How does one get acquainted with people in a foreign land with a foreign tongue? In what medium are cultural characteristics most fully displayed to an “outsider?” Where do I have to go to even begin to understand Palestine through the people here?
These have been questions that I have asked myself over and over throughout my three months in this “holy land.” I would like to say that, at my age, I am fairly well traveled and have seen a fair amount of the world. But I don’t believe I have really experienced the places I have been. In New Zealand, I was able to comfortably live in a friend’s home and not have to worry about an inability to converse with the locals (besides the accent). In Germany and Europe I was able to latch onto my fellow colleagues in study and stay removed from the local culture and language. And here in Jerusalem, once again, I have lived in a comfortable situation along side family and fellow internationals, rarely having to, or being able to, engage the local people on a deeper level than “how are you?, Good, how are you?...”
Of course in each experience abroad I have had glimmers of deeper penetration into the lives of the locals and I have come away from my travels cherishing these moments much more than I value seeing the trillions of bricks that make the millions of churches all over the world. Uninhibited conversations at bars, cooking in my flat in Germany with my German roommates, joining in on festivities like baptisms and marriages; these have been highlights of my travels. But rarely have I had the opportunity to be invited to enter into the most sacred of places, the place where one’s understanding of lifestyles can be deepest. Especially in the Palestinian culture this sacred and very protected place is the home and the family. Azzam, one employee of St. Georges, and a man that I have come to know well here, invited Jill, Stephen, Mark, our course chaplain, and I to his home in Bethany for dinner.
Earlier that day I was at a convent that overlooked the Old City called Sisters of Abraham. From the vantage point on the roof I could almost see Azzam's home in Bethany. But separating us from his home was the Wall. A distance of less than 2 miles, in which employees at St. Georges say they used to be able to make in twenty minutes, could now take them up to two hours from home to work because of the wall. Even driving there that night In an Israeli plated car took half an hour. Bethany, which used to be a neighboring community with Jerusalem, just on the other side of the Mount of Olives is now a distant Palestinian town that is gradually being encircled by illegal settlements.
But I digress. When we arrived at Azzam's home we were immediately greeted with a glass of fresh lemonade from his wife and shy greetings from his four wonderful children. His greeting room was well furnished in comfortable Islam green couches and armchairs, perfectly capable of hosting a very nice gathering. I thoroughly enjoyed his family. He had two beautiful daughters that he raved about how smart they were and two young boys. The oldest girl helped her mother while the younger girl lost herself in her room playing, oddly enough, Grand Theft Auto on her computer. The two boys were full of energy. The older of the two was definitely a free spirit. He would wander around conspicuously looking for trouble with his younger brother. The youngest boy provided a riot of laughter for us. At one point he grabbed a toy radio and started screaming into the device what equated in English as “OVER AND OUT” for almost five minutes. Azzam clearly was looking for some peace and quite from the boys but when I, and the rest of our party, started to laugh hysterically at the innocence of this Azzam could only laugh as well.
The meal was a traditional Palestinian meal of vegetables in rice, chicken, Arabic salad, olives and pickles. It was prepared perfectly by his wife and her sister earlier in the day. The meal was followed by fruit for dessert, Arabic coffee, then and a sweet of some sort like baklava. One of my clearest memories of this night was being absolutely stuffed by the amount of food throughout the night. Not the meal in particular but all of the desserts and coffees and other wonderful treats that we were presented before and after the meal. After eating at Azzam’s we also visited another employee of St. George’s, Khalil, who was recovering from recent back surgery and had been off his feet for a while. Khalil’s house was gorgeous and, just as Azzam’s, a receptive environment. After our initial greetings of three kisses of the cheeks, we were presented another round of coffee, treats, etc. This was about the tipping point for me but I couldn’t reject the gracious offer of more baklava.
As I reread this last passage it seems that all I brought away from this experience was a full stomach. But actually I came away more enriched understanding of the Palestinian way of life. The community aspect of this lifestyle is so strong. I consider myself blessed to have grown up in the uber-supportive community of Genesee, and from this perspective I can honestly say that I would not hesitate, in fact I would prefer, to raise a kid in a Palestinian community or one like it. In my mind, this is one of the biggest tragedies of the conflict on the ground. As the Palestinian are continually , systematically pressured to leave, so is the traditional lifestyle that has lived unchanged for generations. And this can never be reclaimed.
Reflecting on this point makes me even more appreciative of where my friends and I learned to live, and this appreciation I can only hope to begin to express. But it also makes me appreciative of the environment that still exists in the untarnished parts of the world. I know that Palestinians aren’t the first and certainly not the last people/lifestyle/culture to deteriorate because of neocolonialism but for the first time I have been able to relate this loss for these people to the feeling that I would have if it were Genesee and not Palestine. I am eternally grateful to the families of Azzam and Khalil for opening their doors to me.
Don’t be afraid to open a door
Warren
