weeping willow where generations descend into one another and cross-pollination occurs. I received many quizzical looks during the process and I heard many accusations that I was from the CIA and I was spying on them. I waved this off by explaining myself and suggesting that we paint a big family tree on a wall somewhere.

On the stoop, late at night

When I began the investigation I had to wade through the play time, jokes and innuendos of the young Himonys as I catalogued their family. And it was hard because every man we discussed has many names and they used them interchangeably as if I was following along. Abu Majde means the father of Majde, but his given name is Faleh, which I didn’t know, and because his father’s name is Abdul Fateh, he could be called Faleh Abdul Fateh (and if we kept going in a formal sort of way we’d be tripping over ourselves calling him Faleh Abdul Fateh Ramadan Omar Himony). Plus, if a man is the oldest son he is often referred to by his fathers name, thus Faleh's oldest son Majde could be Abu Faleh, Majde or Abu Ibrahim. And then, to add to the confusion, every other person is named Mohammed. As you can see, I was untangling a disturbed spider's web.

Eid shoppers...its the Christmas of Islam

A few days before I was swimming through a sea of Eid-shoppers with a couple of my brothers, Omar and Mohammed when Omar dropped back for a second, unnoticed by our brother. I learned how fruitless it is to shout Mohammed into a crowd here as I laughed when forty sets of eyes turned their gaze toward me.

My brother Ibrahim Faleh Abdul Fateh Himony

However, all this chatter was good for my family and question word vocabulary, but this whole talk-too-quickly thing, yeah, they do this a lot. Many times I get to the end of the street and am beckoned by the shop tender there, Ahmad (brother to Abu Noor whose name is Anwar Abdel Kareem Abdullah Ramadan Omar I-have-a-headache and first cousin once-removed to Faleh Abdul Fateh Ramadan Omar oh-my-gosh!Is-he-still-speaking?). Ahmad speaks to me about money, usually, and he rattles along like a runaway Arabic train full of slightly slurred speech on its way to the zoo. I have learned to test the tone of his speech and respond appropriately. Wallah?! means Really?! if you use it as a question and Woah! if you use it as a remark. Mabarifsh means I don’t know, and Tamam means Good.

Practice:

Blah blah blah blah money blah blah blah blah America blah blah you blah? (Quick! It’s a question. Say you don’t know and you gotta go: Mabarifsh. Ana bidi ruh. Salamet!)

Great! Ok, again. Blah blah soldier Israel blah blah blah Tel Aviv blah blah (motions a gun) blah blah blah. (Ok, here he obviously is referencing something about guns and Israelis. It’s more than safe to go with really (Wallah?) or woah (Wallah) depending on what outcome you want. The first option will probably bring more explanation after which you can say woah and end it. But don’t forget to tell him you gotta go: Wallah. Ok, ana bidi ruh. Salamet.)

Perfect. Ok, last one. I blah blah blah a lot blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. (So this time not much of interest was said, or at least not that much that you actually understood, and judging by the tone it wasn’t some exciting story. Say good, good and tell him you gotta go. Like this: Tamam, tamam. Ok, ana bidi ruh. Salamet.)

You’re a pro already. But back to the story…

Mostafa and Sey'r Khader Sabri 

I had to scroll up to even see where in the story I was. Right, trees. So while I was cataloging I was sifting through the silliness of the boys for answers. Tonight silly was awfully close to crazy…the lines been blurred and the juries still out. But it was quite entertaining. I had given an oversized New York Yankees t-shirt to one of them (Mohammed, of course. This one is Mohammed son of Akram son of Abdul Kareem son of Abdullah son of Ramadan son of Omar). Something was in the air because these young men tapped into a great creativity. They played dress-up, they became actors and the oversized baseball tee became a kuffiya for a strong, prideful Palestinian; it was a hijab to a beautiful woman, a skirt to some blonde westerner and the face covering for a criminal. It was even the traditional male head covering worn by the news anchors of Saudi television. An empty soda can became a microphone and this reporter went around interviewing people about the foreigner among us. 

And in the end, a gun was pulled out from somewhere and someone was shot. Someone is always shot, or dies somehow, in these games. And we roll into fits of laughter and enjoy the brotherhood of Dar Himony.

And by now I have the ever-increasing tree in my notebook and I can see exactly where I hang, as Wisam Anwar Abdul Kareem Abdullah Ramadan Omar Himony…or Wisam Faleh Abdul Fateh Ramadan Omar Himony…or just Wisam Himony. Goodness.

…take a nap

It has been three weeks since I have seen the streets of Khalil. I’ve clicked my heels, there’s no place like home, and now I’m playing catch up from the almost sleepless tornado here. Boy was it quite the storm.

It began in Freeport, Maine as I rushed home from saying good-bye to one last person so that I could collect my belongings and catch a bus in Portland. In total, I was stateside for two-and-a-half weeks…not long to see 51 people (not including the congregations of two churches), or to spend significant time on the phone with 9 others. If I only had a twin, it could’ve been more.

A teary good-bye with my mother ended my stay in Freeport; Wesley drove me to the bus. And there Tim and I boarded a bus to Boston where we sat and ate and had the last Dunkin Donuts we’d have in a while. Train 67 to Virginia finally called for boarding after an hour of waiting and we got on. It was 9:30 pm. Some sleep greeted me on the overnight ride, but between uncomfortable body positions and frequent stops, it was stunted, at best. But it got worse. At 2:15 am we chugged into Penn Station in New York City and were kicked off. Now the plan was to ditch our luggage in the temporary baggage storage and hit the town (or find somewhere to nap), but the dreams were rudely abrupted by a sign which told us that the luggage area wasn’t open until 5:15. Three. Whole. Hours. Ok, we thought, I guess we’ll wait in the station. Perhaps we’ll get some sleep…But janitorial duties said no to that. Sitting upright, trying to chase sleep, thoughts quickly turning into dreams and back again, was how we spent our time. And all the while the kind janitor kept waking us all up and moving us out of his way. I wasn’t angry, but I wasn’t happy. I finally found some floor-space and, using my bag as my pillow, slept soundly until Tim woke me up 45 minutes later; it was his turn to sleep.

Five-thirty came and we escaped the waiting-room prison without our heavy bags and we couldn’t have felt freer. I lunged for the subway eager to get moving. The A train took us to the tip of Manhattan where we boarded the free ferry to Staten Island. This was my father’s idea, and it was perfect. The sun had yet to rise as we passed Lady Liberty; the view was beyond phenomenal. I couldn’t have imagined a better morning.

On Staten Island Tim and I strolled for a bit, passing sleeping couples wrapped up in each other’s limbs, but soon found a bench to sit on. I was itching to write (it must be a gene that my father passed down to me that makes New York so inspiring…perhaps there really is no place like home). I sat down, looked across the waters and wrote this:

Sunrise on Staten Island

Ahead the skyline’s hazy,

So familiar yet so unknown;

The Queen of Freedom’s silhouette

Is grayer than her stone.

A orange blur plays hide and seek

With an undefinéd sky;

The only thing I know for sure:

That plane which soars on by.

Soon enough sweet clarity

Will split the foggy veil,

While rising tides inch up the shore

And ferries take their sail.

Morning always ushers hope,

At least, it does today,

As rising towers join Lady Free

In a hopeful, free hooray.

Feeling satisfied with my creative release I suggested we get back to the other island; sunrise over the city must be beautiful from the boat.

And it was.

On Manhattan it was time for coffee so we found our way to a small coffeeshop and I used the internet to reserve tickets to see the World Trade Center Memorial. From there we leapt a couple of blocks uptown to the visitor’s center to pick them up, then slid back down to where we were to actually enter the memorial. Over twenty minutes of security passed before we walked the serene green and solemn fountains. 

How appropriate it was to leave the space empty where once stood a tower. Nothing can replace them, nor the lives lost, whose names are forever etched into the stone border. It was truly magnificent, especially with the new towers rising quickly around them. When this project is finished it will certainly be a marvel, however arrogant as well. Ah, the American way.

Lack of sleep was catching up on us as we left the sacred ground, so we stopped in a park by City Hall to rest before the lunch date we had with my cousin. I was approached by a nice lady who I judged for a proselytizer. I wondered how I could let her know I was on her side without letting her down, for I wanted rest. Tim wonder—fell asleep. But I quickly found that not only was this nice woman a Jehovah’s Witness, but she was also more than prepared to convert me. A half an hour must have passed before I could accept the invitation for her literature and escape the relentless, cunningly coy preacher-woman.

The relationships of the rest of that day were a bit better. I saw an old friend from Forham University, who I have great affections for, I zipped up to Times Square to have lunch with my cousin, who I have great affections for, and I had some coffee at a diner with my friend from the Bronx, who I have great affections for. My heart was full as I collected my luggage and got on the A train once again for the hour long ride to JFK airport. Had I been alone on the train I might’ve found some sleep, but that was not going to be the case. The train was packed from start to finish and I was on my feet the whole time, exhausted. Two-and-a-half hours later we were boarding our plane and taking off and by that time, I was thirsty for sleep. It would be an overnight flight to Kiev, Ukraine, a perfect place to rest, but AeroSvit is certainly no British Air. The temperature on that plane was just low enough that even the little sleep one could have had in the discomfort of those seats was denied me. I resolved to pacing up and down the aisles finding small vents which pumped out a fairly pathetic warmth. It was enough to satisfy.

Church 1

We rolled into Kiev at noon their time and God-knows-what my time. I was ecstatic to get into the sun and let my marrow warm up. It took more time than it needed to get into the city, but our brains weren’t on full capacity. We had an eleven hour layover so we decided to get out and explore and even though I was running on a long nap’s worth of sleep, the day was a success. Kiev is not the most beautiful city, but we visited an area dense with old, golden-domed churches and little street shops selling beer and trinkets.

Church 2

Church 3

It wasn’t until the return to the airport that my bubble was burst. We transferred flights from AeroSvit to El Al, the Israeli airline and their security was not about to let us waltz on the plane unchecked. It was a good thing we were three hours early because it took them that entire time to empty all of our belongings on a table and sift through them item-by-item. Occasionally an object would be brought to our attention: “Whose is this?” “Uh…mine.” And then we would answer questions about its purpose and why we own it. We each got a full-body check that included dropping our drawers like we were in the doctors office; at least the young man performing this task was nice about it. I wasn’t sure if they would let us on with our all-too-truthful answers about our intentions in Israel, but we were admitted: the very last two to board.

Anxiety kept me up on that trip, but at least it was only 3 hours long. In Ben Gurion, the airport at Tel Aviv, we went through three similar hours of questioning in back rooms with intimidating women who scowled behind sharp glasses and spoke threats through deceptive questions. But finally we were let in with both a tourist’s visa and warnings about our stay here. I gladly accepted and left. All I wanted to do was get out of the airport and find my way home.

Tel Aviv sunset

But Tim and I stayed in Tel Aviv, relaxing on the beach waiting for his “suspicious” luggage to arrive, which it didn’t. So after a sweaty, fitful night in a hostel we headed southeast to Khalil. I left Freeport at five in the evening on Tuesday; it was noon on Saturday. With a 7 hour time difference, that’s 72 hours of travel.

There is no place like home. And 12 hours of sleep never tasted so good. 

…count to one

Mostafa and I

The grapes hang heavy and low now; one month and they will swell with royalty. They form a canopy, a shade from the sun. They are a decoration, like Christmas lights that glow green, pregnant with promise.

One week and I will visit home for 15 days (and by home I mean Maine, where kale and dandelions no doubt wait for me, and I for them, eagerly). I look forward to the trip, not the travel, nor the torment I will undoubtedly suffer in my underwear at Ben Gurion Airport (they don’t seem to like internationals who spend time in the West Bank). I will not speak Arabic, that is for sure, since that has already got me into a bit of trouble with the Israeli securities elsewhere, and I will play dumb, as if Palestine means little more to me than one summer abroad.

Tareq

One week and my time at the Excellence Center will be over. It went by so quickly, day after day in this school, lesson planning, teaching, eating. My second home’s here; my first family. But I don’t think it will be the end of our relationship. No, this place will continue to be a hoverground for Tim and I, a place to land safe feet, a roof always open. We will sit there and say, “its just like old times. Remember when…” and our love for Palestine will always be sweetened with the welcome here. And by staying in our apartment we will live with the male interns that pass through the Excellence Center over the months so the relationship will only change.

Omar

One week and Ramadan begins, where, for one month, Khalil will essentially shut down while everyone fasts between the green glow of twilights. And when they hear that call to prayer broadcasted from the minaret’d hills, they’ll eat, smoke and finally drink something. Tim and I will return here and get to celebrate the second half of Ramadan with our suffering brethren. At Ramadan’s end we’ll experience the delight of Eid al-Fitr, the “christmas” of Islam, where it is tradition to feast for three days, buy new clothes and visit family, as far as I know.

Mahmoud

One month and we will begin a new job teaching English in Palestine (this time for pay), which will allow us to stay here for one year and take Arabic lessons and go to haflas and hold hands and kiss and finally, hopefully converse beyond the wide shallow pools we have been splashing in thus far. And falafel will become less of a daily affair, for we will be able to afford kitchenware, but always a recurring fling, for we won’t be able to completely divorce from it.

Noor

And I will continue to live among this cluster of sweet Himonys. And I will swell with pride to bear their name. And I will count each one you see here as my friend and brother...


But between then and now, one great vacation.

…lift something

Two days ago was the 4^th of July and even though I know it happened, I have no memories of celebrating the fourth outside of America’s borders. So here’s to making memories. I allowed a bit of homesickness to be shaken, not stirred, with a bit of pride. I put on some red, white and blue and planned a hamburger-and-corn-on-the-cob-and-potato-salad dinner over a campfire in the nearby countryside. Two Danes, an Aussie, a Kiwi and a Palestinian celebrated with we-three-Americans and joined in reveling in our rebellious histories where we defied great Britain and lifted off the yoke of bondage. I suppose that’s a bit dramatic but hey, it’s the Fourth. Lets get dramatic. The Danes spoke of freedom from the Nazi occupation, the Oceanics dreamed of a queen-less future and the helicopters overhead said enough for our Palestinian friend.

We sang the appropriate patriotic songs (this rendition of “The Star Spangled Banner” was the most meaningful of my whole life), and ended the evening with some illegal fireworks. Between those and some successful cooking over the campfire, we agreed that our dads would have been so proud. The night was thoroughly American.

And I was happy for the evening off. Some classes were cancelled so we could celebrate and my aching body rested from going to the gym. Yes, I’ve been going to the gym. Codo Gym, where flexing bodybuilders and WWE champions glare down at me with their shining build and skimpy undies.

One of my many encounters with a native has turned from pal to gym-buddy. Walking home one day, I met Karram, who looks exactly like a blue-less Avatar; he works at a men’s clothing shop that I pass everyday, and so another pit-stop was added to my commute. A couple of days later he asked me if I wanted to go the gym. Never before have I answered ‘yes’ with such confidence, for after two months of sitting at a desk and eating bread-with-anything, I really wanted to go to the gym, really. My only hang-up: he didn’t get out of work until 10pm. Late, but worth it, even with my mornings being cut shorter. It’s a necessary evil, I suppose, to vanquish the real enemies: muffin topper and lethargisizer.

And it was immediately satisfying.

It is a funny kind of gym, though. Without any women it is a kind of frat-house where some bros are chubby, some are fit, and some are stuck in the 90s with oversized biceps and chests and hair parted down the middle. The equipment is mostly good, but there is only one or two of each machine. And the treadmill stares right into a mirror, so you can see every loose section of flesh flail as you sweat and grunt and regret what you had for lunch. Running has always been good for self-reflection, I suppose.

But weights are weights and, despite the use of kilos as measurement, they work just fine. So I lift them. And though I am there to stay fit and active, I am turning into the gym entertainer. See, I am American so I must know great workout music. They ask me about Eminem and 50 Cent and play music that sends me back to high school dances and then take the weights out of my hand and demand that I teach them to dance like an American. I dodge this by joking, “you need a woman to dance like we do in the states.” They laugh and high-five me; it suffices. Back to weights.

It doesn’t happen like this in the States. No, when I enter the gym here I greet the other usuals with handshakes and smiles and waves to those who are momentarily weighed down. They shout out “Marhabbah Wisam!” I hold a membership for “Wisam Himony,” which is my Arabic name. Here I am always Wisam. I fill up my water bottle, wave to the men ironically smoking by the window, and get started.

But on the Fourth, I was Simon. I lifted the Arab identity and remembered the eye-contact-less gyms of the States where we pretend we are the only ones in the room. I skipped the Arab frat party for my own American one. And as my family in Maine camped in the woods without me, I set off some fireworks and celebrated a home-away-from-home. And on Thursday, I was Wisam again.