Chapter 2-Well, I’m Here, Now…

From the novel, All Together Now, by Abe Abdelhadi. Martin Luther's Zen Publishing 2015

I slept till around noon the next day. Not like me at all but I was exhausted. I don’t really remember all of what happened after the funeral as the evening came. Looking back on the time, I remember spending some evenings at the homes of some of relatives and folks who knew my mother and father when they all lived in Brazil together. Most of them were good people with very pure intentions as good people, anywhere, are prone to have. As for that immediate evening I draw a complete blank, even now.

My uncle and cousins had been downstairs since dawn, preparing and selling two head of sheep for the days’ income. They fed this entire village with the couple hundred head of sheep they raised. Other farmers and growers did the same for the other food groups; chicken, beef, vegetables and a few bakeries which made pastries and pita bread, stuff like that. This was something they all did 5 or 6 days a week, funerals notwithstanding…

My aunt Samira fed me scrambled eggs, some leftover grilled breast of chicken, yogurt on a plate, drizzled with olive oil and parsley with hot, fresh pita bread. Pita bread there was lumpy and soft, like a big, flat Semite biscuit. I wasn’t able to speak to anyone in my uncles’ house except my cousin, Ajazi, who spoke Spanish after some time in South America. Since the rest only spoke Arabic, they were very nice, nodding and smiling a lot and the food was good so I had no complaints. Even though I spoke an L.A. version of Spanish, Ajazi translating for us was better than nothing.

Samira was Ayoubs’ wife and was kind to me regardless of a language barrier. I was trying to be at peace with these people and shame on me for thinking “these people.” It’s just I never felt like I belonged and maybe my dad was such a fish out of water in America, he had to be who he was to survive. To curry his favor though, I would sometimes over compensate for an “Arab-ness” that I was not possessed of. I was always the first to greet visitors to the house, shake hands and put an unnatural enthusiasm into what Arab words I did know. It was never good enough. Maybe my father should have taught me some Arabic, but he preferred to put more energy into criticism. After all, if it got fixed, it can’t be criticized. My brothers, being smarter, would dodge out and sneak off to play outside, or go into their rooms and watch cartoons.

Samira didn’t seem to care. Her smile said I was family and the pictures of me and my brothers on the bureau with her kids said I was hers. Maybe she loved me like my mom loved my cousins.

My cousin Sam dropped in that morning. His name was also short for something longer in Arabic. I knew him pretty well from Los Angeles. He was around twelve years older than I was. When I was a kid, I always admired him because he just so fucking cool. Cool as the other side of the pillow cool, this guy. He always drove an amazing car and always had a hot model type chick with him. I would say he was one of the few role models I had in my actual family. When I was younger, he was someone whose life I would have liked. It was only as an adult that I found his confidence came from a good amount of family money.

He went to college at UC Berkeley, up in Northern California. We were at one of our cousins’ weddings when I was twelve and Sam brought this blonde with him. Her name was Kelly (how perfect was that?). We were horny, adolescent geek boys in absolute awe. I was twelve years old and pimply, in a suit that was wearing me, fantasizing about the belly dancer and Sam was living it, THE LIFE man! I thought your 20’s would be a hundred years away. Boy, how time flies.     

“Waky, waky, my son!” he announced as I was being fed more food and coffee.

As Sam waltzed in, I was smiling a lot at my aunt who benignly smiled back. She was asking me if I had a girlfriend back in the States through Ajazi. I was feeling uncomfortable with the translation as Sam came in. Thank God for timing. 

“What’s up man?” I said as I got up to give Sam a hug. Good guy. We didn’t get much conversation in the day before. It was an intense day. He said the usual assalamu alaikums to my aunt and other cousins.

“Get dressed, dude. We’re going into Jerusalem today,” he said. He clapped his hands enthusiastically, the business of living commencing immediately.

Sam and his nine brothers and sisters jetted back and forth between here and L.A. Theirs was one of the more prominent families from this village. They had business in the Territories, California and New York. Sam, being the youngest, had the good fortune of taking time to “find himself” while he was getting paid by the family running business that already existed. He started a restaurant in Jerusalem called the Dome, which he ran with two of our cousins who handled the bulk of the duties while Sam traveled even though he pulled his weight when he was in town and the investment was largely his.

BAM! Sam’s hand smacked the table, “Check it out, I got my uncles’ Mercedes! He’s in L.A. and said we could use it to show you a good time while you’re here,” he said, beaming. “Finish up and let’s get going…we have to leave Jerusalem before 6 tonight to come back. That’s curfew.”

“Cool…alright.” I said as I finished my coffee, “Gimme a minute.”

The sweet ride in question was a fully restored, fudge brown, 1963 Mercedes-Benz 300 SE with tan leather interior and a sunroof. Not exactly unique but may as well have been a Rolls Royce around here. While the offer was generous, there would be massive hell to pay if we wrecked the car or got it confiscated. That would suck.

I knew Ali would want to come as well, but I also knew he was stuck acting as buffer between his mother and brothers. He and his other brother were consoling their mother as she wanted to know for certain if Mahmoud died from drugs, which was the cruel rumor. That should never have gotten to her ears but people can be such assholes. Just because my dad ignored it, didn’t mean no one had heard it. It’s inherent in people to feel that, “the rumor’s always half true.” If the boys had half a brain, they’d deny it even if they did know for sure. He’s dead and they can’t fix it so fuck it, it’s done. Eddie was forbidden, at least for the time being, in her home. The brief reunion at the funeral was not an invitation to forgiveness. It was odd how they parted once she regained her composure at the burial and then escorted back to her home where she held a reception. She sat on pillows in a corner and cried in a near fetal position. She had kneaded several dozen Kleenexes into mulch and the debris covered her coat like dandruff. That much I remember from that day.

Meanwhile, Eddie was in Bethlehem with some cronies that he hung out with. One guy was someone that my family knew, Abdul-Lateef. They were behind an antiques store, loading crates into a truck. There were around 15 or so crates and once they were loaded, Eddie smacked the side and yelled, “Yallah!” The truck took off, headed for Lebanon. Apparently, Eddie had developed a very healthy heroin trade. He’d ship it in from Afghanistan then cut it in Bethlehem behind this antiques store. Then it would go through Lebanon, Syria and finally into Europe; that’s where the money was and the borders were way easier to navigate. Risking the U.S. wasn’t worth it. The Israelis were less intense with the Christians than with the Muslims so their policing that area was more for show. Even though they were Palestinians, the Christians just had this whole, “we’re just kind of watching” vibe even though it was to be their home too, technically, if they ever got a Palestinian State.

Since I was here for awhile, I may as well do something. I didn’t fly 18 hours to turn around and go home. I came for a shitty reason but I’m here now so I may as well make the most of it and see things. Sam was as great a tour guide as one could get. He knew the area, spoke English, Arabic, Hebrew, and Spanish. He made things fun and liked to party. Spanish worked here because of the many returning expatriates who spent time in Central & South America doing business and learning the language. Spanish was the number three or four language there, next to English. Sam chatted with my aunt and other cousins while I got changed.

Arab extended families could be fucking huge. My father’s family, alone, numbered into over 500. This phenomenon occurred because first cousins could marry. It wasn’t exactly right but it’s just what they did. In fact, Sam was married to Nina, his first cousin on his fathers’ side with Kelly having fallen off, long ago. I grew up with Nina in L.A. Good girl. Even though two thirds of the known world engages in this cousin marrying practice, I was never quite comfortable with it. That may have been because most of my cousins were pretty ugly.

Secondly, the families stay tight and had lots of kids. Cousins and cousins of cousins are regarded as uncles and aunts if they’re older. That being said, Sam and I don’t necessarily share the same aunts or uncles but because his dad and my dad are cousins, we get the same family privileges and favors.

So this Mercedes we were to procure belonged to his mothers’ brother, who also knew my dad and his family and whom my father regarded as family; having helped most of them get into the U.S. in the 1960s. They loan huge sums of money to each other, indefinitely and always pay it back. Kind of like the Mafia but with falafel and shawarma, instead of capicola and prosciutto. However I always felt the Italian chicks to be much, much hotter if one were to compare notes.

*************************

“I knew it musta been some big set-up/all the action just would not let up…”

The Mercedes started out real rough as it badly needed a tune up. As we got going, the irony of this Nazi go-cart in the Middle East was not lost on me, not one bit.

We drove into Ramallah, to see one of Sam’s brothers, Jamal. He had been married several times to American women and they didn’t take. They were hot but that didn’t really help a whole lot as marriage is a tad more complicated than a high school prom. I remember this kind of thing was always fodder for the Arabs who really were hung up with this shit, “See, American women have too much freedom. You have to marry an Arab, if you want to be happy. She can’t go anywhere. She will shame her family because nobody will marry a divorced woman.”  

This became more happy horseshit as the 90s dawned in America and my female cousins would contribute to the divorce rate with gusto and re-marry Arab guys who were not asshole Bedouin fuckheads. Russians, Americans, the French; they all had a shot at joining our family.

All this silliness was why I never got too hung up with a girls’ past. She could have fucked the Chilean National Guard as well as the San Pedro Longshoremens’ Union, during a cocaine-fueled, whisky bender and I wouldn’t really care as long as she didn’t cheat on me. Right now is all we have, isn’t it? Enjoy the wine now. Enjoy the food now. Take in the perfume that wafts from her hair...now!  If she’s there because she wants me well then, who am I to question a past I had nothing to do with?  If she wanted to pose naked in a magazine, my letting her wouldn’t have entered into the equation.

As we drove into Ramallah, it’s clear that the road and sanitation departments did little else in addition to not existing. The streets were full of pot holes that would be called canyons anywhere else. There’s a lot of stinky milky water to splash through as there were no real gutters to speak of. There were some unpaved spots in street where the waste from sidewalk scrubbing kind of sunk in but that was about the extent of the gutters and not by design. People just crossed the street at will and would slap the hood if we got too close. Sam would scream something in Arabic at some and laugh at others, trying to explain what was going on at the same time.

Sam parked the Benz and we walked a couple of blocks to Jamal’s shop. We’re almost got run over a couple times ourselves walking back down the same streets. I stayed close to Sam because frankly, I didn’t look like I fit in. As we made our way, I could see the looks I was getting; some were friendly, of course and others not so much. They had no idea what I was and I could have been a collaborator for all they knew. I nodded a lot to passersby and shop owners standing in their doorways. It was the same cool guy, expressionless nod I gave Liev at the border.

We got to Jamals’ shop. It was a shitty little store front next to what was trying to pass for a hotel. The funny thing about it was that there was probably enough cash in the safe to buy Ramallah several times over. Jamal was a money changer who doubled as a travel agent, in the old-school-Bible sense of the word, Jesus flipping tables in the temple type stuff. Like Sam and the rest of his family, Jamal was back and forth too. At this point, I have American dollars that I needed swapped out. In the Territories, I would take a chance paying with dollars. Paying with dollars could get you robbed and shekels were wildly unstable at the time, so I got a bunch of Jordanian dinars which were backed by Saudi oil which was backed by American dollars. This irony, like a Mercedes in the West Bank, was not lost on me either. Ramallah was more together than what I have seen so far in the Territories which wasn’t saying much. Even though it had that old world European feel, the place was still not even close to gentrified. The last 20 years or so of increased fighting certainly could not have helped which partly could have explained the shitty public plumbing.

Jamal jumped out from behind the security glass and gave me a hug. He was a full 20 years older than I was and I guess he was just excited to see me grown. I haven’t seen him since I was in tenth grade.

“How you been, man?” he asked. Arabs that live in the States for any length of time say “man” a lot. It fit in with their use of the word “boy” which they would call each other, in Arabic, all the time but not in a malicious way.

“I’ve been great, dude.”  Something that will never go away, being raised in Southern California, especially Los Angeles, is liberal use of the words, “Man,” “Bro” or “Dude.” I will always be proud of that.

Jamal got serious, “Sorry about your loss, cousin...it’s good you made the trip.” He was very sincere. “Your dad and me always got along.” Everyone liked my dad, except us kids. He could really charm people so I had to give him that. There was an album that came out around that time called, “Everyone Loves the Pilot, Except the Crew” by Jon Astley. Although I don’t remember him coming by the house, this guy may have known my father.

Jamal continued, “He really helped us out in the 60s when we first came to the States…you need anything, just let me know, man.” His eyes leveled at me. “I know you got a one way ticket… so when are you leaving?”

“Don’t know yet…everything was kind of rushed, I…”

Jamal snapped in, “Look. I can get you a six day lay-over in Copenhagen for the same price as a one way, straight to the States! You ever been?” he smiled.

“No I haven’t…I guess it’s cool,” I was searching my mind for a “yes.”

“Done! I’ll set it up when you’re ready. You are going to love it, my God! The women, the food, the beer…the women. You repeat this shit, I’ll deny it!” He punched my arm, laughing.

“Right on. Thanks a lot. I really appreciate it.” I couldn’t believe I was here and I was actually enjoying myself. Jordan was such a culture shock and I wasn’t settled with all the chaos. But these guys weren’t my dad to be sure. That realization always saddened me a little as I wanted so much to like my father. I had stayed away from this cooler ilk of my family for so long, that I forgot who these people were. Maybe even as a small child, I felt there was too much to reconcile and just could not separate the two factions.

I had almost zero interest in anything Arab. In college, they’d show “Lawrence of Arabia” and I could not care less. Last thing I wanted was to follow the lead of my geek ass cousins and these good guys didn’t come around enough. I did have a tinge of guilt over this but I somehow chose to ignore it.

We shook hands on Denmark then Sam and I walked back out into the street which was buzzing with vendors and people in and out of shops. Cab drivers asking if we needed a taxi, buzzing in my face like hornets, till I began making swatting motions to indicate, “Back the fuck off.” Still, I stayed close to Sam and maintained the “I’m cool but don’t fuck with me” sort of thing. The smell on the streets of old milk and the days’ washout of the meat and produce shops was accumulating as the town was getting ready to close down for curfew. Ramallah had a university as well. There, the operating hours were 12-2pm then everything shut down. It wasn’t always this way but because of the Intifada it had become so.

Everyone nearby got all they needed here now or they’d have to go to another town that was farther, to beat their curfew. We stopped at a shawarma cart which was kind of like this hot dog cart I knew in New York, at Broadway and 45th. But the guy sold shawarma in fresh pita bread. Pita bread there was not like the anemic shit they make in the states. It’s thick and fresh. Chicken, beef or lamb, the guy had three rods full of fresh steaming meats and you could breathe in the spices and black pepper. I actually felt aroused by the smells. He was wearing a bomber jacket and a keffiyeh, the Arab headgear. Sam and I each got a lamb shawarma and poured fresh yogurt, tomatoes and chili peppers on them from the condiment tray he had. He sold us Cokes in these cans with Hebrew writing on them. It was like a reality dream. I was still full from breakfast but this smelled so goddamned good, I’d gladly risk the fate of the gluttony for more of this taste.

After the shawarma, we drove to Jerusalem which was half an hour away. I was in a food coma and as we moved toward the town, the architecture changed a lot. It was more a European and Mediterranean hybrid from all the hands that built on it before. More stuff seemed finished or more together. I saw a more modern version of the area than what was seen in the news or where we have been so far. Even Amman was pretty dingy, apart from the downtown areas. I commented on this and Sam said, “We come from peasants, man, farmers…In Jerusalem, you’ll see more modern behavior.”

I eyed him, “What modern? How?”

“Well don’t get carried away but you’ll see couples on dates without chaperones…getting ice cream… you know, like that.” He chuckled, “It ain’t Manhattan but it’s good to see…The Christians come here too and they’re more like the Europeans, anyway.”

“Christian Arabs, you mean?” I asked, checking for clarity.

“Right, you know, they’re less hung up, with a little more leeway. Especially in Bethlehem.” Sam grinned.

We get to the main street down from the Dome of the Rock. It’s packed, just like Ramallah, but with a different sort of energy and definitely more cosmopolitan. Driving lanes weren’t that adhered to here either as we were getting screamed at by cabbies with hairy arms flailing at anything that annoyed them, pedestrians, other cars, buses. The buses really gave off a black smoke every time they started from a dead stop. But the city really had a hum that was vibrant as opposed to people just rushing around to get groceries like Ramallah. People jammed the roads and like everywhere else, the shops would close for 15 minutes for prayer. A cleric could be heard on loud speakers throughout the city. Everyone had to stop, even if praying was not your thing and they did this five times a day.

“We’ll park in back. The front’s a fucking zoo.” Sam observed. “We can walk around awhile and see stuff. I’m still packed, but if you get hungry, we can eat at the Dome.”

I looked at Sam blankly, “Dude, there’s no way I can eat till tomorrow. I had breakfast and that food in Ramallah was fuckin’ plenty.” I took in the exotic bazaar we were driving through. The modern and the poor mixed easily as they navigated the different vendors and a small fight broke out between a fruit salesman and a teenager trying to steal an orange or something. A small crowd gathered to either watch or break it up. An Israeli Jeep passed, ignoring the fracas and Sam waved. They waved back.

“You know those guys?” I asked.

“Me? Nah, but whatever. May as well be cool about it.”

Sam takes an alley, sloshing through some garbage and more of that white, milky water. He parks behind The Dome which was his restaurant and we walk through the back. The kitchen was buzzing and it was clear that OSHA wasn’t on the clock in this part of the world; the cooks and busboys were wearing sneakers and sandals, smoking and just basically cooking like one would cook at home. We go through to the front and our cousin who runs the door looks up and smiles. He’s wearing suit pants and a white shirt as the host but the place was pretty casual. His name was Amir and he knew who I was. We shook hands and he spoke English as well.

“How has everything been, cousin?” he asked.

This was Sam’s place. It was the only business of the family businesses that was his from the ground up. He got the idea because no Burger King, McDonald’s, or any other international chain would set foot in the Territories.

They were afraid that not only would the Arab locations get bombed but that there would be massive repercussions on a global level because to open shop in the Territories would be viewed as supporting Israel and the Jewish occupation as opposed to creating business which it would have. While Israel called Jerusalem its capitol, most of the world did not. This included but was not limited to Arabs. It was easy to see how opening up shop here could get dicey.

Sam was a fucking genius because he designed the logo to incorporate the dome atop the Dome of The Rock, which was down the block. Now, extremists who would hit this joint for blasphemy could easily blow up a sacred Muslim site on accident. Then they would risk getting hosed out of their share of, if not all of the seventy-two virgins. No straight to heaven, no collecting $200, no passing “Go,” just a massive ass fuck in hell and denied the divine for eternity. Harsh!

The Dome was only a burger and pizza joint that also served fried chicken and resembled any one of thousands of places in any college town in the States so it wasn’t exactly a sacred temple. But this place was different, funky. It had three floors. From the street, you walk right into the first floor but the second and third floors were below the first floor in the basement which was very deep. Down there the walls were concrete or the foundation, basically. This was pretty unique to Jerusalem; there were so many different styles of architecture from all the different conquerors through the centuries where some of the other towns had a lot of newer developments that were still incomplete.

Also, Sam fashioned the place after what the young Arab kids wanted which was a piece of the West. There was some paneling with Palestinian flags but also Manchester United posters and some World Cup posters from ’82 and ’86 with the German and Mexican teams featured. They were curling up and stained from the grease and smog in the air. The tables were these wooden picnic type tables you’d find in a park.

Because we’d occasionally chat over the phone, I had previously sent him dozens of records for his juke box; CD’s were still a ways away. He had speakers through all three floors and pool tables on the second floor. Also, there was a dumb-waiter; a portable elevator that sent food and soft drinks to the lower levels so that you didn’t have to come all way back upstairs. The only drag, war notwithstanding, was that there was no alcohol sold. Zilch. Verboten. Muslim countries were drier than the state of Utah during the Prohibition of the 1920s.

All the kids were either American or Western Civilization wannabes but mostly wannabes. They wore Levi’s, what cool sneakers they could get their hands on, grew their hair, wore over coats and listened to jazz and rock n roll. The Dome was the place to be if you were young, Arab, relatively sophisticated and quite bored. People came here for a brief respite from soldiers, guns and drama.

“So you like?” Sam gestured like a gracious host in an old time movie.

“Yeah, man…I do.” I was happy for him, “Great tunes.” I smiled.

“Yeah I got these records from some fag in the States,” he laughed. “He made me blow him first though…fucking prick.”

“Fuck off!” I laughed. “The curfews hurt you at all?” I knew this was the Middle East but overhead was overhead. Thank God for family money.

Sam grimaced, “Yeah but what to do, you know? The situation will get worse before it gets better I guess.” He had no idea how true that would be.

Within a few years, this entire struggle was near to bringing centuries old tensions to a close with a real and possibly lasting peace. Palestinians and Jews working together in as an imperfect world as one could find but it was working! There was even an airport in Gaza. My father would later land there to visit family and he was overjoyed that such progress was being made. Then in 1995, an assassin’s bullet would shoot the whole thing in the ass, along with Yitzhak Rabin. A lone nut, rabbinical student would be held responsible with very little investigation. How fucking original and straight out of the Lincoln/McKinley/Kennedy primer. Garfield? He just got shot because the wrong dude lost his job.

Sam formally introduced me to the “staff” which included cousins and other assorted folks, same guys from the back when we came in, some just doing odd jobs for extra cash. Couple of the guys knew my dad and that was always nice. It was nice for people to know who I was in advance of my arrival. I’d not heard much or anything of them. It was kind of like being famous.

It was here that I realized that I just now thought of Shelly and how she didn’t seem to matter at the moment. What dawned on me was how long it had been since I really cared. It was like a sudden rush of hope hit me because it felt like a century had passed. I was caring less. This was a good thing.

I am saddened by death and the passing of time. I saw fire…

I also enjoyed that people could say my fucking name! Even the Israelis could say it and they weren’t assholes about it, either. There was none of the “what kind of name is that?” or “where’s that from?” bullshit. Everyone here knew where it was from. As though I would choose this name if it wasn’t given to me? I got into so many fights as a kid. Before the sixth grade, I had more fights than Muhammad Ali and he chose one of those names too. I never knew why the Nation of Islam guys would pick these names for themselves when I’m sure, being black in the United States of America was enough of a pain in the ass.

Sam was eager to show me Jerusalem. I suggested we take our time as I would be here awhile. He said, “Yeah, well things change fast here, man. You’re not careful, you could spend the next two weeks in an Israeli prison or stuck at home, staring at your Aunt Fatima, which I guess is worse.” He chuckled.    

We had to be careful about moving into the Christian quarter, we were eyed constantly and the Jewish quarter was very much off limits. Seriously armed Israeli soldiers lined the borders between the quarters. We had to show proof where we lived or had documentation for any visits. We went to the wall of the Mount of Olives.

I asked Sam, “Hey, man. Can we go in there?”

Sams’ eyes rolling and his massive face fart was part of my answer, “Dude, I know you don’t feel like it, but we’re Arabs. At least Arab enough to not be allowed tourist privileges in a Jewish holy site. Really?” He shook his head, smirking.

“Shit, take it easy. Just asking.”

We weren’t going to hurt a fly but of course, there’s no way for the Israelis to know that. Muslim name on my passport was all the “security check” these guys needed. Then we went to the Dome of the Rock. The guards out front were Israeli and they checked our IDs and they were assertive too; no ID, no entry, no catastrophe. Not on their watch as it was the last thing they needed to go wrong. They didn’t want Jewish settlers blowing the Dome up as that would not go over well, obviously.

“Where are you from?” the soldier quizzed. He was stern and not at all friendly.

“United States,” I answered, eyeing him directly. “Like my passport says.”

Sam, feeling the tension, piped in speaking Hebrew. This was impressive as no one else in my family did. He said something to the guard as his partner looked around. The guard loosened up and let us through.

“You have to be a little gentle with these guys.” Sam explained. “They’re jumpy enough without a lot of attitude.”

And the cooler heads prevailed.

We then went through the Muslim checkpoint and they let us in. Cameras were expressly forbidden in most of the Dome of the Rock but there were lobby areas that could be photographed. It was all very art-deco looking but not anything that would look any different from a cool bar in Los Angeles built in the 1920’s. I felt a little shallow in that observation but that’s how it felt.

However, the underneath was breathtaking as there were acres of underneath and the entire place was comprised of catacombs and tunnels, lined with ancient gold leafing and ornaments that were tough to categorize by time or place since I was not an expert. It just looked really old and mysterious. No photos here, period. The Muslim guards could take my camera and expose the film if I shot anything. This would be some years before digital cameras were even thought of. I’m sure they took to smashing digital cameras just as energetically later on.

We saw the praying areas. There were several and the main Mosque was huge and very ornate with different murals representing the many stories in the Quran. Everyone was praying in lock step with each other, bowing, sitting up and bowing again. They were all saying the ancient prayers for forgiveness and atonement.  Sam and I agreed that we had to get back as the curfew would be on us if we weren’t careful. We walked through a lush, gorgeous green park which was a nice detour from the buzz of the street. There was a big stone sign that said, “Please Pray for the Peace of Jerusalem” in English. Was it the Arab way of asking for help from the Universe or the even the West? Maybe some grieving parent put it there. God knows they could use a little peace, I thought.

Once back on the street, we went back to the Dome, the restaurant this time and we saw quite a few American tourist groups. These were the Bible tours to the Holy Land. They had guides and paid Israeli guards with them, which was the clever thing to do on their part. Most of these groups were college kids, mostly white, some black but definitely suburban. The guides were a little older but not by much. I saw maybe five or six groups on the way back to the restaurant and I saw a couple of Latino and Italian groups too, but mostly it was various J. Crew catalog clones as one long, predictable centipede.

On the street, outside a shop, I saw this beautiful Arab girl who had this mane of thick, black curly hair, down past her tits and huge brown eyes that were a combination of marbles and saucers which had a sexy doe like effect so I walked up to her and took her picture and she looked terrified. “You must not do that...my brothers!” she stammered as she seemed to be warning me. I felt awkward when all of a sudden…

Sam grabbed my arm and hustled me off. “Come on, man.” We walked fast across the street, narrowly missing an oncoming cab and a shit smelling mud puddle. The cobblestones making any graceful exit kind of tough and as I looked over my shoulder, two men were questioning my photo subject and she did look a bit panicked. Sam just looked dead ahead and we kept walking.

“What, man? Why was she so freaked out? I only took her picture!” I was getting a little pissed. Still, no one came after me. Maybe my lady friend cooled those guys out.

“Dude! This isn’t State Street on Halloween!” Sam was talking about the main drag at the University of California, Santa Barbara which was one of the best party schools in America. “This is the West Bank. Her brothers or her dad could kill you and the Israelis would figure the shit out after that fact. Now dummy up and be cool.”

“Sorry,” I offered without feeling. Between this and the Mount of Olives, it’s never “I should have known better” because I knew better! I knew better and this was the part of this world that I always hated. I just got into the moment and I couldn’t really do that there. Shit, I couldn’t do it in the U.S. with my family either. Not everyone is “modern,” ice cream and unchaperoned dates notwithstanding and I’m just visiting anyway so why was I so pissed? Maybe because this culture was what was expected of me and I outright rejected it in favor of the West. Yet I wanted approval for my choices from my family, especially if I proved successful. The approval from my family and living my own life really could not co-exist in the same brain and they weren’t going to for much longer.

It was explained to me, that while I was there, I had two options. Because I failed to resemble anything remotely Arab, I was given a keffiyeh before we left my aunts’ house. This was the traditional Arab headgear worn by everyone from the President of Syria to the Saudis (they have the fancier, imported silk version, of course where ours are fine cotton, which is still not silk, highlighting the difference between the sheep and oil families.)

Now, I was not about to wear this with my long hair as I knew it would make it matted and gamey. So I did what the other, dare I say more hip, Arabs did and I wore it like a scarf. At first, I didn’t want to wear it all. I had about ten at home given to me by various relatives and my dad and would have brought them, had I thought of wearing them, which I had not. In fact, I only ever used mine when I had the flu and covered my head and throat to sweat out the fever.

Then Sam gave me two options.

“Alright,” he said, “these are your two options…First, you can go without and with your Irish-New York Jew looks, you can wind up dead in an alley, stabbed to death by your own people, which would look real fucking stupid or second, you wear it and get hassled by the Israelis who are not as crazy about killing American tourists…then you’re on your way and you live to tell your friends about your trip.”

I gave this a second and thought if I wound up dead that it may as well look good. Sam was right; I’d look like an ass being killed by people with the same kinds of names as mine. Of course, they wouldn’t know this because I speak zero Arabic so, “noooo!” choking through your own blood is pretty much “noooo!” in any language, choking through that languages’ blood. So the dopes who stabbed or shot me would think they did a very good job and served Allah and all that.

I opted for the keffiyeh as scarf and felt very fashion forward.

“History repeats the old conceits/the glib replies/the same defeats…”

As we passed the American groups, a couple of them saw me and Sam and thought it odd that we were wearing these weird scarves. I don’t know how long they were there but one of the ethno centric American pricks sniffed, “nice scarf, dude.” When I was a kid I had a lot of “temper issues.” I got into a lot of fights because of the names kids call each other, specifically what they would call me. Whatever, I was twenty-three and grown. It felt strange being on this non-American side of the fence. Suddenly I didn’t feel like a tourist and while not at all a local, I felt I had something over this little prick. So much so that I simply smiled at him, “It’s cool, man.”

One girl looked right through me though and I actually stopped breathing for a second. She was positively luminous. Jet black hair in a pony tail with dark blue eyes, clear as the Caribbean, set in a face that could be best described as pure art. God is a man and capable of, as the poet once sang, “Cheek bones like geometry and eyes like silk.”

She smiled and the hustle of the street stopped completely. If I were to tell this story at party, I‘d ask, “You ever been water skiing or wake boarding and wipe out with a face plant in the lake?” Because there’s a split second that feels like forever. Time stops like you’re dead and it takes a few seconds to shake it off, to get your bearings and realize that you can move your legs and arms. Looking at this girl had that kind of smack, a real pop! It was like I was in a vacuum and I couldn’t feel my feet. I was completely still and this, I would find out later, happens about five or six times in a lifetime if you are fortunate. For me, it would happen once. And even though I thought I had been in love with Shelly, I have never seen anyone who made me feel like this right from the get-go. Not in my young life, anyway. This may be how people get married. No matter where you’re at in the world or this life, nothing makes you feel safer and more invincible at the same time than that feeling.

“HOOOONNNNNKKKK!!!” said many cars as I walked into the jammed street. This one cab driver screamed, “Jahash” at us, but mostly me because Sam was still on the sidewalk, which meant ass or donkey. I think he said “goddamned” too, I’m not sure but I smacked his hood anyway and yelled, “Fuck you!” which always had its own unique, international charm. We moved past the groups as we approached the Dome, Sam joined me in walking the street to avoid the crush of the shops and people on the sidewalk.

Sam jumps in front if the group, opening the door to his place, gestures with his free arm, smiles and affecting a very fake, very funny Arab accent, says “Welcome my friends to the show that never ends, we’re so glad you could attend, come inside! Come inside!” I’m certain the song lyric was lost on this Bible crowd, unless a former rock fan or stoner was in their ranks but I got a kick out of it. “Welcome,” he said again, “to a piece of home, away from home. The very place for one, and all it is a place we call the Dome!” Clearly, he has done this before and as he would tell me later, tourists eat this shit up.

The head of one of the groups smelled the hamburgers and other fried delights, falafel, kieb and all the rest. Sam did serve Arab food, too. He wasn’t stupid. Head guy heard the music and admonished his crew to follow. He introduced himself to Sam, his name was Tom and he noticed the special moment that I had with this girl who was one of his charges, I guess. Right away, I prayed for him not to be the boyfriend. Damn those pesky fucking boyfriends, husbands, even! I saw her, she saw me see her and I think she liked what she saw. I know I did, so stay out of my way, dude!

The paid Israeli guards came inside and would take turns eating while the other kept watch. Sam couldn’t offer them free food. It’s not like American restaurants with cops. Here, that sort of kindness could get you killed and the lead Bible guy picked up their tab anyway. Of course, the girl I mentioned was in this group and thank God, not the group that kept walking. That would have sucked.

I’m sure we appeared imbalanced, especially Sam. “My cousin owns this place,” was an obvious ice breaker but I was nervous. I knew how to talk to girls I wasn’t really interested in. Sometimes, I grew into them later as long as they were cute to start with. Come to think of it, Shelly didn’t grab me at first at all. In fact I met her while I was hitting on her friend. It was just that Shelly had a nicer ass which in the end didn’t add up to a whole lot. But this chick was a somebody, man. How does one know these things instinctually?

Once inside, I could see the group relax. There was about twenty of them and the rest of the place was packed as curfew was about an hour away. The energy inside was wildly charged with the kitchen in high gear. I could hear burgers hitting the grill and chicken, falafel and fries dropping into grease. The smells instantly refilled the front of the restaurant. However, while whatever business was already inside could be handled, the doors closed in an hour with no exceptions. This was the reality of the outside world as lived in the Territories. This wasn’t an Arab thing; the Israelis imposed these curfews because of the bombings and Intifada, so the protesters would violate curfews to stage the standoffs with Israeli soldiers. This way, as the logic was sold, civilians wouldn’t get hurt, although many did anyway.

Sometimes the battle was held and nobody came while other times, it was pure bedlam. One couldn’t blame the Arabs as they were, for all intents and purposes, occupied even though Palestine was never a country. It was a territory, kicked around like a Bedouin football by everyone and lastly, the British. Israel became a country in 1948 after a U.N. mandate. This is something I always kept clear, growing up and hearing the stories.

Now, keeping your doors open after curfew could mark you as a collaborator, if you weren’t well connected, because that meant you were “cool with the Jews.” I have already seen what happens to those guys so I was playing ball. No matter where we’re at in the world, it helps to play ball. This is probably why, regardless of the culture, almost all sports deal with balls in one way or another.

Some of the group ordered right away while some went to the lower floors. One of the J. Crew guys called out that there were pool tables and others followed him down the stairs. Sam told them to send their food orders up through the dumbwaiter with cash of course.

 I stood at the end of the counter.

This girl would eye me directly and tell me her name. This was good because my imagination needed a name for such perfection as I could not invent it and it was Karly…I told her mine. I still don’t remember who spoke first but I’m glad someone did. The beauty of hazes…

“So what’s this group about?” I asked. “Bible tour, right?”

“You could say that,” she smiled. “You’re not from around here, are you?” she held her fingers up in air quotes as she said “around here.” They were pretty fingers and if she was trying not to flirt, she kind of sucked at not flirting.

“I’m on family business…so where in the States are you from?” I had to change the subject. I wasn’t at all sure if girls found dead cousins appealing and suddenly, shamefully I felt self-conscious about being American again. I was feeling like I was better than this place. I always felt a bit of guilt over that.

“Central coast, California, closer to L.A actually. Ventura, have you heard of it?” She asked.

 I told her that I lived an hour from there in Pasadena.

“No way!” she shrieked, then, caught herself, embarrassed. Grinning she asked, “So you know it, then?”

“Yep,” I grinned back like a seventh grader.

Then I pulled an old school trick and got her food ordered before anyone else’s. She was wildly impressed as it did have that “I’m connected” vibe. Sam glanced over so subtly that I barely noticed and threw a thumbs’ up sign at his waist, so no one could really see it. That approval was better than any from my dad. A couple of Karly’s girlfriends came over to get a table. She introduced us and asked if I would care to join in. So I joined in.

I knew this was a Bible Tour which meant Karly may have held a point of view that I had been very, very much over. Frankly, I had been on a pardon from the President of the Universe as far as religion went. But how many times in one life, does a goddess fall from the sky and in these God forsaken Territories on a trip I didn’t want to be on in the first place? Dude, just shut the fuck up, pick a song on the juke box, have a cheese burger, get a whiff of this girls’ hair and even though it’s a Coke, enjoy the wine now…

Abe Abdelhadi hosts the Bitter Truth with Abe Abdelhadi on iTunes, Spotify, YouTube, etc.