A Tale of a Fateful Trip (Part Three)

The second morning of our trip, Rula ignores her alarm. One of my major pet peeves is being startled awake, so hearing “Imma Be” over and over again while she sleeps leaves me…put out. Our late start (which, by my standards, is still a startling 8am) also annoys Yousef, who is clearly over our charms, and is ready to be rid of us. The continental breakfast is a bizarre mix of croissants, cold cereal, and labana. I drink two cups of lukewarm coffee before giving up on proper caffeination, and we begin our journey to Yaffa.

Like Akka, Yaffa is one of the oldest cities in Palestine, also known for its port. Yousef drops us off at the “top” of the old city, which looks out over the ocean and the new city. Yaffa is, in a word, charming. The old city’s architecture is stunning, and it’s been maintained kindly. Next to it, skyscrapers play with the skyline and it’s the easiest metaphor for Palestine: old and new, tradition made modern. Unlike other cities we’ve visited, Yaffa’s population is composed of mostly Jewish Israelis. So here, the transition into Yaffa from Arab spaces is abrupt. In other places the Arab and Israeli bleed into one another, resisting the separation we all seem so intent on.

The city has planted gardens in every available space so that every angle, every view is a postcard, picture perfect. Rula is naturally delighted by this, and I spend some time reprising my role as professional photographer. I think if you can’t make beauty here, there’s no chance for you at all. Magically, Rula disappears each time I’d like to include myself in the scenery, so I make due with landscapes and details  unmarred by my comparative homeliness. In the old city, there is a sturdy rope bridge alongside one of the gardens. The ropes are linked with bronzed cylinders, each featuring a different sun sign. Legend holds that if you stand on the bridge, look out to the sea and make a wish, your wish will come true. Not one to miss such opportunities, I make mine grand. I feel like every holy site I’ve visited has come to this, acting from hope, hope a substitution for faith, or maybe a version of it.

Rula and I decide to walk alongside the ocean, on the pebbled promenade to the Yaffa port. The sea is sparkling and seductive, each crashing wave inviting the next. I am taken with her completely, resent Yousef waiting for us, resent that we’re here only for the day, and can’t go swimming. The sea is right there. Cars park in between glass and concrete shrines to capitalism and passengers take a five minute walk to sandy beaches. I imagine cubicle bound workers coming to eat lunch on the beach. I imagine teaching nearby, students asking to hold class amidst sun bathers. Could I resist?

Our walk is long, the sun doubly reflected off the water, so we barely reach the port before Yousef is ringing Rula’s cell, trying to hurry us along to the next leg of our journey: Jerusalem. Despite my repeated attempts to enter the city, or perhaps because of them, I am completely unprepared for the Old City, the massive wall that surrounds it, the seven gates. My breath catches in my throat and my eyes well. I chide myself over how many absurd tears I’ve cried on this trip but I can’t make myself see sense. The city is so changed, so foreign, but my body recognizes it, greets it like a lost lover. Here is where Lemma and I caught taxis to Jerusalem School, here is where Jacob helped me put in my new earring, here is where we bought falafel and ka’ak on the way home from school. I’m flooded with memories and they are crushing my air channels. Even entering the city I already feel its loss.

Yousef drops us off at one of the highest points in the city, looking down on the Old City, and we walk down, stopping at the Garden of Gethsemane to marvel over the 8 olive trees that have existed since before we changed our watches to AD. Here, a man gives us scarves to drape over our shoulders as we enter holy sites. The deference, like all things, turns a profit and he demands we pay him for the service. We haggle over the price, which seems petty now, and our argument escalates to insults, at which point I refuse to pay. Rula won’t engage, shrugging her shoulders passively so I am left only with aggression, and we walk away, down the slope, his words rolling behind us.

By the time we reach a gate into the city, the Lion’s Gate, we are exhausted and over-heated. We buy water at tourist prices and make our way inside. The sook is just as I remember. Lively, colorful, fragrant. I banter with shop keepers who treat me, for the first time in my visit, as an Arab and not a foreigner. I buy earrings and a necklace, a bag of Turkish Delight. Rula and I feast on falafel sandwiches in the center of the grocery market hustle and bustle. We visit the Holy Sepulchre, where Jesus woke up. In my excitement about the sook, I honestly forget to visit the other holy sites until we are long gone. But I’m content with the trip. I fear that if I see too much, do too much, I won’t be able to hold on to my memories of a happier time here. The reality of now is already intruding with the receding then, and I can’t bear to lose anymore–the image of Jacob and I making our way through the cities arches, him holding my hand secretly as we perused jewelry. The image of a woman blessing my mother’s children, and my mother stopping mid-stride to give her money. The taste of licorice sticks on my tongue, the rich smell of the spice bins.

We make our way out of the Old City through the Damascus gate (Bab Al A’mood), the gate we used to enter through. Bab Al A’mood has remained just so-boys playing soccer in the courtyard, young and old folks sitting on the steps, smoking, speaking, being. Rula and I sit for a while, and I take in as much as I can. Its sameness is a salve for the change in the city, for Jerusalem has been excavated of most of its Arabs, and it seems like we are only here, in the Old City, a tiny bubble that may pop at any moment. We make our way back to the buses for Beit Lehem since Yousef has abandoned us for good. The bus sits 30 minutes before leaving, and I think this is enough time to pull myself together and not cry (again). I’m wrong. As soon as the bus pulls out, I cry under my sunglasses, surreptitiously sniffling so the man next to me won’t notice. I leave my lover for the third time, and for the second time, I have no idea when I can return.

The bus drops us off at Mahsoom Beit Lehem, where we go through Israeli security to return to the Palestinian territories. The solider looks at my passport, looks for a visa, but asks nothing. She hands it to me and we make our way back through the gates and turnstiles in the sun on the other side of the wall, where fruit vendors ply cucumbers at 10 shekels a tray, and a yellow taxi cab waits to take us home.

hot flashes

Beit Sahour is having some kind of heat wave. Today the actual temperature is 102 degrees, and it feels hotter outside. Here, the houses are built to keep cool in the summer, and warm in the winter, so we go without AC. It’s actually fine, if you don’t move from under the high speed ceilings fans. Yesterday and the day before I made the mistake of leaving this haven, to visit the Church of the Nativity in Beit Lehem and Ramallah respectively.

***

I’ve been inside the cool walls of the Church before, crouching low to enter; high ceilings add grace to the wide, square belly of the cathedral. Ahead the altar is ornate, trimmed with gold while opulent light fixtures with red glass hang low, leading up the center aisle. Off to the right is a small room with sculptures and framed painting of saints. There are two stands filled with sand, where one can place and light a candle in prayer. Though long from my religiosity, these kinds of rituals soothe me, so I light two: first for our dead, a second for our living. Instead of a left wall, a semi-circular, steep stairwell leads to a second small altar, constructed around a star, the spot where Jesus was supposedly born (I don’t suspect the birth per se, but merely its location). Still, the room is thick with age and incense–the feeling of many old churches. I kneel in front of it, belief notwithstanding, since it feels wrong not respect what has driven and divided centuries of people. The marble is cool and hard beneath my knees, and I incline my head lower and say a short prayer from muscle memory. I cross myself, too, from habit, before standing to leave from another semi circle of now ascending stairs on the opposing side. These stairs lead to another room of artistically rendered saints, and back to the main cavern. Lubnah’s kids are supposed to be there, but they have disappeared.

Outside the light is dazzling. I hear a wedding party approach: the bride is moving slowly as a crowd of her family sings folk songs as they usher her into the church. I can barely see her amidst the crowd, and my first thoughts are whimsical. I too know these songs, love them. I want to join in, but not only am I stranger to the family, I appear as a stranger to the land, and wouldn’t want to intrude. My second thoughts are practical: she must be melting in this heat. The kids are sitting, waiting on a stone bench next to the entrance. We maneuver out of the square, past the party, and head into Beit Lehem’s old city (which was not called old when I lived here) to search for postcards and cold drinks.

***

We take tareeq wad il nar to get to Ramallah. The yellow van we ride in is newer than Saalih’s, and the driver seems to be as well, so the curves of the valley become even more exaggerated. Sitting between my sister and a stranger, my body leans side to side with each turn. The hour long trip around Jerusalem costs 18 shekels; luckily, this van has AC, so we arrive in decent condition. Ramallah positively bustles with energy. Shopkeepers stand in their doorways, inviting patrons in with “itfadaloo, ahla wa sahla.” When they peg us as foreigners, they lower their pitch with a slick “welcome, welcome.” Little boys with bubble gum walk close to your side, trying to get your attention, make a sale. They bless your father, your mother. One asked that God keep my husband safe. I give him a shekel for irony’s sake.

We stop at the Stars and Bucks for something to drink, for which I am eternally grateful. The sign, the logo, the colors are so deceptive. I love the complete disrespect for copyright here. I especially love it because Starbucks, in addition to brewing bad coffee and charging for Wi-Fi, contributes to Zionist campaigns in Israel. Here, on the other side of the wall, Stars and Bucks does a kind of Starbucks drag, and my Butlerian heart celebrates. After our cold coffee break, we meet up with Lubnah’s cousin, Abeer, and she takes us to a couple of specialty shops before the heat conquers–we plan to visit with a couple more of Lubnah’s cousins later, but kill time first by heading to an outdoor restaurant.

Sangria’s is a lush garden with a fully stocked bar; I can only assume it shares a kind of heritage with Eden. We sit in the shade, at a table under a massive raspberry tree, and each time someone picks a berry, a handful of riper ones fall. We eat fruit from the trees, Abeer and I order the only Palestinian beer available(on the menu and elsewhere) Taybeh, on draft. It’s crisp and cooling and delicious. The kids order food that the adults mooch. Marie, per her custom, befriends ever male working person in the joint, and they play an extended game of hide and seek, where the staff hides Marie’s new toy, and Marie cons them into revealing its location rather than searching in the traditional manner. In the garden the temperature slowly cools, and I am sad to leave it. I am sure it’s gorgeous at night, full of football fans watching the Cup, cheering and smoking argiylah.

We visit with Aamer and Yara for a bit in their 4th floor apartment. It’s a surreal living space, decorated in minimalist modern walnut furniture, splashed with textiles in bright, folky designs. They’re a sweet couple, albeit read as the black sheep, because Aamer is Christian and Yara Muslim. He’s a cartoonist, she works at a non-profit, and they don’t have children (so rare).  Their lives let me imagine, for a brief minute, that I too could live here. Chic apartment in the city, a lifestyle just outside the norm but not so far as to be foreign. Yara asks me if I would consider moving back, and the illusion breaks. I don’t think I could. I don’t know how to be myself here. But I also tell her anything is possible; my intentions are more often upended than not.

Aamer agrees to watch Marie and Jacob for a few hours while Abeer, Yara, Lubnah, Rachel and I visit Yasser Arafat’s grave. His mausoleum is stone and glass, guarded by a number of armed soldiers. Behind it you can see the compound where he was under house arrest in 2002. Arafat had wanted, as I understand, to be buried in Jerusalem, but was not allowed to do so by Israel. Instead, he was buried in Ramallah, with a spotlight pointed toward the city. That, too, Israel ended. Now, a sign outside the memorial reads “Jerusalem: 14.63 km.” Like Arafat, we are all so close, and yet inexplicably far.  I traveled 9640.94km from Detroit to Beit Lehem, and can’t make it another 15.

After Arafat, we visit Mahmoud Darwish’s grave. There is significantly less fanfare. In place of Arafat’s three bright Palestinian flags at full mast, is one tattered and faded one. The grave looks old, though it’s only been in place for 2 years, as though it hasn’t been cared for very well. My sentimentality is in overdrive, and maybe because death has been so close this trip, I mourn for Darwish in a way I can’t for Arafat. here, I think, is the truth. Someone and something beautiful now mostly forgotten, mostly in disrepair. We should all be so lucky, to be so loved, and maybe lucky, too, to be left in peace from armed guards and frustrated expectations.

We go from Darwish back to Aamer, pick up the kids to have ice cream at Abeer’s parents’ house. The ice cream is locally made, the name of the brand, “Baladna” means our country. The ice cream is sweet and tangy but my mood grows subdued and bitter. Baladna is a another kind of parody, a joke at our own expense. To move from one so called Palestinian territory to another there are Israeli checkpoints, even though we cannot, are not, allowed to pass through Israeli ones. The guards don’t stop our car, but I know they do stop. I know they do harass, beat, abuse, incarcerate other travelers. Palestine is a constant state of house arrest, and now, an adult, I can’t even escape into hallucinations and nose bleeds as I did as a child when we faced literal house arrests.

Ahead of us, wad il nar at night is embers, mostly black and sooty with flecks of light. I can’t see the path around me, so the movement of the car is more like a roller coaster now than it was in the day. Who knows what turns or twists lie ahead? Who knows our future?

***

Today, I am camped out on my bed, mainlining fluids and slathering my travel worn feet with lotion. My parents are doing the funeral circuit, since a second family member passed the day after mourning rituals finished for the first. They are bored with death, which is both cruel and understandable. The latest, Madeleine Salsa, died with her eyes open which signifies, in superstition, that another death is coming. Who knows what Madeleine saw? Who knows our future?

Suspending Disbelief

When I was a wee lass, my parents took us to Catholic church services every Sunday. On Christmas Eve, we went to the Midnight Mass, held, conveniently, at midnight. This was and is my favorite mass. In fact, it is the only service I attend at all anymore. Every December 24th, I head over to my family’s church, even if my parents have chosen to attend another mass. Every year, I remember why I don’t attend services except for the one time.

I guess when I was little, Midnight Mass was special because we were allowed to open one present when we got home from church. So, while Sundays were trials with no real payoff (except, I suppose, everlasting life), Christmas Mass meant presents. And really, when I was very young, I could even take a little nap during service and my parents still applauded our effort.

When we all got older, and when we were too dignified to chomp at the present bit, our Christmas tradition changed a little. We still went to Midnight Mass, but after, we would head over to the home of my oldest sister, and have breakfast at 2am. Then she would give us her presents, and we would head home, full of bacon and cheer.

Now, my oldest sister doesn’t live in the same country, let alone the same city, and our traditions have shifted yet again. Now, I go to midnight mass, sometimes alone. During services, I bite my tongue at what I hear the priest suggest. I play a game where I change all the pronouns in the reading from male to female. I scope out the pews to see if anyone I know is still attending. Really, it’s almost disrespectful, my presence, but I do it for three moments. Two are incredibly precise: first,  the moment at the beginning of mass where they light the room from the back. The light travels up the aisle as the organ reaches its crescendo and I feel…something. The vibrations in the air? My pupils contract? The spirit of something greater than I can imagine? Maybe it’s just the collective effervescence of so many people in one room, experiencing the subtle and effective metaphor.

The second precise moment is after the Lord’s prayer, when everyone is still holding hands. The priest does a little spiel, and the congregation responds with “For the kingdom, and the power and the glory are Yours, now and forever” as we raise our linked hands slightly higher, at about the level of our hearts. I suppose I never realized how tyrannical that phrase is until I wrote it out just now. It’s almost absurd: I can recite every moment of Mass with frightening clarity; years and years of attendance have made the creeds and the refrains a kind of muscle memory. I only need to be in the proximity of a wooden pew, the smell of incense in the air and it rolls off my tongue like I’m still a believer. Perhaps that too is a kind of grace.

The third thing I go for is less of a moment. I love when people sing together. Lots of people, easy songs. Even if there isn’t a beautiful singer in the bunch, something about all those voices working collectively gets to me. And maybe it was in church that I learned how to lead a call and response at a rally, or get a roomful of people to chant Cunt over and over again.

After mass, I come home to wherever I’m living, and have a quiet evening with my pets. In the morning, I visit my third sister for breakfast and presents. Later, we go to my parents house for dinner, and at around nine, weary from over exposure, I gather my bounty and head home. I get to my quiet apartment, and almost weep with gratitude. There are no children crying. There are no rude brothers in law. There are no awkward uncles, or snooty aunts. There is just me, my cats, my thoughts.

And here’s what I think. I lost something crucial at some point in the last few years. Aside from the obvious, I lost the ability to take my family in whole, to like them unconditionally. I’ve grown more solitary, perhaps more selfish or self involved. I’ve lost the joy in just being together with them. The comfort of my father’s hand on mine at church, the grace of my sisters as the kneel during services. More cynical, more short-tempered; the easy acceptance of a child in exchange for the blithe rejection of adulthood.

Now, when I get home at the end of Christmas day, I find myself nostalgic for a time where we all still liked each other (mostly), a time where I didn’t feel guilty and angry at my parents, disappointed in my siblings, hurt by emotional and physical absences that color all our interactions. And I wonder, sitting here in my lovely quiet apartment, on a real bed and not the couch or air mattress, will I have the opportunity to miss this moment? Or will I simply grow to resent the isolation I crave? I wonder, can I get back to the place we inhabited as children? Can we love each other in those pure generous ways? Do we want to?