Chapter 4-How’s Your Joint, George?

From the novel, All Together Now by Abe Abdelhadi

I slept in that same morning. Probably fell asleep around eight or so but the light coming into the window kept me drowsy more than actually falling asleep and I was too lazy to pull the curtain. I’d doze then awaken but not really awake and I was still in bed. The sun on my feet was nice.

I then went downstairs to see my uncle and others cousins, they were just hanging out with some customers and it was busy, lamb sales were moving that day. You could smell the fresh blood coming out of the kitchen which doubled as the cleaning area. Unlike the Scottish, Arabs won’t eat the leftover blood. They’ll eat the eyes, brains, stomach, balls but they’ll draw the line at the blood. The space Ayoub sold meat out of was a concrete floor with painted green walls, same color as the walls at the check point. It wasn’t like there was a health department and the Israelis could give a shit if Palestinians got botulism. There was a counter and he took cash so there was only a metal money box like the ones moms have at little league games in the States. There were two deep freezers that had maybe some meat left from the day before.  With this many people to sell to, Ayoub only killed a couple of sheep a few times a week. There were no preservatives and he was good about “half off sales” when the meat sat frozen a few days.

They offered me some left over breakfast sitting on the counter by the cash till; dried Arab buttermilk, that are like rocks you could gnaw on as a salty snack or cook into a broth. He also had tomatoes, olive oil and yogurt with bread. I went into the side kitchen and heated up some pita bread and poured coffee. It was American coffee and the smell mixed with that of death or fresh blood, was unique to say the least.

I chatted with a couple of the cousins in broken English as they were translating to Ayoub what I said about my life in America, what I had seen so far and some of how my mom and dad were doing. He smiled like he knew something I didn’t. After all, he knew my father as his “little brother.” Ayoub had a very sweet nature but when people translated for me, it was always hard to tell if I was coming off as intended. He asked my cousin to ask if I was looking to get married and smiled broadly when I said, “Not yet, I got time.”

He told my cousin, “Yes, you do, but don’t tell your father I said that.” Then he winked at me while rolling another cigarette with his free hand, sipping coffee with the other. He was making smoking look as cool as Ian McCullough did. Instead of wearing pleated pants and flicking the butt into an adoring crowd, Ayoub slipped his weathered, un-manicured hand into a leather tobacco pouch with a cigarette paper, rolling and licking in one motion. Then he’d screw the newly wrapped confection into his lips and light it with the same hand. It was a sight.

I washed up and went down to the coffee house a couple of blocks away. The houses all looked different in the daytime. There was no real uniformity, whatsoever. It was a small village and families would build homes as fast as their relatives could send cash and it was easy to see who was on point with their plans or not. There was a certain look to buildings when they took too long to complete. Even the new parts started to look worn and needed work again before finishing the whole thing. But this place was different than the big cities, it was cleaner. Folks here dumped out water at the sides of their houses as opposed to the street and there was a sense of permanence maybe because they didn’t fear the confiscation of property by the Israelis.

Because property was still at a premium because of the seclusion, you could build a home and never worry about it being turned into a settlement for religious fanatics because this place was just too fucking far away to give a shit about. The valley it sat in made any considerable road work prohibitive cost wise. Although the saying, “never say never” was invented for a reason, most Israelis were pretty secular and hated that dollars were funding Jewish extremists. The attitude of most was less religion is best and the money could be better spent elsewhere.

As a result of this isolation these Arabs, in this village, had a sort of removed hawkishness. They were more prone to demand that Arabs fight the Israelis. They were a little too quick to curse for cowards, anyone who was reluctant to do so. Of course, they constructed their views from a pussy-safe distance. Anyone can be an arm chair revolutionary when it’s the other guy doing the dying. I couldn’t take the brave talk seriously even at face value because it lost face. The odd thing about this village was no one here ever died at the hands of a single Jew. Not one. No one here lost property to Jewish settlers and they sure as fuck didn’t throw rocks at armed soldiers. They could be here for months and never have to go into Jerusalem or Ramallah. There’s a good band name for anyone shopping, “Arm Chair Revolutionaries.” Their fans could call them, “ACR, man!!!”

The streets were cobblestone and cars rumbled as they drove on them. Been here a few days and I had just noticed it now. People here wave and smile or nod at you as you pass them. They were nice because they may have known your family or you may be related, which kind of was the same thing in that village.

The café was an old two storey house from the 1800s that was converted in the 1920s. My grandfather hung out here and the locals knew him. The front windows and walls were removed so it had this open air vibe which was very cool. Everyone in the village knew it so there wasn’t even a sign. As I approached, I could see the big doors opened out where walls used to be and the distinct aroma of coffee and baked goods like baklava and mammoul filled the air like jasmine. Folks sitting at the tables on the sidewalk and on the curb, in between cars said this was the right place. The sounds of debate, gossip and relaxation mixed together in a human way that was familiar and comforting at the same time, humans being human. At the end of the day, we all want the same things.

Make no mistake; this wasn’t the East Village, two doors down was the village telephone operator. They were three guys who worked six hour shifts with no graveyard shift and they put your calls through. If you were too poor to have a phone, you could use theirs. But if you had a call to make in the middle of the night, well, tough shit whether you owned a phone or not.

I went inside and ordered. The coffee guy offered me American Coffee. His English was ok and I could sense some of the café patrons eyeing me and as I didn’t want to look like a pussy, I declined and took the Arabic Coffee, which was a version of espresso. Why should I care what this guy thought but I did. Stupid, as this was basically thick, muddy grounds served at 400 degrees in an espresso cup with about four good sips in it, before you got to the bottom so I never cared for it. The caffeine was so concentrated the first hot sips came off like cocaine and gasoline. Adding cream or sugar was futile because then the mud stirred up like the bottom of a dirty lake and I took coffee black, anyway. It was taken black or one didn’t take it. I was flying as it goes through the uninitiated like string through a duck while producing more piss than an entire liter of Coke.

“I know your father,” said the coffee guy as he prepared my drink.

“Yeah,” I smiled. “He’s from here.”

Failing to get the humor, my host said that he knew that. As I looked around, some folks waved and smiled benignly.

I got a copy of the English Jerusalem Post and looked at the middle of the paper first. It read like news read and reads still; housing is going up after being down, beef imports from Lebanon and Egypt were down, we have your inter-racial dating with another couple fleeing the wrath of their families for love, always a very little discussed yet dicey topic guaranteed to bring shame to the overzealous. This would be between Arabs and Jews and always wound up somewhere on page 17 of the “B” section. Some stock tips, sports, rugby and soccer mostly, then I perused the headlines; another story of students getting beat down, this time in Hebron. I could solve this whole fucking mess today. Arabs stop blowing up Israelis and Israelis stop taking properties that are generations’ old and building settlements in the Territories then feigning shock at the reaction. Jews weren’t there for 3,000 fucking years! If I could have given the Jews any advice, then know that Arabs aren’t going anywhere either so quit taking what’s left of their shit.

Arabs need to get over the past because Israel wasn’t going quietly into the night and no, the Arabs will not “push them into the sea.” Jerusalem? Neither one of them really needs it religious wise anyway. Muslims have Mecca and where was Moses born again? Right, so they can share Jerusalem as they were both descendants of Abraham anyway, if the story was true.

I felt my Palestinian friends needed to understand a little gratitude. No one is in a dialog (read gives a shit) with or has their race preface the word, “question.” The short list first would include the Basque, Kurds, the Irish and of course, the gran mal ass fuck of the ages, the American Indian!  That their plight was referred to as the “Palestinian Question” should be cause célèbre for the body politic of this displaced group of folks and anyone who pretends to care. And that is because history is always written by the winners and always will be.

As I read the paper, my leg was twitching like mad. I couldn’t see how these guys could have more than one or two cups of this stuff, but they would have as many as five or more, in one day and they live a long time, too. Amazing. My family drank this coffee like most of them smoked. My grandfather was 98 when he died. Many years later, his kid sister would die at 104. Still, I could see how terrorists or students got jacked up enough to fight anyone, just pour this shit down their throats. This coffee is to the Arab as Absinthe was to the French before they made it illegal and started losing wars. Comparing coffee to alcohol may have been an odd point of view but both changed your state of mind.

Ali walked in and ordered a coffee and sat down.

“What’s the good word, cousin?” He said cheerfully.

I held up my coffee and paper, “In my element, man.” I continued as I turned the page, trying to look casual, “You guys seemed to be into it last night, when I got home.” I was talking about his brother, Shipley, the good guy.

Ali drank his coffee. “Yeah, it’s weird what comes up when people die.”

Changing the subject, I talked about the day before and what a blast it was, the checkpoint with Sam and the soldiers, which was a little scary. Strangely, I failed to bring up Karly again because I didn’t want a discussion on it. Ali could go either way depending on his mood but she was pretty much the highpoint of the day. I didn’t want it tarnished with a discourse on what my father would say.

Ali pointed at my paper, “Nowhere else can a newspaper be as worthless as fast as todays’ Jerusalem Post.”

I know my expression was quizzical.

“Seriously cousin, Give this a few days and you’ll see. Things change fast here. Fifteen minutes sometimes.” He was very solemn. “By the time it’s made the paper, the story will change nine times.”

Ali was still simply dealing and I could tell he had more on his mind than he was letting on. I wasn’t exactly what one would call light of spirit either but I was more tired than anything else at this point. Maybe I was hopeful because of Karly? I don’t know. Girls can do that to you. It was weird that I still felt out of sorts at all. I thought once we got this burial thing over with, I’d feel better. I was certainly over any jet lag but it had been a few days and maybe I just wanted to go home already.

Although Mahmud was closest to my age, it was Ali that I got along with the best of the four brothers. I always found Mahmud to be somewhat caustic and kind of a prick, although we never gave each other any real trouble. He always sided with my dad, if he was at the house during a discussion, being more Arab than American by a long shot. It used to piss me off because our discussions were none of his business, he just felt like he had to put in his say and he was five years older than I was. This made him an “elder” in his mind.

There was no sense of obligation, other than to my father, for coming. If I just got the call and went to the services in the States, I’d have been fine in a week. Dragging a body around through customs and dealing with this whole thing for the last couple of weeks, did tire me out. But it wasn’t my brother and I wasn’t going to much miss the guy, even though I had nothing really against him either. He was always good to my mother so she really had a soft spot for him. The two of us got along OK if my father wasn’t around.

Ali told me that our Uncle Dahoud or David (which was the literal translation), was having us over to dinner that night. David was the second boy in the family, behind Uncle Jacob. He made his fortune in Switzerland and Venezuela. He owned a chain of what could be best called dime stores in both countries. He cashed out, in a massive way, to an English conglomerate on the South American stores while he and his eldest son kept the Swiss properties. He had a wife in each of the three countries; Switzerland, Venezuela and the Territories. Each knew of the other but lack of proximity and continual cash flow into the individual households contributed to a lot of denial. While not quite a sultan, David was well off by most Arab standards so he done good.

I came to find that few men here had one wife by choice. The preference was more wives but it was a matter of economics because if you had the bread, you could have more than one bride. A bigger question would be, “who’d want more than one wife?” Up to this point in my life, one girlfriend was enough of a pain in the ass. Arabs haven’t invented anything real useful since Algebra or the guitar so they had to do something with their time. Meanwhile, the British got the Rolling Stones and all that after the Crusades! Not all karmas are created equal. “How fucked up is that?” I thought.

I was apprehensive as I had not met Uncle David yet and he wasn’t even at the funeral. Apparently, he and Eddie didn’t get along either and he didn’t want a scene. The two had some business dealings that didn’t go well and Uncle David blamed Eddie for incompetence at the very least, not to mention the issues with his sister, Eddies’ mom.

The afternoon was giving way to evening and dinner was at six. I had finished the paper, went home, cleaned up and shaved then met Sam and Ali at Sam’s house. I saw Nina, Sams’ wife and we chatted a little bit as I haven’t seen her in years.

“How’s it going, cuz?” she smiled as she kissed me three times. She seemed sad like seeing me reminded her of home. She wasn’t making the treks back and forth with Sam as she was when they first got married. They had kids and decided to raise them here, closer to family and culture. While they wouldn’t say it, they really didn’t want their kids to end up like me although they had no real beef with me personally. It was just the idea of me that concerned them as far as their own kids went. It was a feeling I was used to.  

“Going well, sweetie.” I said. “No complaints, you know.” What could I say in ninety seconds that would sum up the last couple of weeks?

Nina was here three years straight at the time with their two young boys. It’s weird when you see people you knew as kids, all grown up with kids of their own. It was like we were all still 14 but they somehow came up with these kids. Maybe that feeling would pass if I ever became a real adult or even a parent.

The sun was setting as we walked over to David’s house. Folks were on their porches or steps, enjoying the sunset and waving, saying good evening and all that, in Arabic. Dinner was coming on in many of the homes and the smells brilliantly crashed into each other as we walked down the street. People here all knew Sam and Ali who waved and smiled like Rose Parade princesses. Of course, I did not share in this celebrity. I was my father’s son. But not for long; when I got famous, I may have come back and then they would have seen something.

Sam and Ali discussed some things in Arabic but I knew it wasn’t about me. I could sense these people when they would talk and what it was about because they were comfortable or when they were gossiping about me. This came from years of that shit in the house with relatives or mom and dad as they both spoke each other’s language. Fucking romantic and came in handy raising four boys who spoke no Arabic.

We get to Uncle Davids’ house and it was ornate in a kind of gaudy, there’s no-accounting-for-taste kind of way. It was a five storey job with an elevator which was cool. We went inside and were greeted by him and his wife. I could smell dinner and I did not realize until that moment that I had three aunts through this guy alone. This could make Thanksgiving a little awkward, if ever he was so bold and if the holiday were celebrated here. His wife spoke zero English and it was just as well. I didn’t need to deal with any marital drama. David also spoke English and Spanish.

We went up the elevator which had this great cherry wood paneling with inlays. This was the most tasteful part of the house but like the rest of the place, had no discernible theme or real idea of what it was. Some of the inlays were Arabic writing and some were of horses or birds. I didn’t read Arabic but I was certain it didn’t matter. We had to stop at each floor. There were badly painted murals on the ceilings of the foyers of each floor and some had sayings in Arabic, made to fit the ceiling. It was mostly real bad Michelangelo wannabe type stuff; limbs were wildly disproportionate and the women had these strategically placed sashes over the naughty bits. God forbid we see tits or even (gasp!) pussy! The floors were solid marble throughout, which is pretty fancy even if this were in America. The railings were wrought iron. All the furniture was new but I wouldn’t have owned it. Everything seemed hastily slapped together, like the murals. I was no expert but it didn’t take a botanist to smell shit on a flower either.

We sat down to dinner after the grand tour. David gently grilled me about getting married, pretty much from the moment we sat down to eat. “Nice welcome to the homeland speech for you,” I thought. Fuck “How are you feeling?” “How was your flight?” “Thanks for doing this,” “Your father must be proud/grateful/happy,” “It must have been a bitch dragging a fucking dead guy around.” That would be too much as the only question on this enquiring mind was if I’d marry some Arab chick that I didn’t know who probably had a real face for radio.

David asked, “Have you seen girls to like? Your father talk to they father, if for you.” His English was not quite Sam or Ali’s.

“I still have time, Ami.” Pronounced “ah-mee,” this was the Arab word for Uncle.

“The time she goes. You’re old too fast then what to do?” He was looking down at his salad.

Ali was talking to my aunt, pretending not to hear and Sam was chatting with my cousins although he had an ear leaned in as if he was to referee indirectly.

Marriage was the farthest thing from my mind, especially the arranged marriage routine. These girls don’t date. I was supposed to see a girl who’s cute and tell my dad. He then tells her dad and if her dad liked me then he informs the daughter. If she’s cool with it, then we’d begin courting which entails three to four chaperoned dates with her brothers, cousins and basically anyone you would never invite on a date, ever. Then we’d get married with the general idea being that we have zero idea as to chemistry until the honeymoon, having maintained some bullshit chastity rules that apply to even kissing. So if she fucks like a day old side of sushi, has odd looking genitalia or some chronic breath issue that’s incurable with even the strongest mints or surgery, I am federally fucked as the U.S. attorneys’ office likes to say. If the same holds true for her then she’d be as screwed as me.

I had some creative cousins who circumvented this pathetic ruse and figured out compatibility early so I had some examples. They’d sneak around in the middle of the night with their intended. I just wanted to play in my band and go back to work my cool job, deep thoughts notwithstanding.

Not my thing, man.

For some reason I was thinking about Shelly and the possibility of never seeing my dad again over her. Would it have been worth it if she didn’t dump me? I always thought yes, if for anything, the decision would be made for me if my dad cut me off. While I didn’t know Karly at all, lust does breed an odd familiarity which has befallen better men. Could Karly do the same? Break my heart? Would I allow it? Was I just a Greek tragedy?

Now, having said only some of this to Uncle David, sans the vulgarity and attitude, I made him smile, like I was the slow kid on the short bus headed to the skating rink. He looked at me blankly as he went back to eating. I had a feeling that this, plus my long(ish) hair, would make the rumor mill spin and spin concerning my “decadent” lifestyle and I thought “Good!” Glad I can entertain these people. That’s what we Americans do. Most folks enjoyed drama because they had nothing better to do with their time and I was long done caring.

David walked us to the door after coffee and dessert, bidding us good night. The desert was vanilla halva over some pastry and the coffee was black and not Turkish which went well with the desert. As the three of us walked back, Ali decided to call it a night. A gentle coaxing to hang out was rebuffed so we confirmed plans for the next day and I went back to Sam’s house, hoping he had more of that beer.

“Sorry about that. But you had to know it was coming though.” Sam offered.

We walked a minute, “Yeah, I guess but I figured I’m here to bury the guy’s nephew, right? There’d be more to talk about or something. I’m 23 so why is it so crucial to get married? And who the fuck cares? I’m not his kid anyway and I got shit to do, man…” I sighed.

“Well, they don’t really see it that way, you know?” Sam sighed. “Takes a village, that sort of thing.”

“You can say that again,” I said as I worked to keep my voice down. “There are two types of immigrants, you do know that, right? The first comes to America to make a new life, re-makes himself, like David Bowie, on every new album or something and the second comes to duplicate what he fucking left behind here. If that’s so important, why leave?”

“Yeah, I guess there’s that.” Sam stopped. “But you can’t get too hung up with shit either. You’ll do what’s right for you…Seriously, you’re going to give yourself a heart attack and for what?” He looked around as he motioned me into an alley. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a lighter.

Flipping the lighter in his fingers, he pulled out a joint as he continued, “I mean, really, these guys still care about whose chicken is fucking whose chicken, for Chrissakes! Look man, it is what is. You’re here now so make the best of it. At least you’re seeing heritage. This is heavy shit. Americans think they come from ‘Main Street.’ Here you’re getting the last five generations…You do get high, I assume? Mr. Rock Dude.” Upon seeing my grin he pulled out a nicely rolled joint. Great way to change the subject.

“You get this from the Israelis, too?” I still couldn’t roll a joint to save my life so I always used a pipe.

Blankly, without eye contact Sam said, “Lebanon.” With that we fired up in the alley.

I never thought I’d see the day where I would be getting high with my cousin or any of my relatives for that matter. I took a hit, held it and exhaled, “Geez, that’s nice.”

I handed Sam the joint and he took his turn, held it. “Sure beats Mexican,” he said as he exhaled. “Not that I have anything against our brothers and sisters south of the border, you understand…” he chuckled. I took the joint back with my turn.

We said no more the rest of that time. We took turns until it was all gone and we were more than sufficiently comfortable. The shit was smooth and here I thought Lebanon was simply where you went to have a good war. Beirut was the Monaco of the 1940s and 50s; royalty, movie stars and covert politicians vacationed, gambled, fornicated there and the beaches were pristine. Then, starting around 1961, when the Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO) got started, everyone decided to run to or chase their enemies into Lebanon and it got wrecked, especially Beirut.

We walked home back to Sam’s house. Nina and the kids were asleep. Sam went down into the basement and got beer. He kept a separate wine and beer cooler so that his parents wouldn’t find it, nosing around in the kitchen. Nina never complained as she liked to tip a few back herself. That and bitching just wasn’t her thing, anyway, even when we were kids. She was always a good girl.

The TV was on with the volume low. There was just the news on. More shit in Jerusalem was to be expected in the next couple of days as the elections of local authorities were usually met with cries of “sellout.” Even though I was raised with the stories, I still had a hard time feeling total hatred for the Jews because I just knew they told their kids the same bullshit stories too. I kind of figured this out in tenth grade when I started digging into history. I knew they weren’t really lies but some of the stuff was simply untrue like Palestine being a “country.” Hate’s a strong word, anyway.

Half my dads’ family was in the same boat; either pacifists or pissed off purists, those were the choices, for want of better terms. It certainly wasn’t a religious deal on either side of the argument, really as much as it was about control but the powers that be used religion to exert it. It worked on the masses. One didn’t have to be religious to want a homeland. It’d be a good idea to get religion out of it. I just thought these two sides had to make the most of it. They’re here now and no one is going anywhere.

The little dark secret in the Arab world is they don’t like Palestinians. Not at all. Not even a little, well, maybe a little but very little. Palestinians were to the Arabs what Tijuana is to the rest of Mexico. Just above Egypt, who at least have a few more dollars and an actual country. Plus, they had that whole ancient culture thing going; Greeks, Romans, I mean Italians, Persians, excuse me, Iranians got away with a tad more because of their previous track record. Don’t mean shit now but they still get some credit. Babylon, I mean Iraq? Not so much, they’re still Iraq. But Palestinians? Forget it.

The Arab world loved to use the Palestinian/Israeli conflict as an excuse to cause grief to the U.S. and the Israelis and that’s it. Truth is, if these Arabs ever got their way and “pushed Israel into the sea,” the Palestinians would be next. I mean, if the Arab world really gave a rats’ ass, why was there no push to give the West Bank to the Palestinians when Jordan was perfectly suited to do so? In 1967, Israel got it and then it became an issue?

When I was in college, Arabs in my class would catch up with me when they heard my name in roll call. Seems there was this Kennedy-esque family in Jordan with our last name and they were filthy, fucking, hog nasty rich. So these peasants would ask where my family was from as if we were one of them, like Beatles “them.” Once I figured out the deal, I would say, “Save it man. My family’s in sheep not oil,” before they could even get it out of their mouths.

It got to where I hated being at a party and some blowhard, fucking hippie or Arab, who was not Palestinian, would blather on about the “evils of Israel.” They would try and tell me how I didn’t know the real deal because I wasn’t really an Arab in the first place, given that I was born in L.A. So I’d watch their face go slack as I’d bring up the whole “Arabs-hate-Palestinians” deal. It was an excellent way to nuke an idiotic argument but I never went hunting for elephant in my underwear. I could back up the rest of the discussion, smile and go get myself another beer. When I did it right, it was impressive. The one blessing I had was I was quick.

The Israelis had an annoying sense of entitlement too. Any side agrees with you and all is well until you suggest a compromise. This was the problem and not just with Arabs and Jews but with most of mankind. I had met some cool Israelis but the government can be fuckers too. They were largely a secular society who gave into right wing asshole fascists, who would just as soon kill an Arab baby as any unhinged Arab would kill a Jewish baby. There’s no one side that was better or right. They were all just a bunch of mislead fuck ups.

Wow. Stoned, man…

Sam came back upstairs and we popped open the beers and just kicked back. Sam was reflecting on dinner. He got quiet.

Then, “You’re right about tonight, man…I…hmm,” he started then stalled, closing his eyes like he was trying to remember something. “Sit tight,” with that he went into the basement again. He came back with a big box. “Come here, I want to show you something. You remember Kelly, right?”

How could I not? Kelly would be the girl Sam dated when I was twelve when I thought Sam was a god and she was in my top ten “Greatest Hits Reel,” along with the chick who played Lois Lane in the 50s T.V. version of Superman, the color version to be specific. Sam pulled out Kellys’ modeling pictures, scrap books she made for him, poems.

“Nina knows you have this?” I asked. After all, she knew who Kelly was too. Everyone did.

Sam said that she did not. The box was simply marked “Sam’s Stuff.” I couldn’t imagine any wife who knew of that girl would just leave that box alone but it’s good to let sleeping dogs lie and that goes for lying husbands too.

Sam and Kelly were together seven years. His family tolerated her with a tacit understanding that he was just going through a phase and that he would marry the right way, when the time came. I had heard that too. He never told me that night if he ever stood his ground on her during those years. It didn’t matter as he finally broke up with her when his father gave him the ultimatum. If he ever fought for her, giving in the last time meant he had lost forever as it was basically marry an Arab or else. With these people, “or else” meant getting cutoff and that meant the money too.

Unlike his attorney brother Mike or Jamal, who owned businesses apart from the family, Sam had no other means of income, at least not what he was used to so he caved and he married Nina. The thought of being separated from his mom and dad was more than he could bear, it seemed. He knew they’d do it too. They did it to Mike for 11 years before his divorce and subsequent pardon from the wilderness. I remember Sam and Ninas’ wedding and looking back on it I can’t say there was an emotional aspect, good or bad. He didn’t seem too happy but I didn’t really notice till that moment in his house.

So Kelly was off living her life in the States and here was Sam, crying in his beer in the Territories. I wonder if she would have been cool with the visits here as I didn’t think she’d last a week. He never brought her over when they were dating, not ever in seven years. Why would he? He knew his parents, shit he knew everyones’ parents, grandparents, uncles, third cousins...Maybe she would have hated it. It takes a certain person to handle the life here even a little. The West Bank was not seen with a Eurail pass as one had to roll with it, head on a fucking swivel. Most of what the West saw on the news was true as there was splendid wonder mixed with very primitive, very difficult shit.

I grew up with Nina and I always found her pretty, but to leave your true love to please your dad? Fuck that and fuck your dad and mine too for that matter for even asking. My father and I recently had several arguments over the subject and I was quite ready to stand my ground whenever the time would come and I was actually quite comfortable with the idea of a permanent separation, so frequent were the threats of banishment. Shit, I’ve even dated several Jewish girls, if that meant anything. Get threatened enough with petty bullshit and I learned to care less and less and either I was going to give in or I dared the other side like life in an occupied country. I had a lot of pride and I found this to be a pattern, big or small; if you pushed the issue with me, you had to either be angrier than I was or armed. Those were your choices. While never quite proud of it, those were my circumstances…

I’m twelve years old. For a brief time one of my cousins, Abe went to my junior high school. I would often have dinner at their house as it was on my way home from school. His mother was my mothers’ cousin from Brazil. She too had married an Arab who also happened to be my fathers’ cousin and that’s how they met so for all intents and purposes, she was my aunt as well and was accorded the same respect.

One evening as me and Abe were watching T.V. and waiting for dinner, his mother over heard me talk about this little Ecuadorian girl in my homeroom. Her name was Xiemena. She had jaw breaker sized brown eyes that glowed over her braces that she sheepishly covered with her lips when she smiled. As a twelve year old, this is goddess material. Her hair came clear to her ass and topped her forehead with bangs. She favored skirts and knee high socks and was always nice to everyone. Of course at twelve, all I could muster up was, “I really like her dude…” My aunt heard this and chided me in Portuguese that my father may have a thing or two to say about that. I challenged her and she dared me to ask him; my marriage was a decision he made for me, a foregone conclusion. I didn’t stay for dinner.

I couldn’t get home fast enough. My legs burned from near running but I was carrying books and this was way before backpacks for kids came into vogue. Dad worked late that night but I didn’t move from our couch, I just watched T.V. to keep me occupied, feigning my homework which was neglected on the coffee table. When he got home I asked, “Who’s Aziza?” He laughed so I asked again, saying “I’m not marrying her.”

His eyes narrowed, “Who told you that?” He asked my mother who told him the news. Trying to suppress his anger (a rarity) he said, “What do you know? You’re a boy!” As he said this, I got scared I was going to be beat but I held my ground. I was twelve, an awful age but fuck him...

“I like someone else. I’m serious,” I scowled and I was.

He went into their bedroom and brought out a picture. Christ, she was ugly and she was my cousin, which could exponentially increase the odds of having some real stupid, real ugly, fucking kids.

“I won’t do it.” I said firmly. “When I do, it’s because I love her…Don’t you love mom?”

He softened, surprisingly saving my ass, I imagine but he didn’t answer. I guess he figured at twelve, why have this fight now? It would not come up again for ten years and many girlfriends later. The stitches episode proved to be the last beating I took from him 

“You know something?” Sam was looking at Kelly’s pictures. “I never cheated on her, ever.” He handed me a poem. It wasn’t very good, in fact it sucked. Alas, to poor Sam it may as well have been fucking Yeats, “But Nina? Shit. Every time I’m in the States. I bang the shit out of Mike’s secretary. You know Heather?”

I said that I did. She’s hot but still…and Nina? I think she deserved better as all good girls do.

“Don’t do what they tell you, man. It’s a fucking sham. I love Nina, she’s a great girl. Good mom…” He trailed of as he was uncharacteristically sentimental. “But I’m not in love with her. I never will be and I think she knows that. She’s not a stupid person. I just don’t want to embarrass her, her family, our family.”

“Well, I’m not here to judge, man.” I said drinking my beer. “But you confirmed everything I ever thought about this arranged marriage business…Fucking peasants.”

We had been whispering that whole time but I wondered if we were still too loud.

So far I got advice from an Israeli soldier from New Jersey and my cousin. Both were priceless pieces of third party information from people who dealt with enough and as such had no guilt. Liev didn’t want to be there anymore than Sam, frankly. I got two great, unexpected nuggets of truth, kernels of wisdom. We kept drinking, Sam and I. Finally, I passed out with the T.V. on. I woke up on the floor around 6am to the sound of whispering coming from Sam and Ninas’ bedroom. It sounded like my parents when they would do the whisper/argue routine. The lights were off and they were in bed but it’s where they handled the heavy shit, away from us kids. Apparently, this was somewhat cultural or genetic.

As I quietly arose, I felt real stiff and wondered if Nina overheard our chat. They were speaking in Arabic so I wasn’t sure. It was dark out as I walked back to Ayoub’s house. He was in the shop, butchering the days’ meat sales, having been up since 4 am. The lamb smelled good as it was being prepped but I stayed away from the side kitchen. God bless small Palestinian villages, you couldn’t do this in L.A.

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

“What if no one’s calling? God, then, must be falling…”

After waiting for them to do some business and family stuff, Sam, Ali and I finally got to Bethlehem. Bethlehem was cool because their curfew involved a late start and later finish but the hours ran straight through; unlike everywhere else that was only open a handful of hours at odd spots throughout the day. This was because Bethlehem, being largely Christian, had no real problem with the Israelis other than the whole occupation issue, which it kind of was and kind of wasn’t. Even as Palestinians who definitely wanted a homeland, they were pretty forgiving of the “chosen people” and as such, the Jews were cool with them too. I did not necessarily find this a virtue as the Christians were basically waiting for the world to end anyway. Hence, they were willing to put up with a lot more bullshit because Jesus would eventually get here and fix everything as the story goes. Fuck that. But I wasn’t going to fix it today either. But raising kids? Here? Being around a shit load of gunfire was a crap assed way to grow up.

We saw where Christ was born and that was cool. This was sacrilege to even ask after in our house, growing up but Sam and Ali knew it was something to see, regardless. It was history in the very least and Muslims counted Jesus as a prophet anyway. The Israeli guards who patrolled there weren’t as intense as the guys in Jerusalem or Ramallah. I thought it lame that people could think they’re better or could wish me death just because they believe differently than I did. As far as I was concerned, any real spiritual experience had been reduced to a bunch of fairytales that I was coming to grips with in terms of being a fucking fraud. A sham perpetrated by the powerful upon the weak and weak minded but that was just me because some folks got real hope from that crap.

At any rate, I wandered off from Sam and Ali who were busy haggling prices from a produce vendor. Bethlehem had a lot of tall buildings and the streets had more shade as a result. I passed by an antiques store as I went inside a café to grab a falafel sandwich and maybe some stuffed grape leaves even though I knew they never match my moms’. Even with my aunts making them here, my Brazilian moms’ stuffed grape leaves kicked ass. I saw a guy in the café, eyeing me. Felt weird, like was he a spy? Then I noticed a ministers’ collar and he was actually eyeing my keffiyeh. He was reading a paper. I ordered my food and as I did, I made eye contact with him. He saw me and acknowledged my “scarf” with a nod and he smiled. I pointed at the empty chair at his table, “OK if I join you?” It just seemed OK to do that.

“Sure…” he said with a tad bit uncertainty but he seemed to sense that I was harmless.

I sat, we shook hands and I told him my name. His name was Niven, like David Niven, the actor and he was probably about thirty-five. I asked how he got that name and he explained that his mother was Egyptian and that Egyptian Christians like western sounding names that separate them from Muslims and makes travelling the west a bit easier. She always liked David Niven and who didn’t? So Niven it was.

After a few pleasantries were exchanged, he asked, “So what brings you to Bethlehem?”

I explained the story of how I got drafted by my dad and my cousin dying. I explained that I was glad to be learning a few things, “I’m meeting relatives I never knew existed.” Trying not to sound dour.

Niven explained how he was from Nablus but lived in New York for awhile. He came here when he was twenty-five, after having gone to seminary. He got married to an American girl he met while they were in school. She was an American photographer and her name was Sally. They had three kids but Sally died giving birth to their third child so he moved here to Bethlehem to serve in ministry. He seemed to be a pretty open guy and not at all bitter. Maybe he was simply all cried out and chose to live with it. What else do you do?  

Then my food came. Niven smiled, “Go ahead! By all means, eat! …God is funny that way, you and me here now, you know?” he said, finishing his story.

“I guess,” I answered hesitantly, sensing that a preach was coming and quite frankly blown away that he could still hold close a God that took his bride, the mother of his children.

“So you were born Muslim? I only ask because of the name but it’s obvious from your story.” Niven continued making it clear that America had affected his diction.

“I guess, technically, yeah. But it’s weird…” I explain, with an air of conspiracy, that at thirteen I had defected and became a Christian. It was purely an intellectual decision as much as could be made at that age, which was not at all spiritual in hindsight as Christ guaranteed an entry of sorts into heaven and Islam did not. I told him how I sneaked around behind my dads’ back, having gone to church and summer camps, regularly hiding my Bible like I had lived in an eastern bloc country. How as an adult, questioning my chosen faith stemmed from a desire to get laid but then graduated into more sophisticated fare including but not limited to; the validity of the Bible, Torah and Quran, Jesus actually writing anything, divine inspiration, God being sovereign and all the rest. It was a long list, to be sure while none of these discoveries were wholly original. That it was happening to me, given what I thought I knew was like discovering I could fly. I was mastering new ways to think which involved challenging people. Being polite, feigning a “reverence” for a religion I no longer had held no place for me. If anything, maybe I’d end up spiritual.

By the time I was twenty-one I was on the fence about all this crap, working at a record company, playing in a band and enjoying the fruits of the flesh as it were. And here I was in the Holy Land, chatting about faith, whether Christian or Muslim with a minister. If we weren’t here, I’d be thinking, “Only in America.”

“Does your father know any of this? Of your conversion or now…How you feel? I guess your lack of direction, I mean?’” Niven asked with some concern. “I’m sure he would be very disappointed…I believe in salvation. I would want my kids to have a relationship with Jesus. I think your father believes in his religion for you.”

“Yeah, I suppose he would…don’t know if faith is my thing, man.” I said as I poured yogurt on my falafel.

“What do you mean?” Niven asked. “You’re not an atheist are you?”

“Me? Fuck no. A swim in the ocean or hike in the woods tells you there’s at least a God or something. I just don’t know about God being in control,” the dead bride was lurking about. I wanted to press him on it but I didn’t have it in me. My belligerence stopped at the grieving of others. “I think he gets the ball rolling and we do the rest, like He drops you off at the airport but you still have to check in and get on the plane. Don’t know which of you guys are right anyway and I’m not sure if I believe in hell either.”

“Well,” Niven paused, with an odd grin, “My friend, it all takes faith and without that, Jew, Christian, Muslim, you’re on your own, not a good place to be…Even God won’t go where he’s not welcome.” Niven said sincerely.

“Maybe we’re on our own, anyway. Maybe, I don’t know.” I was reaching for a good metaphor or parable, if you will; trying to repeat my earlier point, hoping it would stick but it wasn’t coming. It wasn’t even breathing hard and I didn’t care. Niven was a cool guy but in the end we live and die by what we believe, not what we’re convinced of. The world proved that every day and eventually, it wouldn’t matter anyway.

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

The minister chuckled, “Perhaps this is divine intervention, my friend…Maybe you’re ready to come back to our side, avoid an existential crisis.” This seemed to be an overcompensation, which I was willing to forgive.

“No thanks dude. I got early release for time served,” I grinned. “It’s funny, though. You said the same thing about faith my old pastor said. Seems to be the go to word with you guys.”

“What, faith? Ah, yes, it’s the go to ‘F’ word! The thing we 3 have in common, if not every other belief. How can they not? What would they have to teach? Faith is what makes belief in something outside our selves possible, provides vision.” He nodded, implying people behind me. Sam and Ali were right there. The looks on their faces were rather expressionless. Then Sam said hello and the ice was broken. I introduced my cousins to my new friend. They shook hands and Niven said something in Arabic.

In the alley behind the antiques store, Eddie and Abdul Lateef jumped in a car and truck, respectively, and took off like their lives depended on it. The truck had another shipment of cut heroin. Apparently their partner ran afoul of a higher authority as everyone in the shop who had cut heroin for Eddie was dead; all had been shot with silencers as to not arouse the street outside. The place was soaked in gasoline with a bomb left behind for good measure. As Eddie and Abdul Lateef got far enough away, Eddie stuck his arm out his window. Abdul Lateef grabbed what looked like a calculator that had a key in it…

Niven excused himself to leave and we all exchanged farewells and shook hands.

“You make friends fast,” Ali smiled. “Seems like a cool enough guy.”

“He said you were pretty sharp in Arabic. Did you get that? Shit, got him fooled.” Sam laughed and shoved me.

“Hey! Fucker!” I shoved him back, laughing, “I’m smarter than your Bedouin ass by a fucking long shot…”

Then

KAAA-BOOOOOOM!! BOOOOOOOM!!!

I was rocked to my ass, falling hard. Sam grabbed a chair as he fell to his knees and Ali stumbled onto the deli counter, ass end into the dairy section. Juice and milk cartons popped and soaked him. The whole deli was coming down as the refrigerators and coffee machines were knocking over and a grease fire had started in the kitchen. The rest of the place was shaken up and stumbling as well. Parts of the ceiling fell in and you could hear glass shatter as it hit the sidewalk outside. People were screaming. The smells of burning buildings and flesh came fast and smoke was descending on the street and into our deli. Pure bedlam had gripped the place as it was sinking in that there was an explosion.

We righted ourselves and worked our way outside, squinting, coughing. It had happened two doors down and the newspaper would later confirm that it was an antiques store. The very one I had passed by moments earlier. It was blown out completely with everything in the store in pieces on the street including a few parts of a few people. Brick and rubble were everywhere. Flames were licking the edge of the building where windows used to be and folks who were in front of the store were immediately blown apart and there was blood everywhere and in large puddles too. The smell of burnt gunpowder and flesh had permeated the air and it was thick even though we were now outside. It was the smell of death, pure and simple.

Suddenly, as the buzz in my ears wore off, I could hear wailing and moaning and it was fucking biblical. I could hear the gnashing of teeth and it was truly hell.

Sirens and alarms had been going on for at least a minute and I only just started to focus after a couple of minutes had passed. Police and troops were moving in. As I stood on the sidewalk, my head on a slow swivel I saw a guy in a black jacket, sprawled across a knocked over fruit cart, his back was on fire but he was not moving. I saw the side of his face and it was Niven! I reacted before I could think and ran over to him. I skidded to a stop and in a panic, I started putting the fire out on his back but he wasn’t moving. Later, I would remember a CPR class about that breaking a guy’s neck or something if I wasn’t careful. It’s odd what comes to you in times like that. But Niven didn’t move.

“Niven! Hey man! Shit! Oh my God! Can you hear me?” I knelt down and screamed into his ear. I saw blood coming out of it running down his face and he was still. He was dead. My arm jerked. It was Ali. Sam was right behind him.

“We get the fuck out of here, now!” Sam barked.

“But dude. He’s…”

“Fuck it. We have to jam right now!” Sam was gaining his composure and control of the situation as he stepped into a small alley between two buildings. Ali pulled me away and we walked fast, following Sam. I was still in shock. Niven was a cool guy, a good man and a family man at that, not a soldier. Now he’s dead? That fast? What the fuck? For what, I beg your pardon? There’s no such thing as fair where faith is concerned and his kids became orphans. If any of those folks prayed to God at all it seemed He had something else to do that day. If I was one of Nivens’ kids, I’m sure I’d end up atheist. I wasn’t sure of my own name at that moment.

It felt like we weren’t even walking. I don’t remember my feet touching the ground. It seemed we glided the couple blocks to where Sams’ car was. Road blocks were already being set up where we had just left.  As we approached Sams’ car, Israeli jeeps and Bethlehem police and fire trucks were screaming down the road. We slowed down to avoid suspicion. Common sense if you run and you’re Arab, you’re fucked, even if I did have an American passport. Shit like this puts that passport in “quotes” real fast. It could be a Muslim or a Jewish thing but regardless, we are screwed any way they look at it. Getting out of here was the smart move on our part but we still had the issue of pulling it off.

Ali motioned we duck into a church. “Just for a few minutes,” he said. “When the emergency crews settle into the area, we leave.” We sat in this old church. It was probably built in the 16th Century, I don’t know. It was red stone, not brick and the inside walls weren’t plastered but red stone as well. The stained glass above the Christ hanging from the front wall was sparkling with sunlight. Jesus was staring down at us, insisting it was our sins he died for. I don’t know about Ali but me and Sam each had a ton of reasons why this would be ironic. Niven didn’t have a care in the world anymore.

“Let me tell you about heartache and the loss of God.”

15 minutes had passed and Ali looked over to us and nodded. The folks who were praying just kept praying, so quiet was our entrance. I’m certain that praying for peace was paramount to visitors. We got into the car and drove off. Sam found his way to Jerusalem and took the same back roads home as he did the other night. We didn’t say a word to each other as he drove. I was in the back seat with the window open and I closed my eyes. The wind calmed me as it gently whipped my face and the sun felt just right. If I never moved again, that space was the one to occupy and I could have died right there. In the afternoon that stretch of highway looked liked that place from my dream with Karly. I took a deep breath as I was not in the mood to be chased by Israelis and we had no guns.

Sam drove into the mountains and took a longer way home. Even though our village was pretty secluded, it didn’t mean we couldn’t get stopped before we got there or even chased. When we were talking about how this “ain’t the States,” we weren’t just talking arranged marriages and ignorance. Democracy was at a premium when they shot or arrested you first and asked questions later. As for the Arabs, they can’t even spell democracy for love or money and the Jews only apply it to their own. What’s more, getting questioned or arrested, then released easily could have marked us for being collaborators. We sure as hell didn’t want that either.

The mountainous road we were on was narrow and very high above Ramallah. We could see the town and since the day was clear, I saw Jerusalem and The Dome of the Rock. I lay back again and closed my eyes. The wind was my friend.  

We got home and Sam pulled into our uncles’ garage. We left the car and walked home. We still hadn’t said a word to each other since we split Bethlehem. The three of us just stared straight ahead. I don’t know if Sam or Ali ever went through anything like that before as they seemed to share in my shock, a shared experience that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Understanding the day’s events was just starting to sink in on our walk. Sam and Ali had kids and I can only imagine what they were thinking if we got arrested or caught standing too close to the explosion. I kept thinking of grandpa in a Turkish prison and wondered if we would fare any better in an Israeli jail 70 years later? If you’re the enemy, history gets written by the winners and so would autopsy reports.

What the fuck was all this for? What was the point of blowing up an antiques store? Not a single soldier was killed. Not as though that would be preferable but shit, isn’t that the point as opposed to blowing up your own? I guess Arabs don’t count if they’re not Muslim. And Niven did nothing to harm anyone. Where was God when this shit went down? I’m not whining but things like this did give me pause as to his omnipotence since it seemed to be flagging.

It’s always the sideline guy or revolt groupie that says, “We have to support the uprising,” or “We don’t know Gods’ mysteries and it’s not ours to question,” or some stupid shit like that. What do they know? They should get shot and then they tell us what that fucking reason would be.

I walked into the house and the news was on and my uncle looked at me and even though he spoke no English, he could see the look on my face. I’m certain it was blank as a chalkboard in a September classroom. I felt numb, my face felt Novocain numb. I don’t think I could have told you the time if I looked at a watch. I had barely noticed that I have not said one word since I saw Niven dead in the street like an animal and that was a few hours past. For Niven, it was no more past, no more school, no more minister, no more wife and kids, no more sadness and the work to cover it up. It’s all gone and that’s too bad. He was a good dude.

My Uncle Ayoub motioned for me to sit by him. He held my hand and stroked it as I just watched the TV, like I was a little boy, just like in the car that first day. It seemed like the right thing to do and I was simply looking for familiar. My aunt got some food ready. Despite it being late and I knew they had already eaten, this did not feel odd at all. It was what I needed at that exact moment but they had to know I was not right. I said nothing as we ate. My other cousins seemed to be oblivious as to my countenance and I said nothing more either. I went to bed early even for here. I lay on my back and thought about everything. Why do we do this shit to each other? Why do we have to take sides? Why die? For the power grabs of the few? It wouldn’t even matter in the grand scheme of things, not one fucking bit.

One year later, the Berlin Wall would come down and the Cold War and Communism would be over and dictators die. But many innocents died anyway and for what? For their country, a fucking wall? The views of a country change, like I change my own mind as a man does all the time and then what? Countries move on and you’re still fucking dead…and dead? Dead don’t change.

How many hundreds of thousands have died? How many more will die because it’s easy to romanticize “serving your country?” Easy until the split second that finds me on the ass end of a rifle.

This will never end.

My throat was choked up and sore from holding it back then I wept and as it turned into abject wailing, I mashed my face into my pillow as to be not be heard by the family, until I fell asleep exhausted. I suppose that was the only logical response to a place that has lost reason but that would imply having it to begin with. So there’s that.

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