Moving in waves

Friday day/il jum3a:
"Ya okht, ta3ali jambee...bideesh a kon jambha hay," the man said to me. We were both drops in the wave of people that was trying to push through Bab il 3omood. He was swimming next to two female tourists who were laughing at the mosh pit that had engulfed them. My Muslim brother was not having it. I obliged.

This azma was caused by a mixture of post-salat il juma3 Muslims trying to make their way home, vendors trying to make their way to their stands and to sales, and tourists just trying to make their way. It was not fun or funny. It was hot, I was still wearing my prayer garb, an 3abay and esharb (which made it even hotter), and I, along with the rest of my crew, was holding several bags of groceries and clothes that we had purchased in the souq.

Whatever dam had held us in was finally opened after several long minutes. When I saw the opening of Bab il 3omood, it was quite literally a light at the end of a tunnel, and a breath of fresh air.

Friday night/eve of Shabat:
We had returned from our pass through mukhayam Jalozon, evening trist at ZAMN, walk through ma7soomt Qalandiya, and bumpy bus ride back to Al Quds. It was time to kazdir to find an ATM and take a tour of Maisa's YMCA stomping grounds.

We walked right into a wave of people: Three Muslim-Arab girls walking toward the Old City; swells of Jewish familes, fresh from Temple, walking away. I quite literally felt like a salmon with a survivalist attitude, swimming against a current. The groups varied in size and gender, but all were donned in traditional Jewish/siknaj garb: black jackets and pants, curled hair, head coverings, long dresses. Everyone looked the same, save us.

The crowds walked freely and scattered in the fresh air--they were not held in by any invisible force as I had been after my prayer several hours earlier.

I wonder if anyone asked a comrade to switch places so that he or she would not accidentally brush up against one of us? Doubtful considering they had plenty of space to flow. And even if so, I would've been able to tell--many of them were speaking English.

Nescafe, TV, and shari3 il Khala

There really aren't any things like these At Tour nights.

It's a rule that neither Ahmed or I can go to sleep before 1 a.m., even when he has an imti7an several hours later. Tonight is his turn to make the Nescafe. After all, I've made it the past two nights for him (opting for lighter faux organic Chai that I brought with me for myself--I dunk the kershela regardless of the beverage).

These nights have become legendary to nonparticipants. I fill them in about the various conversations that Ahmed and I have--most often, about the perils of 16-year-olds' player-dom and heartbreak along the pot-holed pass of shari3 il Khala and those streets that branch off and toward it. "Low b tihtem fl mudrasa zay ma b tihtem fl banat, kan kont alif alif ya la3eeb," I tell him.

Break: Ahmed is telling me about the latest developments with his ex-soon-to-be-girlfriend-again. He's all smiles.

He is sitting on the long couch by the door, remote in hand, Nescafe by side, focused on the Egyptian film on TV.

Break: "Reem, shoofee, shoofee..." Ahmed is recapping this film for me. He likes to do that. I learn about the background story, present story, and rest of the story before I see the next scene.

I am sitting on the head of the single-seat couch. My back is against the open window, my left side inside the house, my right side outside. This is how I capture my nightly view of shari3 il Khala and of the only-seen-here scene of At Tour lit up and asleep at the same time: farthest lights, 3amman; closer, il jidar, closest, the dow that spills out from under il karmeed that covers dukan 3afif (formerly Sitti's store). 3afif is smoking argeelah, and likely watching and hearing the same cars and people pass as I am. This is what al Towara choose to look at--each other--even while the whole of the Holy Land rests madwee and serene before them. If it wasn't 3ayb in these parts, I likely would join 3afif downstairs. I guess I really am one of them.

Break: I hear yelling. Ahmed sees the look on my face, and yells, "tosha??" while running to the window to confirm. "La, La..bes wa7d b sayi7."

Towash is the second most popular topic of Ahmed's and my conversations. I have been here eight days now and have yet to witness one. That's a good thing for the relationships of the people of shari3 il Khala but not for the entertainment of their guests.

Break: The Nescafe needs its kershela. I grab one with simsim; Sitti likes the plain ones.

I won't be taking a box of kershela with me when I leave. It doesn't belong in the Virginia experience. It wouldn't taste the same. Kershela and I only have a connection here, fee dar Sitti, on these couches, with these hot drinks, in front of these films, and above this shari3.

Break: Ahmed is telling about the jundee that was yelling, "ya wlad il 7ameer, low zaqatkom bes...." chasing after Touree kids accused of throwing rocks at a bus full of siknaj. Ahmed ran and hid 3nd Abu Khalil eventhough he had not thrown a rock. He had been sitting with his friend, checking out the girls, when the action started.

No, there really aren't any things like these At Tour nights. I have about 17 more before I leave. I miss them already.

Drive

Being a passenger in the car of a new driver: that is the experience that will drive the story-telling for Amal. Reverse a centi: this new driver was not exactly new but I'm guessing this is the first time she drove this particular road for this particular trip, and Amal was a lucky tag-a-long. And I'm guessing, based on the story I was told, that this was one of the first times that she drove at all. Sitti warned me about partaking in this trip. I ended up making my own new experience as a passenger in a pickup truck that night. I'm glad I listened to Sitti.

But this blog is about Amal and about the trip that I doubt I'll stop hearing about any time soon. Ironically, I had been studying the bus drivers' book with Sameer a day earlier, learning about the signs and rules of the roads in Palestine. We debated over who had the right of way in certain situations, and we discussed the differences and similarities between the isharat in the U.S. and Palestine.

Oopsie...back to Amal...

Every time we pass a sign or area on the road, it inspires a recall of one of the instances that almost ended Amal's life. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head while telling me about a near-turn into a one-way highway entrance; a stand-off with on-coming traffic; hysterical laughing by the other passengers as if near-death was a joke. This was what she remembers most about her first road-trip to Tel Aviv.

That was the same night I took my first pickup truck road-trip to Beit La7m and El Deishe. I had an expert driver that night. He was in complete control, and I was completely trusting while he made a near U-turn onto a dirt road that lead to forgotten areas; a squeeze through the narrow alleyways that were suffocated by graffitti-ed walls and broken-down cars; a pedal-to-the-metal push up unpaved hills that would've made any hiker wish they were climbing Kilimanjaro instead. There was hysteria on this trip too, but it was in the form of grabbing through the truck's bed gates and tearing of bags filled with donated clothes as if not having much meant they should have it all now.

We each had different experiences that night--the similarities were that they each affected our lives, and we would recount them several times more.

Last night was one of those times. Amal and I shared a backseat in a new driver's car. She hadn't practiced driving in a month, and we agreed to be trial passengers. After all, this experience couldn't be any worse or life-affecting than our individual experiences from a couple nights before. We also trusted that the experienced driver (who was now seated on the passenger's side) was watching the new driver carefully. We were comfortable enough to focus on things other than the driving that was going on, although we did take our turns telling her, "id3asee 3al banzeen..yallah, yallah" and asking her, "keef 7asa 7alik hela? mrta7a wila lisa 3ala 3asabik?" We were comfortable enough to recount the other two individual road trips that were now part of our Pali histories.

This road trip was new and easy: The note about this driving experience will likely be trumped by stories about the hungry cat at Abu Kaheel's and the loz u 3asal booza at Andre's. These will more likely drive our story-telling about our joint road-trip to Yaffa.

A very starry night drafted

I took breaks by looking up at the sky, and pointing out the sheet of stars to Shayma'. The sight was breath-taking.

This starry sky was the canopy hanging over the destitute houses we had entered and exited, leaving some foot prints and money and pieces of ourselves behind.

I doubt the inhabitants of these houses pay much attention to the illuminous blanket the covers them--I doubt they care, considering they don't have much to cover their own bodies:

Why would the triplet care about a dot in a dark weightless atmosphere when she sees and feels the burned semi-circles that cuff her arm? Why would the seven children notice a chain of lights when they only could see the backs of each others' heads as they sleep in rows in one room on one floor--a room that doesn't fit the two other younger siblings who sleep in a corner near a door? Why would the mother find her diamond up above when she worries about protecting her son from the F-16s and Apaches that wake them up every night, and worries about the imprisoned husband that has yet to meet his son?

"3ndik billaphone?" Everyone wanted to give me their phone number. I have one written by An3am on my hand now.

"Don't forget us." The number of times I heard that tonight is quite close to the number of stars I counted in the sky. How can I forget after experiencing this kind of show and tell? How can I collect enough clothes and money to help these people out? There are so many stars in Beit La7m and mukhayam El Deishe, it's difficult to even imagine being able to help each one shine a bit brighter.

There will be more to come from this story...my eyes and brain are seeing too many stars to continue right now.

A friendly competition

I made a friend before I landed in matar El Lod.

We made introductions in Newark--he heard me speaking Arabic on the phone, looked at me, and wasn't quite sure if I was really an Arab. After all, my hair is red and I have freckles on my face, and that is not the typical Palestinian/Arab look.

But I am, and he realized that pretty quickly. And just as quickly, we became line buddies. We made our introductions and learned as much as we could about each other while standing in the boarding line and dealing with the drunk security guard who seemingly wanted in on our conversation. We humored him, but focused on each other.

We apparently became such good friends to outside observers, that we were both stopped by Border Patrol before boarding the plane. "Are you traveling together?" she asked me about him. "No," I said, "We just met standing in line." As he and I were pulled aside, my original travel buddy continued uninterrupted to the plane. New York/Ramallah and I were pulled into a side room for the interrogation. My Palestine-trip airport experience had begun before I ever left the U.S. This was definitely something new.

"How much money are you taking with you? Do you have international currency? Can you show me your money please?" Those were some of the questions the polite security guard asked me. "You're allowed up to $10,000," she said. I laughed: "I don't think I even have $10,000 in all of my bank accounts combined." She laughed, and continued to inspect my purse.

I saw out of the corner of my eye that he was laughing to, and found out later that his answer was, "I have no cash..only my debit card."

We finally boarded the plane. And that was the end of the first session of our friendship. The second session would begin a movie and a half later.

After I finished "He's Just Not That Into You," and reached the mid-point of "Bride Wars," I decided it was time to stretch the legs, and went to do so by the make-shift stretching post by the lavatories. Soon after, NewYork/Ramallah decided to take a break and join me. Session No. 2 began: work, music, phone numbers, school, friends, family, food--all was discussed. Thirty minutes had passed; I returned to my seat and he to his. We wouldn't chat again until matar El Lod.

Friendship session No. 3 started with a challenge: Who would leave the airport first--the unshaven, Arab-looking guy with Osama in his name or the redhead realized-as-Arab-by-name girl with freckles? I guaranteed him it would not be me and my friend, but had second thoughts--I knew he'd be tough competition.

And it was a tough competition that lasted about 4 hours and ultimately involved four U.S.-born Palestinians and intervals with a random Turk named Suleiman who had come on business.

I won't go into all of the details of the interrogation sessions, but I wil note that each involved about 7 or 8 key questions: what is your job?, who are you staying with?, why are you here?, do you recognize this person [show picture on computer]?, who is your mom?, who is your dad?, what is your phone number? I'll also note that this series of questions, or a variation of it, was asked about 5 or 6 times by 5 or 6 different people. I'll also note that these sessions involved being moved from and returned to a special room with a TV but no remote, a vending machine, and several chairs. And participants got to see the insides of several offices, and practice reading 3arabee and 3ibree while waiting for the interrogator to finish typing and move on to the next question.

In between the escorted visits to and from the special room and the offices, New York/Ramallah, travel buddy, new Dearborn/Pali friend, and I developed a special bond, and exchanged information. I provided my Pali billaphone so that each could make his or her phone calls to family to say, "I'm here; I'm just still...here." (I'd continue to receive phone calls from new-friend family members for several hours after I had finally made it out.)

"Who would've thought we would make friends in an interrogation room?" Dearborn/Pali said. What other kind of friends would you make in an interrogation room, except fellow Palestinians? Well, maybe those who have an Arab or Muslim name, like the Turkish businessman who joined us for a while..but he left before any of us did, and he was a subordinate player to the main characters of our story.

After the fourth hour, it looked as if New York/Ramallah would win the competition--a solider came out and gave me my passport and said I was free to go. I told my travel buddy that I'd collect our bags and wait for her with our ride (she had been worried about whether the bags had made it, so I wanted to offer that bit of comfort at least).

I said my good-byes and insha'Allah-ed that I'd see the rest of my new Pali quartet on the outside. I exited the special room, walked passed the now-empty passport check points, and proceeded toward the baggage collection area.

I was met by another solider and a closed gate. "May I see your passport?" I handed it to him (they had handled it longer than I had for the past several hours--they pretty much owned it by now).

"Please have a seat."

I sat. A minute later, I was joined by New York/Ramallah. The competition was not quite over.

Apparently, our new visa stamps were "do NOT pass go" passes. We needed to be interrogated again. And we were.

We were told to collect our bags. After doing so, we were escorted to a new room. Our bags needed to be interrogated now too.

I won't go into all of the details of the tafteesh. I will note that they pulled out the Maxwell House coffee and Quaker Oats oatmeal and put them through the X-ray machine. I will also note that after his coffee bags had been X-rayed, New York/Ramallah gave one to me as a momento. It was a bag of Dunkin Donuts Original Blend from one of his dad's franchises. I told him the next I see him, maybe in Ramallah, I'd bring the bag so he could sign it. Neither of us had pens, nor did our Israeli inspectors.

We exited the special room and approached the exit. He would exit first though. I would wait for travel buddy who was waiting inside for Dearborn/Pali who was still waiting for her passport.

So I won the competition.

The prize turned out to be another HOUR of waiting until travel buddy and Dearborn/Pali finally got to visit the special bag tafteesh/interrogation room.

Our plane landed at 10 a.m. Pali time. We left the airport around 3 p.m. The 5+ hours that created this story were condensed to about 10 minutes and recounted 6 or 7 times for the family that was waiting for us in Palestine and the family that was waiting for confirmation of our arrival.

Ultimately, we all won. We got to leave with a 3 month pass. To me, that prize is worth EVERYTHING. It's so worth it, in fact, that I am already training for the next bout several months from now, insha'Allah. Bring it on.

Awake and attune

It's 2:38 a.m. and I am awake. 

My mind is reviewing the chores that await me in the -10 hours I have left in Virginia: exercise, shower, pray, eat, straighten my hair. It is also visually recalling my Palestine: baranda, shari3, Ramallah, 3akka, kazdira. 

Palestine awaits me, and I long for it, and that is keeping me up.

I feel this trip will be different. Of course, each trip has its own charm and its own memories and scratches its own hatch marks on my life. But this one--the one that starts in 600 minutes or so--is escorted by a hint of charity and of change:

It may be the travel companion. She was also the travel companion on my first non-familial vacation. She and I know each other well and do well on trips together. We have similar spirits for adventure--she, slightly more risky than me; I, excited and anxious about following her lead. It's been a good complement, and over the years and the numerous trips, that gap has thinned. We are in tune. My last journey to Palestine began on the same night her journey in marriage began. That is a very revealing statement I realize as I read it again: My last journey to Palestine began on the same night her journey in marriage began. Yes, we are in tune. This trip has been talked about and dreamed about for years. It will be talked about and dreamed about for years to come I'm sure. 

It may be the donations. On each of our separate trips, my fellow traveler and I have collected to give, and we'd each contribute to the other's efforts. Now, we'll combine them. She, the previously riskier of the two of us, has played Good Samaritan, traveling to those in need, and handing the needed to them. We hope to co-op this year. We've already united in the related stress of it all, fuming for being asked to relinquish items for the poor and replace them with U.S. paraphernalia for those who can easily afford it. A synced "uff" was released by us during our venting session on the phone. It was subsequently followed by a simultaneous "iza fee naseeb..." We are still in tune. 

It surely includes the new friends I hope to finally meet in person, and introduce to her. Seeing friends is always a highlight but includes a twinge of hesitation. That hesitation is less about the ceremony of meeting face-to-face for the first time, which normally includes feelings of anxiety about whether the encounter will feel comfortable; it is more about the effort that is involved in arranging the meeting, which always includes feelings of anxiety about how the family will feel about the encounter taking place. Somehow, I always manage to make meetings happen. My risk-taking in this case has evolved over my years of travel to Palestine. This is my trip; this is her trip; and we are both intent on meeting friends. When an opportunity potentially becomes your only chance, you break through the hesitations and make it work. We both agree on that. 

I know this trip will create its own memories and visual recollections that she and I will share and bring back to Virginia. 

It's 3:52 a.m. now. The journey will begin in about 8.5 hours (510 minutes).

I wonder if she is sleeping soundly. I doubt it. I know how she is before she travels. It's similar to how I am. We are in tune. 

Ignore--ance.

It's a shame when ignorance is passed around the world via e-mail.

What's worse is how unaffected I was by that hateful and prejudicial ignoranace that was delivered to my inbox that day.

Worst of all is how surprised I was that someone who was not targeted by the bigotry, armed herself with furious fingers, stabbed letters on a keyboard, and wrote out loud in defense of Islam.

She debated whether she should even send me the note about a young Iranian boy who had allegedly stolen something and was subsequently (allegedly) sentenced to a car plowing for theft. She did "not want to piss me off". After much deliberation, she hit send.

Three pictures of the boy, with his arm placed on a towel, readied for an inevitable running-over, were attached. The content, written in both English and Hebrew, described that the child had being subjected to this violence in accordance with Islamic punishment. The message was that this is Islam and Islam is barbaric.

The truth is that this is not Islam and Islam is not barbaric. I know that. My colleague knows that. It's possible that even the sender of the e-mail knows that. Anyone who could muster the energy to flip a page in a book or scroll down a computer screen could know that too.

But ignorance is easier. It doesn't take much work or moral judgement. Ignorance is the polluted playground for bigots and fanatics and maniacs. They lure imbeciles and ignoramuses (made such by choice or accident), and feed them toxicity. And the ignorant absorb the ignorance through their pores and their eyes and their ears and their nostrils and their brains. But not through intelligence.

My colleague is intelligent. The e-mail sender's attempt failed miserably on her. The e-mail content, however, did succeed in prompting my colleague to counter ignore-ance with education.

She read me the draft she was composing to the e-mail instigator. I congratulated her, saying her words are much calmer than mine would be.

I grabbed my belongings, and on my way out said, "If anyone would like to discuss the truth in a civil matter, you let them know that I'd be happy to accommodate them."

I debated internally whether that was really true--the pictures angered me, the Hebrew simultaneously fueled my fire and stole from it, the ignorance gave me no pause--it was frustrating and it was 3adee.

I got in my car, and proceeded to unleash a verbal raping that would've made any prison bully scream, "mercy." The recipient of my fury: my steering wheel. Time: About 30 seconds. Then, I rehearsed my standard vanilla response--lest I be seen as barbaric.

I have become a zombie to these scenarios that have played out so many times before they might as well be on schedule: 0-1 minute, ignorance; 1-3 minutes, anger; 3-3:30 minutes, release; 3:30 to 5 minutes, response.

But beyond the wrath against my steering wheel and a couple venting sessions to my parents, I was not propelled into movement by the bigotry and prejudice that was spread by that e-mail. In this case, I practiced ignore-ance. I ignored to self-preserve. It still hurts, but the pain is muffled. It still infuriates but the fury is fainter. It still disgusts, but does not provoke heaves of regurgitation. Why? Because it is expected.

It's a shame when ignorance is allowed to proliferate around the world via e-mail.

It's a surprise when it is halted by just writing and speech.

And I was surprised and mobilized by my colleague's actions and those of Ben Affleck (affectionately referred to as "3aflek" by Arabs now): I told others of my righteous colleague; I posted a link to the Ben Affleck YouTube clip. And the news spread like a virus on a playground. Why? Because justice and truth and work are not expected.

What a shame.

With Tools of Thread & Vinyl

This is my needle. 

Its shine has been dulled by experience; its experience has kept its tip sharp.  So, do not mind the hash marks that layer its cylinder and the metal tear that hangs in its opening--it still works. 

My needle dips itself in virgin canvases, introducing emptiness to life.

And with that first stitch-scratch, it alters a passive environment forever. 

My needle paves a new paradigm with braid and bass. 

Threads of livelihood and blood weave in and out, mapping my history. The pattern is redundant--grow, peak, regress, repeat. The tip undulates as it irrigates the mature record, waxing a way for my future to flow. The beat is the benchmark--boom, tss, mellow, believe.

My needle teaches the loom and the spindle how to sign, and tell a story that can be seen and heard.

It gives birth in a place called Palestine to tatreez that tell tales of tragedy and triumph on cloth and vinyl.

My needle's legacy dons the heads of those deemed Palestinian, protecting them from the elements and proclaiming their identity. My needle tattoos airwaves that travel at warp speeds to singe follicles and corrode canals; it remembers the destruction of olive groves and the attempted uprooting of existence.

It reminds that Palestine still exists. 

My needle writes my waton; my needle sings my anthem.

[This is dedicated to all of the 7attas and turntables, and those who work them. To some, you are fashionable. To me, you are more than that--I know your real worth, and I appreciate it. You are how Palestine is seen and heard; you are living symbols of my beloved land. And you will outlive any superficial trends. Guaranteed.]

S.L.I.N.G.S.H.O.T.H.I.P.H.O.P.

Significant and striking situation--you sound off. There are no ciphers here. You are spokespeople for those treated savagely like scoundrels.

 

Little known were the talents of the Palestinians in the realm of rap. No longer are they such. Lives have been affected through your lyrics.

Imagining a stage that awaits you 10 minutes in travel but escapes you indefinitely. Iman takes you there, and brings you back again and again. And you ultimately break through the impasse. This is your Intifada.

No, nothing deters a noble spirit. 

God willing, you repeat. Going, getting, gathering, giving--all is determined by God, and in your heart, and in your gut, you trust that God is on your side.

Sot is your strut, and you walk it well. As you swagger, the generations sway behind you: arms up, shouts out. Sing so that they may sling your song like a rock and shoot it into il modee wal 7adr wal mustaqbal to write the real story.

Haya is not about being hip here. It's about maintaining heart despite and in spite of the hardship that attempts to hinder you.

On is how you choose to be, although off is the easier option.

Threats do not tamper with your tone; you are tough. 

History began with you, and you know it and do your best so that progress does not halt once the hype is over.

Insha'Allah is the incantation of choice; insha'Allah it always will be. 

Peace can only prevail when justice paves its path. Your phonographs are powerful trailblazers. You may be some public's enemy; you are more the people's prophets.

 

Hope does sparkle in your eyes but hardly. It is holy when it does but hazardous too. And you know that it's easier to be hardened, but you choose to flare your human spirit, and say "7ur!"

Orators, you are, who overcome the obstacles of oppression and occupation with your obstinacy. 

Palestinian, you are pride and you are power. And you will prevail.

The pull of A.H.H. 7ub

I see him, standing in the distance. His hand is stretched toward me, teasing me to come closer.

I stand and stare. My body is still but my brain is in chaos. I do not know where to go or who to be.

I am not here. I can not be there. I am floating in between these poles, in a buoyant atmosphere that is free from the limitations of gravity but is full of stress.

La ana 3arif arta7, w ana tayi' sawa7.

Why am I subjected to this juggling?

Ana bas'al lay, wa7tar kida lay? Bokra il ayam 7at wareenee.

I fight the air to swim back to my comfort zone, but he calls to me again. His pull grows stronger with each pulse of his larynx, and I am simultaneously softened. My stroking arms wilt. The air cradles me and holds me still.

I am turned. I face him. Nawarlee, wareenee sikit il 7abayib.

He nods, cups the sides of his mouth, and thrusts his breath at me. It paves over the particles that float between us. It overcomes me and draws me in. I feel my stubbornness melt into complacence. My stare has even weakened but I see him more clearly.

He is in black and white; he lusters and I am forced to squint. His eyes glimmer with every emotion that can be sensed; his cheeks are flushed with every aura that exists beyond me, fl ghuyoob. His outline is sharp, and timbre breaks his reflection into background and fore, low pitch and high, gloom and glee.

Ya rameenee b sa7r 3enayk il tneyn, mat 'oulee wakhidnee w rayi7 fayn? 3ala gar7 igdeed, wila al tanheed, wila 3al far7 mwadeenee?

I hope for the latter, but I can't know for sure. He provides no answers. All I hear are whistles, enticing me to a place that existed before I was a hiss.

He reaches his hand out to me again, and offers a vocal fold that lulls me closer. He knows my heart mouths what he sounds.

El 'alb, whoo 'alee.

In unison.

Il 'alb il khalee zalamoo.

His reverberations, leashes of whispered lace and tatreez, have pulled me in the final centi.

I arrive at his place in time. The universe has silenced and stilled herself for us.

And I stare at him. He looks at me.

His microphone appears. He places it on the sheath that shelters my heart, and says "Ghanee."

In sullen voice, the four chambers sound, "Ana, min zaman mishtaq a shoof 7abibi, ilee ghayib."

I press the microphone closer to my chest, and a question is heard: "Fayn kont ghayib?"

Then, I hold it up to my lips, and say, "Ma ykhas. Bayant w shoftak w smi3tak w radayt 3alayk w ghanaytlak."

He stares at me. And I look at him.

The microphone dissolves into particles that float between us, 3azab and 7ub suspended in hawa.

And there we remain, heart-to-heart in silence.

Until, I press PLAY.

Room 358

"Hela', shway shway lama b tdkholoo. Bidnashiya ya3yt," my dad, 7atim, told my mom and me as we approached the room's entrance. My grandfather, Sidi Sa3dat (Abu 7atim), had been known for his spontaneous and excessive emotional outpourings, and my dad did not want loving visitors to spark a waterfall.

It's a trait neither my dad nor his mom, Sitti Haijar, are fond of. "Dumoo3 il 3awahir nawahir," she once told us; my dad erupted in impressed laughter. Both my dad and his mom know my grandfather's tears are not false; they also think the idea of a man crying is lame and embarrassing.

None of us wanted Sidi to cry. Fluid had played a large-enough role in this hospital stay, and we didn't want any more. So we tiptoed in, donning bright smiles and hearty, "Mar7aba"s to start the visit on a cheery note. And it worked. He responded in kind and in English: "Hello, Hello...I'm feeling good."

Famished 3amee 3abed and my dad went to eat the baked-falafel sandwiches we had brought them and take a break; my mom and I were on-shift with Sidi. 

"Whatever!!," he brushed the air away. The sentiment comforted him. It allowed him to release this unfamiliar situation from his grasp and pass it to higher powers. "Maybe the second life is better...everyone says the second life is better." Such phrases led to conversations (sometimes one-sided) on random subjects: the whereabouts of Siti Haijar; the whereabouts of the TV's remote control; the whereabouts of Sidi himself. 

The 7adeeth flowed but tears did not. The man who was known for his crying was instead smiling a lot.

As he talked, I captured bits of him with my internal camera: each shutter-blink caught an image that would then process in the recesses of my mind; I would hold it in and let it hang in that dark, back room to develop and, finally, be displayed.

I focused on his right ear. Sidi's big ears have always been an endearing physical trait. I scanned and measured the surface area of that ear compared to his skull--it was about one-third the size. This ear, his good ear, was the one he later used to hear Farid on the phone, calling from Palestine to check on him. "Laysh Farid ttasal?" he asked my mom. "Fakarnee meeyit?" She attempted to explain the courtesy call but to no avail. Sidi asked that same question twice more. Yes, Sidi has big ears--but size does not reveal function.

I zoomed in on his nose; I saw my dad's nose. It is a man's nose, a Palestinian man's nose. Nooks have been carved from the friction and sting of tears and life against his skin. It is a distinct nose, it is not a big nose. It fits his face. And revised forms embellish the faces of my dad and 3amtee.

"La Ilaha ila Allah," he grumbled as he waved his right arm up and down to shake away the numbness and the frustration of being confined to a bed he didn't recognize in a place he thought was a new condo. Even in his hospital bed, my grandfather was a real estate agent. He researched the dimensions of the room, the placement of the bathrooms, and how many beds could fit to accommodate the rest of the family. "Wayn il matbakh?," he asked.

He looked at me: "U keef il Sit Reem?" I smiled at him: "Iza inta mabsoot, ana mabsoota, Sidi." He laughed, lifting the air upward with two hands, expressing happy surrender with his eyes, and said, "This is life."

This did not reflect his life:
--Sidi had been a school principal; my dad was that school's bully; Sidi was 7atim's bully, insofar as a fatherly bullying would allow. He continued to be an educator, mostly teaching Arabic, long after he left that school in Beitin. He has always told me of the importance of education. And his son--my dad--is relentless (read: endless nagging) in his sermons about advanced degrees.
--Sidi has always been frugal, according to his children; almost miserly by some of their accounts. He likes to work to make money and have purpose. He likes more to save that money. He has never been miserly with me, his eldest grandchild, especially not on Al 3eed. He has always told me about the Palestinian lands I will inherit from him. He has always told me to "save, save, save." 
--Sidi is a walker. His feet have trod kilometers and miles on various forms of terrain. Before two days ago, he would carve laps around his condo complex lobby and climbs stairs to remind his leg muscles of their purpose. He walked daily. His pedometer paused the day he entered the hospital. It will likely restart two days after his release. 
--Sidi is a strong man. His infamous crying episodes attest to the strength of his nature--it takes a secure man to show sensitivity; it takes a strong man to not care what his son or wife think about his tears. He is strong physically: "His calf muscles, ya 7afeeth, are solid," 7atim said, "Still stronger than my own." 

Sa3dat's strength comes from his father, Sidi tells me: "Sidik il 3abed kan nasheet," he said, "Anshat wa7ad," he paused. "Kan yimshee min Beitilou 3a Ramallah..w yrja3...b mushwar WA7AD!" He gloated that for many, such a journey would take at least an eighth of a day--for Sidi il 3abed, it would take a measly two hours. 

I acquiesced, nodding a silent "I know, Sidi. I am of 7atim, and 7atim is of you. We are all walkers."

He smiled, rested his head back, and scanned the ceiling for answers about his whereabouts. My mom and I watched his silence.

It seemed he was attempting to stream a privileged, internal conversation "la bab il sema" and to Allah's ears. My grandfather, a religious man, regularly infused verses from the Qur'an in his monologues. In Room 358, his religion and its verses--not his blanket, not the TV, and not any tears--provided him comfort. 

He plead with the ceiling and the Divine Power above it: Let me float into the next realm on the rivers that have gushed from my eyes these many years. I am ready. This is life.

My mom and I watched him stir again. He rejoined us. He waved his right arm up and down to shake away the numbness and the frustration of still being confined to the bed in Room 358 and to life. "Whatever," he dismissed quietly. Allah must have told him it was not yet his time.

He accepted his fate. 

He looked at me, and laughed--not a tear in sight. Then he said, "You'd take the single-size bed...yes, fee wasa3. We'd all fit in this room."

He'll be released tomorrow insha'Allah.

Allah yishfeek Sidi.