They are Muslim. We are Christian. We come from privilege. They live in poverty. As our fellow Al-Basma volunteer Karen told us as we walked to the home of the family with whom we would be dining, “It is a different world in there.” And indeed, our worlds are completely different.
Their house was simple. Entering through a gradually dilapidating wooden door off a side street in Beit Sahour, we walked up a winding set of stone stairs to reach the humble dwelling of Safa’s family. Safa is a 23 year-old Palestinian Muslim who, during our first month in Palestine, worked with us at Al-Basma, as a way to earn what little money she could for her poor family. Due to language barriers, the three of us were not able to communicate too much with her other than with our smiles. Regardless, she sent word via Karen that she would like to host us in her family’s home for dinner. We accepted graciously.
To my knowledge, the house itself contained only two rooms, both very simple, with a few pictures and small woven tapestries hanging on the walls. Outside these rooms was a stone “porch” connecting their dwelling with the residence of Safa’s grandmother. Grapevines grew over their doorway and a few steep steps led up to the pathway connecting the roof of Safa’s house to that of her grandmother’s. The top of their home revealed a wonderful view of the hills and valley of Beit Sahour, houses scattered among tiers of olive trees and rocks, with Herodian and the mountains of Jordan faintly visible in the distance.
Upon our arrival, our hosts greeted us in the traditional Palestinian manner, “Ahlan wasahlan, you are most welcome.” Hospitably, they invited us to sit on their makeshift sofa while Safa’s father, Abu Saif, prepared our meal. On the table before him sat an old, tin cooking tray. Within its walls, he layered chicken breasts and legs; sliced potatoes, tomatoes, and carrots; and large chunks of eggplant; all of which he covered with three or four local spices. When the dish was ready for the stove, we followed Abu Saif to the roof where their small and seemingly ancient stove rested with a thin chimney that must have protruded at least ten feet up. During the hour or so that the food needed to cook, we answered questions about who we are, why we are in Palestine, and what we study, as well as assisted Safa’s siblings with the launching of a Kung Fu Panda kite.
When the dinner was ready for eating, Abu Saif removed it using blocks of olive wood that doubled as oven mitts. We climbed down the few steps to the fairly narrow area outside their main rooms and sat down upon the two mattresses that had been placed there. Setting the tray of food between all of us, Abu Saif and his wife handed each of us two pieces of pita, which, they demonstrated, were to be used to pick up bites of food from the tray. I looked around me as we began eating: three American Christian young men and six Palestinian Muslims were sitting cross-legged and kneeling in a circle around a meal. We were all equal. In this moment, they were not terrorists or enemies of the West, and we were not perpetuators of Western domination and imperialism. We all sat on the same stone, and ate from the same dish of food. Abu Saif looked at us and observed, “Here, in Palestine, we all eat together. Not like in America. Each does not have his own … plate. We eat as one.” I then realized for the first time that the individualism of American life affects even the way we eat. I deeply appreciated this meal eaten as one.
Throughout the night – amidst frequent proclamations of “Ahlan wasahlan,” servings of tea, Arabic coffee, and watermelon (a truly amazing dessert) – we received lessons from the Quran, insights into life under occupation, and inquiries into some of the mysteries of the Christian faith. “What is a Muslim?” Abu Saif asked rhetorically. “A Muslim is someone who does not hurt someone else. Not with the body, and not with the words. This is a Muslim. The Quran teaches this. Believe me.” Similar to many followers of Islam I have met, Abu Saif seemed to indicate that Islam is a religion of peace, of respect for others, and of devotion to God. Yet, like Christianity, Judaism, and other religions, the fundamentalists of the religion abuse its teachings, hijacking popular opinion and reducing it into something sinister.
“We are all brothers,” Abu Saif continued. “The Jewish, Christians, and Muslims. All brothers. We have the same ancestors and all worship the same God. We are all one.”
As the night waned, I sat lost in thought, thinking of just how many stereotypes were being shattered in these late evening hours in Safa’s home. This family does not fit the Western mold of Arabs, Palestinians, or Muslims. They do not hate Jews or the United States. They do not want to conquer the world in the name of Islam. They do not want to blow themselves up or injure the well-being of those around them. Particularly since the tragedy of 9/11, the West has been merciless toward adherents to the teachings of the prophet Muhammad, exacting revenge instead of forgiveness, unjust generalizations instead of careful understandings, and hateful rejection instead of loving embrace. Particularly given the United States severely damaging relentless alliance with Israel in its occupation of the Palestinians, this family had every reason to hate us, or, at the very least, resent us. Instead, they shared their home, their food, and their stories. They welcomed us enthusiastically and without condition. And as we rose to leave, bidding farewell to the family and energetically thanking them for their gracious hospitality, Abu Saif firmly shook each of our hands saying, “You must come back to see me before you leave. You must. You are like my sons.”
Hamdillah, thanks be to God.
Michael
