The Buds of Palestine

Adapted from an Amman taxi driver's lengthy monologue.

The trees are in bloom in Palestine, and they have been for thirty-two years.

When I left everything was lush, and though thirty years have gone by, there has been no bomb that has robbed Palestine of its splendor, that has imprinted anything but lushness upon its soil. The air in Palestine blows with the blessing of divinity, and thus will triumph over the petty smoke of men. Though the shadow of the sword is large upon the fields of Canaan, no arms can vanquish them. For God's shield meets them always.

And after thirty years the trees must still be in bloom.

Perhaps there are more trees now, after those buds became flowers and those flowers became fruit. They decayed and from their seeds were born new trees. Palestine is the same; it has died thousands of times over thousands of years, but it always emerges again. It is a sheet of earth connecting the river with the sea, cradled in the breast of divinity; it is God's to treasure and to dote upon. No exodus nor war has changed that.

The land is more powerful than its occupants, just as it always was; it alone could withstand the stain of war and the ravages of politics. Though its people perish, its soil still covers them like it covers the bones of the prophets. There is no tribe, no faith that can ever rule Palestine. Palestine is God's to rule.

But perhaps the trees have died.

Perhaps upon the land there is famine like in the old days, when Joseph took his family south for abundance and brought them into servitude. Perhaps there is nothing there but God's presence, flooding the land like He did the earth in its infancy, crushing its palms like pillars falling beneath temples. Perhaps therein is the riddle that explains why the land that radiates holiness is the stage upon which unholiness is waged.

It may be these things are true, because I have not been there for thirty-two years. And perhaps I never will again.

Perhaps nothing blooms in Palestine. Perhaps only the dust blows.

American Television

Northern Desert, Jordan.

My phone was dead and there were no clocks on the walls, but I nevertheless knew that it was well past midnight. Apart from Amr and I, the only thing awake in the house was the television, that--at this late hour--had shifted to slightly controversial television. As a country that has invested only minimally in entertainment, Jordan borrows movies and television shows from other countries. Turkish soap-operas are dubbed in Arabic, and B-grade American movies (generally starring the Coppola-family black sheep, Nicholas Cage) run with subtitles.

For the most part, the loans from American television are quite tame, but that night--as I heard the first chords of the Six Feet Under theme song--I found myself watching the one show I thought would never air on Jordanian television. Amr--who was open-minded but nevertheless quite conservative--seemed surprisingly familiar with the show and didn't change the channel.

It was a classic Six Feet Under plot, involving a deranged daughter stealing a dead-man's foot from the family funeral home. It had all the regular plot lubricants like drugs, infidelity, and family-feuding. Although it was heavily edited by the networks--both in actual scenes and in subtitle translations--it was still the last thing I would ever expect to see in Jordan.

With the cultural differences and network modifications, I wondered how much of the show Amr was actually understanding. After watching a tension-filled conversation in the beds of one of the show's central couples--a gay couple--Amr commented, "I'm so glad they're really good friends. They do everything together." At that point I realized that Amr and I were watching entirely different shows. But whatever show Amr was watching, he seemed to be enjoying it.

The show ended with an awkward moment between the mother and her daughter-in-law-to-be. In a conversation loaded with cultural references, I wondered why someone had bothered to write subtitles at all. Afterward, I gingerly asked Amr what he had thought of it. He admitted that he had been a bit confused by some parts, he nevertheless had enjoyed it. "It's a good show," he said.

"Do feel like you're missing anything by not being an American?"

Amr then tried to explain that the reason he had watched it was because he wasn't American. Like myself, Amr was the product of a small town where everyone knew everyone's business. Watching a TV show about other people's drama was therefore totally interesting.

In fact, Amr continued, watching drama about a family that was nothing like his own was much more enjoyable. He said he was best able to enjoy drama by watching people collapse over problems he would never have to worry about--virtually anything in Six Feet Under. "It's always the other people that are the most interesting," he offered.

"You know, Amr," I said, "That show takes place about thirty minutes from where I live. But I don't really understand the problems either."

"Then that's why we both like it," he concluded.

The Lonely Man in the Cafe

Amman, Jordan.

A man with a pipe needs no friends. He needs only a quiet night and an empty table. His smoke forms the men who would otherwise join him, but these ghosts of men do not restrain his thoughts as real men would. Rather they are the objects of his meditation, the substance of his reverie.

A man enters places that men never go.

He had a home once, now he has a house. His home is in another country—across a still river—but he has not been there in many years. In moments like these, when he sits alone and blows smoke-rings around his thoughts—weaving himself in a smokey matrix of memory—he can remember Palestine.

A son waits a few streets away. He does not know that his father is here, lost in memories he's never had, and walking through streets whose names he's never learned. Because to the son the memories of the father have become legend. And in this legend our hero is aging, fatigued, and lost. He is turning the key he's saved for generations into the door that was buried generations ago—beneath a hill beside his grandfather's grave.

The smoke rolls through the air like the green hills once did when they rested upon the clouds of paradise. Paradise has fallen, but thrives in the dreamer's ken.

Oh David! My house for yours,
And my son for Absalom?
May he forsake me, may he take me,
But no home but mine for him!

Soccer and Tea

Amman, Jordan.

I have never been very good at soccer. For about twenty years, I had convinced myself that it was because I was American, and the sport simply wasn't very common in my country. Indeed-- I persuaded myself further--it was perfectly understandable why I wouldn't have even basic skills. Yet as I stumbled on a deflated soccer ball--only to lose it to a 12-year-old opponent--I realized that nationality probably had nothing to do with it. I was just bad.

"Andrew!" called another young boy on my team, "get it back!" Unfortunately the ball was long-gone. My more athletic opponent was dribbling the ball toward his goal, and after he shoved aside an ailing member of my team, his shot was open. From my angle, his attempt was a miss--too far to the left. Yet to everyone else it was close enough. The goal had been somewhat variable the whole night it seemed, but never to my advantage.

"Mabruk!" called boys of his team and mine, "Well done!" Someone threw the ball back onto the street and we were at it again. Surely the ball had been white once, but the sun had set long ago, and a few months of dirt on the ball disguised it further. And in this neighborhood--among the poorest in Amman--there were no streetlights. The boys, however, saw no reason to stop playing.

After a few awkward minutes of chasing after an invisible ball (apologizing frequently for stepping on my young team-members), Ahmad--someone's older brother--appeared in the street and declared the game over. He asked everyone to thank their American guests (my friend Wes and I) for their contribution to the game, and to run home before their mothers worried too much. I was quickly smothered by the thanks of twelve-year-olds. "Thanks, Andrew," said one boy sincerely. "You were great," said another, who gave me a high-five as he walked down the street. There wasn't a hint of sarcasm in the boy's voice, and I assumed that in the dark the boy had confused me with my more atheltic friend Wes.

Ahmad watched the boys disperse and called us in for tea. Although I understood tea-invitations were central to Arab culture, I partially wondered if he wasn't trying to help my ego by offering an activity that required no athleticism. Surely anyone could drink tea. Wes and I assented, and followed him though the gate and into the backyard of his home. It was still winter then, and the cool night breeze made us remember it. Thankfully, Ahmad's family had prepared a fire next to a small shed. Only fire and company, it seemed, could survive the cold nights.

We spoke few words that night, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Ahmad and his family were happy to learn where we were from and to enjoy silence with us. Once they asked if we liked Jordan. We sincerely replied that we did. We knew they were our friends and we were theirs, and with this in our hearts we were content to let the cool wind blow and seek fire from the same hearth.