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. 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...

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.”

Paint

A friend told me he had asked for some prayers on my behalf. I appreciated that-- I'm not quite up to long reflections each day. Instead, I want to write just one, quick scene that I cannot let the world miss because it was worth every ounce of the "check-point" post I deleted.

Mr. Zoughbi interrupted our proposal writing session with an afternoon coffee break: “You are tired; come and have some fresh air.” About half a dozen of us went out onto the Wi’am patio, next to the garden and playground, and sipped tiny cups of potent coffee (it’s Arabic) from a serving platter. Usama had a cigarette and we took turns shooing cats away from the door. When I’d finished the coffee and started the herbal tea (I like this country), I took a seat on one of the small retaining walls in the sun.

Zoughbi Zoughbi is my boss, the director of the Wi’am Center for Palestinian Conflict resolution. He reminds me of my grandfather, the way that he seems to know everyone around town and takes care of his family. Like my grandfather, it can be hard for me to wrap my mind around what a significant figure he actually is in this community. Far from being an intimidating presence, he is the kind and humble man who announced that this weekend’s family barbeque was in my honor and insisted I sleep-in Monday. “Take your time, leave ample time to eat in the morning.” That is Zoughbi Zoughbi, briefly.

So Zoughbi asks me, “how are you about the painting?” The truth is, I have done plenty of painting for my grandfather; it gave me a flash-back (“Don’t just slather it on, son; well, use more than that!”).

“Yes, I can paint,” I said making a brushing movement. I wondered what the General Board of Global Ministries would think about a mission intern engaging in menial labor but I can already tell what kind of organizational culture they have at Wi’am: everyone pitches-in. As Zoughbi said, “we are men and women of all trades, masters of some!”

“La la [no no],I meant paint the wall,” he said pointing behind me. I glanced at the piebald stone retaining wall, furrowing my brow and gesturing. “It could be, you know, like the Wi’am newspaper—inspirational.” Then he pointed again. He was not pointing at the stone retaining wall but The Wall behind it. Next to the Wi’am Center is the essence of The Occupation: a concrete divider that is longer and taller than the one that carved Berlin. It severs the Palestinian people from land, family and pilgrimages and divides one ‘City of David’ from the other. Taggers, artists and freedom lovers from all over the world have left their marks of protest there.

They tease me a lot, already. I was expecting a punchline like ‘when we tear it down, of course!’ or ‘and then we’ll throw you over—come back with hubz and humus...’. Instead he said, “how is your hand-writing in English?”

“It is excellent when I go slowly,” I said with a smile, “maybe I can draw something small and we will reproduce it. What are our resources; do we have paint?” No punch-line came. In fact, a small group of Norwegian students came to visit. The coffee platter returned to the patio and I took a seat next to Zoughbi, listening to him talk about Sulha mediation, youth programs and how Wi’am is creating a counter-culture of peace that is ‘assertive but not aggressive’, to reverse the slide into despair and violence. He said to them, “I mention to John Daniel earlier that we should put something, you know, motivational and inspiring up on the wall each month...”

This place is not just a grant magnet to me—I really believe in this ideology. I hope he was not kidding because I want to put a luxurious coat of hope on all that ugly oppression.