“Why does it always have to be about us?” he asked. “Why do we always have to be the center of everything? There is other life out there, isn’t there?”
For Laura Schwartz, who taught the course, first-year projects were typically a mixed bag, pretty much what you might expect of young, inexperienced students. Even the surprises weren’t really surprises: students who didn’t get what a documentary was; those who thought they did and had a better idea; the ones from planet X who shot their pieces from outer space; and finally, those who got so entranced with the process that they lost sight of the specific requirements of the project. Of the latter, there was one piece that the professor could call a surprise. Of all of her students’ projects it played in her memory the longest. It was difficult, however, to call it a documentary.
“Amir,” Laura began as he sat in front of her in her office, “first I want to say that I truly enjoyed your work. But I also have to say that I really don’t see how it fits into the category of documentary.”
A moment of silence passed. Laura Schwartz looked at her student, attempting to see beyond the boy’s outer persona, while Amir looked blankly back, trying to find his voice.
“Yes, a documentary,” he said.
To Laura’s ears, Amir’s words sounded like neither a statement nor a question, but something in between.
“Um-hum,” Laura nodded, “a documentary. The presentation of a given subject in a factual mode. The telling of a story as it happened in as objective a way as possible.”
“OK, that is what I did, then,” Amir said, the timbre of his voice not sounding convinced.
“And the story you’re telling, is about…?”
“Trees.”
“Trees? Yes, of course. Trees, the title of your work,” Laura paused, as if the obvious wasn’t so obvious at all. “But there weren’t any trees, except in the opening and closing shots. I’m afraid I don’t quite get what the story is here.”
“It was a documentary of the trees, you see? Not about them. By them. They are telling the story of us, of what they see.”
Laura Schwartz laughed. There was something in her student’s face, in his eyes, that was clear, honest, and devoid of affectation. She suspected that under the quiet, almost distant demeanor was a hidden passion. She was beginning to like this young man.
“Oh, now I see,” the irony in her voice unambiguous. “If this is your idea of a documentary, then I can’t wait to see what you’ll do when you shoot an experimental piece.”
Laura Schwartz paused, for the moment letting go of the question of whether the film was a documentary or not. She had other questions, and after all, even though she meant to keep the pressure on her young student, there was a story in the film.
“Why did you overlap the dialogue with the music the way you did? The voices sound more like the babble of a brook than they do people conversing.”
“I don’t know. It just seemed right, you know? It’s like when you’re in the woods walking, listening, sort of just hanging out. You hear sounds. To us they’re just these kinds of vague noises that don’t really mean anything. We never really think much about what their source might be, that they might be a communication of some kind. You don’t think the birds are talking to each other. You just think, oh, that’s nice, they’re making music. You don’t think about the sounds the trees make. That they’re alive. That they have something to say. So if trees could hear, and they were like us, then everything we said might just be a noise to them, too. They might not think anything was being communicated. The same way we look out at the world and see ourselves, people, as being the center of everything. Most of the time we’re hearing only our own voices and nothing else.”
The film professor smiled, not knowing quite yet what to make of her student’s response. “I’m curious. What made you come up with this idea in the first place?”
“When I was young, I spent a lot of time out in the woods, just playing and hanging out. Like any kid, you know? I liked to climb trees, and sometimes I’d wonder what it would be like to be one. When you gave us the assignment, this idea just popped up in my head.”
Laura Schwartz listened intently, her appreciation of Amir’s film growing with her understanding of what lay behind its idea. She couldn’t help but wonder, however, about his description of playing in the woods, his portrayal of it as an act of common childhood practice. It seemed to her like an old and quaint tradition, the way her grandfathers might have spent their free time as young boys. She couldn’t remember the last time her thirteen-year-old son had gone scampering off into the woods on his own accord, if he ever had. If it wasn’t attached to an electrical cord or battery powered, an activity was unlikely to hold her child’s interest for more than a few moments.
The professor and student talked for a few minutes more about his project before the subject changed to Amir’s goals. Laura Schwartz was surprised to hear he had developed no thoughts as to where a degree in film studies might take him. Even as she mentioned possible futures that could bring him both fulfilling and gainful employment, he showed little reaction. She smiled inwardly, appreciating his innocence and at the same time wondering just how long it might last.
Chapter 20
With his first major project completed, Amir refocused his attention on his other courses, which had languished in favor of the film. It had been easy for him to put them off. They were required courses that for the most part were of little interest to him, and that, given the choice, he would have skipped entirely. The lone exception was a humanities course that fulfilled a general education requirement. The course, an introduction to Islamic studies, was taught by Dr. Zakariyya Ashrawi. Zack, as he preferred to be called, had written several books on the Israeli–Palestinian conflict; he was a leading advocate for Muslim civil rights in the United States and one of the more well-known and politically controversial members of the college faculty.
Although Amir did not feel any sense of lost religious heritage that he was drawn to rediscover, he nevertheless wanted to understand more about his former homeland’s majority faith and the politics that played into it. The first few classes of Dr. Ashrawi’s course reviewed the basic teachings of Islam, traditional Islamic life, and an introduction to Islamic history. Amir was surprised to find the material awaken a sense of the familiar that was as pleasant as it was strange, a distant sensation of the surreal taking him back to a time of innocence and peace. His parents’ religious observance had been confined to the occasional visit to the mosque and the traditional Islamic rites of passage—birth, death, and marriage—where even the least religious and those of other faiths could be found sharing in the social expression of their rural village community. In his mind’s eye arose the picture of his father and mother and his sister sitting, smiling, talking happily among all their friends and relatives, little thought given to the lineage of their name or the branding of their religious belief. How that all could have so suddenly vanished into a miasma of hate and violence was only now beginning to find question in Amir’s thoughts.
As Dr. Ashrawi’s course focused on the more recent history of the Middle East, the tone of the instructor’s voice began to change, moving from that of the professor to that of the politician intent upon instilling his words into the ear of the populace. Dr. Ashrawi, who had gained national notoriety for his support of the Palestinian cause in opposition to what he called “the Israeli Occupation of Palestine,” was not shy in making his political beliefs known. When the subject of the class came around to the Israeli–Palestinian conflict, Amir began to grow increasingly uncomfortable, his enjoyment of the class beginning to diminish as Dr. Ashrawi illustrated the plight of the Palestinian people with pictures that included dead children, and others showing Israeli tanks bulldozing houses while their occupants stood helplessly outside, pleading tearfully for the soldiers to stop. Those images drew forth others from Amir’s past, ones that he would have permanently deleted from his memory, if only it had been
possible.
Yet even as Amir turned his eyes away from those disturbing scenes, a part of him, fueled by a simmering, rising anger, challenged him to not look away. Amir felt confused and conflicted and soon found himself making excuses for not attending class.
After Amir had missed several classes, Dr. Ashrawi sent him a message asking Amir to come to his office to discuss the absences.
“Assalamu alaikum,” Dr. Ashrawi smiled in greeting.
The professor watched as Amir momentarily struggled with an answer, finally responding with a simple hello and a slight bow in reflection of his teacher’s.
“I’ve been concerned that you haven’t been in class,” the professor began. “Is everything OK?”
“Yeah, I just had a couple of scheduling conflicts,” Amir answered untruthfully. “But I got the notes from the classes I missed from one of the other students, so I have everything covered.”
“Well, good then. I’m glad you’re keeping up with it.”
Dr. Ashrawi smiled and paused, taking the moment to consider the young man in front of him. He looked younger than a college freshman, but then again, in recent years the first-year students had all begun to look younger to him.
“It would be good if you could make an effort not to miss any more classes. We’re going to begin a review of the course syllabus, and that will be important to the final grade. You know, I was thinking that it might be interesting for you to meet some other students who have backgrounds similar to yours. We’re holding a small gathering next Thursday evening, a sort of Da’wah, for students to get together and enjoy each other’s company. If you don’t mind, I’ll give your name to Kemal Abdu, a former student here and now a graduate student in Boston. He’ll be organizing it for us.”
The professor had used the religious term of invitation to Islam, Da’wah, on purpose. He had spoken it in a neutral tone, one that seemed to imply a more general than specific meaning. He sat quietly waiting for Amir to speak, letting the silence force an answer.
“Um, I’m not sure I can. I’ll have to check my schedule.”
“Of course. I’ll have Kemal contact you and you can let him know. But think about it. It’s going to be a lot of fun. You’ll get to meet some pretty cool kids. I imagine you haven’t had many friends you could talk to about being Muslim?”
“No, not really,” Amir answered ambivalently, feeling hesitancy at the implied inclusion to Islam, an identity he found distant and not called to.
Yet when Amir received a call from Kemal Abdu that same evening, he was surprised to hear himself answering the graduate student’s invitation in the affirmative, afterward wondering why he had accepted the invitation so readily. The following Thursday, as he walked across campus to the room the Da’wah would be held in, he hesitated and almost turned back in the direction he had come from. But he had accepted the invitation and felt as though he had an obligation to attend.
When he arrived at the gathering, he saw that the other invitees were, for the most part, people of Muslim heritage near his age. At the center of the gathering was Dr. Ashrawi, straddled on either side by two other older, professional-looking men. They were surrounded by a small group of students who were chatting with them respectfully.
After nearly an hour of random conversations that felt forced and awkward to him, Amir scanned the room looking for a path to a quiet exit. His eyes gazed past, then returned to, a girl standing among a small group of other female students, their heads completely covered by hijabs. Her long, dark hair flowed out beneath a headscarf that was loosely and almost fashionably tied to her head. The picture caused him to smile. There was no reason for his response, no political or social judgment from him on the one side or the other. He hadn’t even realized he was staring until the girl looked up from the conversation and caught sight of his face. She looked back at him, her expression at first one of puzzlement, then quickly replaced by a flash of annoyance, before turning her back to him.
Amir gave a small shrug of his shoulders, not an uncommon gesture in his repertoire of expression. He continued looking in the girl’s direction for a few seconds more, until he could see by the stiffness of her back that he wouldn’t be gifted a second look. There seemed something familiar about her, and he wondered if he’d seen the girl someplace before. His thoughts returning to his exit, Amir decided the time to leave had come, before Kemal Abdu or one of the other student hosts engaged him in yet more comradely chat that always seemed to turn to enthusiastic conversation about faith. Without saying good-bye to Dr. Ashrawi or Kemal, Amir quietly slipped out of the room and made his way back to the lobby of the Student Union, where he lingered, not yet ready to return to his dorm room.
Feeling hungry, Amir decided to get something to eat. At that hour the main cafeteria was closed, so he headed down one of the corridors branching off the lobby, toward a small café that remained open until midnight and was a hangout for students in the film school. Not seeing any of his friends, he sat down alone at a table after ordering a sandwich and drink. He had just finished his meal when, from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the girl with the fashionable headscarf he had noticed at the gathering of Muslim students. Her scarf was now pulled down over her shoulders and hung loosely around her neck.
Fate can find its opening in less measure than a heart’s beat, and it seemed that for the young man and young woman, whose eyes met once again, it was just that way. Their gazes crossed and would have just as quickly passed, had not in that moment an embarrassed smile erupted from Amir’s face. The girl, whose natural response to the stare of a male would normally have been abruptly dismissive, caught the disconcerted look on the boy’s face and, despite herself, held back from averting her eyes in automatic rejection. Her body slowed and then was halted by his one, quietly spoken word.
“Hi,” Amir said with a nod of his head, a hint of red surfacing on his cheeks.
“Umm, hello,” the girl responded.
Pausing, she looked him over, her head nodding while her eyes and mouth contracted in ironic expression, as if playfully gauging whether the boy warranted any further attention.
“So,” she continued, her humor probing a little deeper, “Zack and his mujahideen, they are not your cup of tea?”
Caught off guard, Amir’s head moved backwards, as if trying to gain distance to better see the place where the question had come from. His smile remained, though it now appeared even less sure than before. The surprise of the question had momentarily distracted him from the sound of the girl’s voice, which held an accent that had immediately grabbed his attention.
“No,” Amir answered, then caught himself. “No, I don’t mean no. Sorry. No, I mean they’re fine. Why do you say that?”
“Hah, I saw you sneaking away. Maybe you are some kind of spy?”
“No, I’m not,” Amir said quickly. “Why do you call them Zack’s mujahideen?”
“It’s a joke. You know? They are sometimes so serious. Anyway, you were looking like you wanted to make invisible of yourself,” the girl continued, her face in mock seriousness.
Realizing that she was teasing him, Amir laughed, his smile spreading wider in response to hers. He liked her eyes. They were hazel, of a darker shade than his own. Her hair was long, and even with it partially tied back, he could see that it was lustrous and silky. Her face, the one that had looked so familiar to him, was soft and rounded with delicate features that were easily lost to the gaze of her eyes. Like him, she was of average height, though not as thin. He liked the gentle round of her flesh, the smooth, healthy, pale skin that contained her. As his eyes continued to hold hers, he could feel there was something striking about her. He saw her face suddenly grow wary at his continued gaze, and he reflexively turned away before looking back and speaking.
“You weren’t wearing a hijab like the others,” Amir said, unable to find a better thought to keep the conversation going. He was sorry he’d said it the instant it left his mouth.
“I do
n’t have to prove my virtue to anyone,” she responded quickly with a stern look. “If it suits me, I’ll wear one. If not, I won’t. I don’t need to explain myself.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…,” Amir stumbled to find the right words.
“It’s OK, it doesn’t matter,” she answered. Seeing his discomfiture, she shrugged and half-smiled.
“Are you going to get something to eat?” Amir asked, by way of timid invitation.
“No, just a tea,” she answered, letting the unspoken question hang.
He could see that she was watching him, waiting to see what he would say next. His mind raced to come up with some words that might win the moment, but all he could manage was an embarrassed smile.
“I’m going to buy it,” she said, and turned without a further word.
As she ordered the tea, her thoughts turned to him. She was glad he hadn’t come up with a line, a witty come-on. Because then she would have gone her way, and she didn’t feel like being alone. After she paid for her tea, she walked back in his direction.
“So, a big night out then?” she asked, her smile indicating an opening.
“Yeah, a big night out,” Amir laughed in response, relieved to find her standing in front of him once again.
“Shall I sit?” she asked.
“Sorry, yes, please do,” Amir responded, quickly standing to pull out a chair for her. There followed a moment’s pause while she took her place. Feeling her eyes on him, Amir spoke the first thought that found footing. “Where are you from?” he asked.
The Solace of Trees Page 20