Sitting in Deficit

Between being sick and traveling, there has been little time for trumpeting this past month. I have an open invitation to jam at Dar Sansour (the Wi’am office) so I absconded upstairs and sunk my lips indulgently into a few familiar strains. My embouchure not entirely lost, I was just beginning to feel a little less sick when the scent of brewing zatta reached my nostrils. Zatta is known as thyme in English but I think that I will always call it zatta: the herb sees more action in this culture.

I went down-stairs and decided to sit while the tea finished brewing. As I did so, Zoughbi began to tell everyone in the room what a great guy I was and how important it was to be hospitable to me. I must have blushed terribly. I reassured everyone that they had been very hospitable to me and that it was really my pleasure to be there. Zoughbi went even further, saying that I was welcome to play outside, if I wanted, and no one would bother me.

As I sat down to drink my zatta, Zoughbi chimed-in again: “We are going to pay condolences; would you like to come with us?”

The answer was yes. I put my kafiah back on and joined Imad and Usama R. in Zoughbi’s car. We picked-up a school-teacher from Beit Sahour on our way to a nearby church. As we arrived, the abuna from the Greek Catholic congregation came walking up the street. We all shook hands and filed inside.

There, about two dozen older men stood as we entered. Zoughbi muttered the correct Arabic phrase and I tried my best to say it to each of them but I could tell I was not quite on-target. I took a seat next to Saliba and waited respectfully while they all conversed in Arabic. Only a few words popped in my ear: Eeran, ‘Ameerca, Isryal, Filisteen. Younger men were circulating the room with pots of coffee. I had to smile at the way older men accepted the tiny cup of coffee and then tried to offer it to the abuna, who wanted none of it. Personally, I had to use the restroom and Arabic coffee was going to exacerbate that like nothing else.

Another line of men entered, so that we all stood and shook hands with each other like opposing teams after a basketball game as our line left the church. I had made it without offending anyone and that was good enough for me, so I thought. We started the car and headed to the next church. “There are two funerals today.”

This time, I made sure to find the bathroom. While I was managing my fluid problem, I took a minute to think about what I was doing there. I knew nothing about the deceased. If I were capable of asking, I would not anyway. I had already been to one of these, I mused, so that I probably had all I needed to blather about paying condolences in my blog. From my normal, American perspective I was wasting time that I might have been using to... to... to...

I left the restroom with an intentionally different perspective: I was there. It reminded me of an important realization that flowered in the past month or so. In coming to terms with my relationship to my father, I also came to terms with the fact that sometimes even my attempts to be altruistic have oriented to my need to feel helpful rather than the needs of another. Praises on High, I managed to become more aware of that phenomenon and decided that there was value in ‘sitting in deficit’ with people while they are in the midst of struggle. Imagine how different the story of Job might be if his friends had continued sitting in silence with him rather than beginning their respective analyses.

We left the second round of condolences and proceeded to the basement, where (naam) a third funeral event was in progress. As I passed through the line, I tried to meet each eye and shake each hand with sincerity. It is hard to explain, perhaps. Facial expressions transcend some language barriers. I cannot take full credit: God blessed me with an expressive face. I let each of the older gentlemen see my emotions, how I felt to know that they had lost their friend. I can say honestly that something beautiful was there that was not at the first church, when I was worried about knowing what to do instead of wearing my compassion openly, even if there was nothing to do.

Back at the office, Zoughbi began again: “Really, you can play outside. My colleagues would like to enjoy your music without, uhh, so much repercussions inside here.”

I managed not to be very offended. At least I understood why Zoughbi had suddenly decided to talk about what a great guy John Daniel is – because he is a master at conflict resolution. Let me rephrase that: a master at Arab conflict resolution. In America, I could complain that he was being too indirect or feel betrayed by my co-workers because they did not feel comfortable confronting me. Yet, this is Palestine: everyone saves face. I choose to go outside; my co-workers are complicit in my playing somewhere on the grounds. Khalid remains outside of the equation. I know trumpets are loud but that is what I play. Halas.

...and the children win. The children always win. I went outside to a play-ground with half a dozen children and left a play-ground with two-dozen children. They came in twos and threes to the funny, loud noises. They had the most beautiful brown eyes and gaping smiles... I should tell you all about them sometime soon...