Sulha

“You know it’s an expressive culture, right? He isn’t actually going to shoot you,” said Rachelle.

“Yeah, I know but I don’t like that I am making him so unhappy.”

Last time, I had been playing my trumpet out on the balcony with my shirt peeled-off. He threw a clothes-pin at me and told me I had no right to disturb the peace. It was about 5:30 in the afternoon. This time, I had been playing inside my apartment just past noon on a Sunday. When I went down to lunch, the same man called out to me. He looked like he was just under fifty years old and he wore black slacks with a light blue dress-shirt. Among other things, he told me if I didn’t stop he would shoot me in my fucking head, that he would break into my apartment to do it, and that he did not care what Zoughbi or anyone else thought. If this man really was dangerous, he would be my first caveat: the violent Palestinian that taints my argument that Palestinians are gracious, generous people who just want to live –a people like any other people.

I told him that if he wanted a solution he would need to talk to Zoughbi Zoughbi, my land-lord and boss.

“Fuck you, you son of a bitch!” –then he turned and went back into his house. He sure speaks good English.

* * *

“My Dad’s still sleeping,” said Luca, “he left to mediate a conflict at 1 and didn’t get back until 4AM.”

* * *

The potent scent of coffee brewing drew me away from the proposal I was drafting, one afternoon, out of the cool darkness of the conference room, through the foyer and out onto the patio; I did not dare to step further. Zoughbi and Adnan were sitting in a circle with four other men, having a heated discussion in Arabic: Sulha mediation in progress.

“Abu-George! Abu-George!” were the only words I recognized. Roughly translated, “George’s Dad”. In Arabic, a man automatically gains a nickname when his first son is born. Zoughbi is Abu-Tarek, for example. I like the subtext packed into this naming, which is both a term of endearment and a subtle way of reminding someone of their role. ‘You’re someone’s Dad, don’t forget it.’ It fits neatly into the nature of Sulha by stressing the importance of relationships and acknowledging that entire families are affected by conflict.

Later, Adnan drove us to the mechanic to pick-up Zoughbi’s ailing 1995 Volkswagen.

“Today, we spoke with the Jaha about a conflict,” explained Zoughbi, “it is between a man and a woman.” I learned that this was a case where a young woman said she would marry a man but then changed her mind after her family applied pressure. The would-be fiancé made an ill-fated trip to her family’s complex and made passionate threats to kill several relatives. The two families were getting ready to feud but someone had the sense to call Wi’am.

“Both sides, after some argument, agreed that he should apologize. If you would like, you can come to the final mediation ceremony tonight.”

Whoa. Whoa. Whoa...

* * *

“One time,” I told the other internationals, “almost half of my office dropped what they were doing to go mediate a traffic accident.”

* * *

From a developing research proposal I have access to...

“...adaptation, and expansion of the concept and methodology of Sulha it can be utilized effectively beyond the local level in the management and transformation of larger conflicts, and most specifically in the Palestinian-Israeli conflict. Further, its successful implementation could have positive implications for other hotbed areas...”

“...for achieving reconciliation and removing the need for revenge between aggrieved individuals, families and groups. The method dates back to the pre-Islamic era, and has been absorbed into both Arabic culture and law...”

“...third party. Upon learning of a dispute, notables and key actors known collectively as the Jaha immediately organize and become acquainted with the disputing parties and the issue in order to resolve the conflict. The Jaha petitions the offended household on behalf of the attacker to plead for reconciliation...”

“...involves granting Consent or Hudna, which holds considerable significance for the facilitation process. Hudna is an agreement wherein the Jaha specifies the period during which the aggravated family will not retaliate. The final stage is the final ceremony...”

“...shake hands and abide by the Sulha: the aggressor’s family humbly accepts the wrongdoing, while the family under duress respectfully forgives the aggressor’s family as an act of magnanimity...”

“...adapt the process in order to create a new tool, labeled “Reconciliatory Sulha”...”

“Our argument is that the practice of Sulha serves to re-embed both dignity and honor at the community level and that it is a critical component for ensuring sustainable nonviolent coexistence sought through international relations.”

* * *

“...deploy quantitative evaluations of information based upon the Arab tradition of ‘stopover’ visits and hospitality norms (coffee serving)...”

* * *

The crescent moon took on a deep, rusty tint as it rode low on the horizon. The new clutch in Zoughbi’s allowed us to lurch up the hillside between Beit Sahour and Bethlehem, into the driveway where Saliba was already waiting with the family. Saliba is the elder statesman in our office, the ‘glue-guy’ who seems to do a little of everything from children’s programming to presiding over Sulha ceremonies like this one. As always, I was amazed by the audacious hospitality of Palestinians. Each of the brothers shook my hand and welcomed me. Tea was served inside, in a living room lined with the furniture from two parlor-sets. I counted eighteen places for a grown adult to sit and, judging by the pictures on the walls, they use every one of them at family gatherings. An older gentleman hobbled in a few minutes after us. His hands were swollen and red but he gave my hand a very warm shake before taking a seat next to a one of the ladies. A discussion followed, in hurried Arabic. The older gentleman was the last to speak, rambling on for quite some time and gently painting his monologue with the gesticulations of those well-worn hands.

Adnan appeared, with the offending delegation. I took a seat closer to Zoughbi so that they could sit together on one side of the room, facing the young woman’s family on the other side. One particularly tall, brooding young man caught my attention. He might have been the offender: I never heard him speak but he looked like he wanted to disintegrate on the spot. I drank my tea and listened. There were very few words exchanged across the room at first. At one point, the cadence of the exchange quickened and voices started to rise but Saliba and Zoughbi each said something and the room settled again. Eventually, the older gentleman began again. My eyes drifted from face to face, wondering how everyone was related: I spotted wedding pictures, noticed which of the men shared ash-trays, thanked the boy who brought me another tea. When the older man’s hands finally settled onto his lap again, Saliba rose and gestured. The ceremony concluded; we all shook hands and wished each other a good-night.

The agreement was that all would be forgiven but the couple was never to be in contact nor speak of anything that happened during their relationship again—no telephone, social media, e-mail or otherwise. “...because the woman too often suffers from these matters, in our culture,” said Zoughbi. He explained that the mediation had been unusual because they had invited the older gentleman, a respected community member, to take the lead.

“...both of these families are dear friends to us. I did not want to be having to lecture them so,” explained Zoughbi, “we asked that man to come. He has worked with us before. He did lecture them but at least he was a true third party.”

* * *

That same night...

“My nephew started a bakery with these guys and then they started making money and hiding it from him. I told him, ‘why did you go into business with these strangers?’ Now, we must go...”

* * *

His name is Kalid. He works as a travel agent. He wants to sell the house where he resides but no one is buying. His children were trying to study. He is having some disagreement with his brothers. The next day, after he told me he would shoot me in the head he approached Zoughbi instead. Apparently, his tone was apologetic: he did care what Zoughbi thought.

“...you know, if he had just said his kids were studying I would have felt guilty...”

“He is trying to be tough—I don’t know why people are always saying ‘I kill you I kill you—“ lamented Zoughbi, “the younger generation picks that up and forgets that it is only rhetoric.” Kalid is not a dangerous terrorist. He is a frustrated man in a white-collar job where he has to be nice to tourists all day long. Everyone in the West Bank is crammed on top of each other, thanks to Israel, and Kalid wanted some control over the noise level in his house – he cannot stop the car-horns, the fireworks, the loud speakers blasting Arabic music or any of the noise that I have learned to sleep through but, well...

“He totally picked on you because you’re a foreigner,” said Luca, “—he wouldn’t be able to say things like that to another Palestinian. People can’t talk to each other like that, here.”

I think they can and do, sometimes. They are people just like any people. The staff at Wi’am gave me permission to play in Dar Sansour, not that I have had time. I miss having the horn here, to play during my leisure time... in the flat I call home. At the same time, it all seemed worth it to me to know that the process had worked. In spite of his frustration, he believed that talking to Zoughbi would bring a solution and I can not stand to betray that trust.

The final ceremony, this time, was not so ceremonial. We spotted Kalid on our way to work. Rather than just nodding hello, Zoughbi insisted we stop and shake hands. Kalid smilingly apologized ... made a few jokes ... then started back into his lecture about how loud I am and how the neighborhood needs to stay quiet. I nodded and tried to maintain eye-contact. Zoughbi reminded him that I had taken ‘it’ elsewhere and made an excuse about being late so that we could get in the car and go.

“...he could not resist teaching another lesson, could he?” I said, laughing a little.

“No, he could not. I am glad that you could be reconciled. At the same time, I was getting saturated with that guy. Halas, we are done.”