A story from my last day in Ramallah, a reminder that I am out of place: Natalie and I were waiting for a friend in my tiny rented car (which we nicknamed the green rocket), when an elderly man, struggling to walk, came near. He was physically frail and unkempt. His feet shuffled and his arms reached in front of him for the next object to steady his steps. He used the side mirror of the green rocket to balance himself. I just greeted him in that beautiful way of the Arabic language that is actually a prayer for God to give him strength and good health, ya3teek el 3afyeh, Haj. He looked into the car and we both smiled back at him. He slowly repositioned himself to face us and stopped to talk. He was clearly in some stage of losing his faculties, but that had not diminished his ability to recite some of the most beautiful Arabic poetry. His eyes were clouded with cataract, but he saw enough of us to realize were an attentive, interested audience. It turned out that he had been a professor of Arabic literature at BirZeit. He named several professors in the US who had been his students. He knew Edward Said and Walid Khalidi. He spoke to Natalie in perfect English. I wrote his name down on a piece of paper as soon as I had a chance. But I lost it. Left without it. And I cant remember it. Im back in the US now. Just spent hours sorting through mindless mail, calling customer service for this or that company to take off charges they seem to levy on me just because I breath. Attended to stupid legal matters. Am back to the process of having my soul sucked out of me. There are no local grocers on the corner here. No fruit trees within reach. No figs. No pots of tomatoes or mint or sweet peppers on a neighbors ledge that Im welcome to. There are no random conversations with strangers on the street. Theres no beautiful old man full of poetry walking by me here, ever.
Posted on: Tue, 05 Aug 2014 18:21:36 +0000
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