The mother shows her welcome in a more practical way. Again a tray with food appears and large round flatbreads are being warmed on the stove in the center of the room. Five minutes later they offer me warm bread. They push towards me small plates with fried eggs, yogurt, hummus: a tasty dish made of mashed chickpeas. They carefully watch so that I keep eating. Two pairs of warm loving eyes stare at me as I eat.
Though the parents want us to stay, Hanouf and I leave to explore the neighborhood.
Nose to nose with a priest
Despite the fact that all continents appeared on earth many eras ago, you have to rediscover the world again and again. Or rather, how wonderful that you can rediscover it again and again! To see with your own eyes, to explore with your own hands, to disprove all the things people so love to say against one another.
You’ve probably heard about the relationship between Arab Muslims and Christians. But have you heard about Christian Arabs?
You couldn’t call this village anything but Christian. Orthodox and Catholics live here side-by-side much the same way. “My” family – Salim’s – is Catholic.
Hanouf and I walk in the direction of the church – only the Orthodox church is open during the day. Without Hanouf I wouldn’t have been able to guess that it’s a church. No domes, though there is a small square-shaped bell tower. The whole building looks like a tall house.
We go in, cross ourselves, each in our own way: Hanouf from left to right, I from right to left.
It was unusual inside too – benches as in Catholic churches, no gilding and not many icons. But I recognize familiar saints in the images.
“Would you like to go see the priest?” Hanouf asks once we’re back outside, pointing to the house next to the church.
“No-o-o,” I answer shyly.
Instead of going to see the priest, we go and visit two Belorussian girls. Their mother married an Arab and moved with her children here when the girls were still young. Now they are both married and have three children between them – these blond-haired kids are running around. The husband of one of the sisters and his mother are sitting inside. Right away they offer us tea and crackers.
Taking advantage of the situation and my native language, I bombard the Belorussian girls with questions, which they answer gladly until we hear the call to prayer.
“The priest is here to bless the house,” says one of the girls. “It’s a tradition every Christmas.”
Before I could ask how one should behave on such occasions the priest entered the room preceded by his own singing. Tall, imposing, he was wearing a black robe under which you could see the contour of a round belly; he had a dark brown beard and curly ringlets and behind his glasses he resembled a huge soap bubble. And his pure joyous singing resembled the play of sunbeams on a soap bubble. And just as a soap bubble bursting flies apart in all directions, the priest liberally threw holy water at all of us. At some point, the priest turned towards me and…the holy water sprinkler in his hands and the prayer on his lips both froze. Puzzled, he turned to our hosts and asked something in Arabic. Eventually, with a bright happy smile illuminating his face, he sank into an armchair. Break-time.
They offer him tea but he doesn’t notice watching those present and asking about this and that. We start a conversation with the help of one of the sisters. I talk about the Church in Russia, ask him if he’s been to our countryIn the end, duty calls. The priest takes up the holy water sprinkler and his prayer fills the house even more fully than before. And I, hearing Arabic singing from the mouth of an Orthodox priest, try to convince myself that this is in fact quite real.
Cross and Kaaba
“OK, we need to turn back,” Hanouf said all of a sudden, although the village street looked interesting further on.
“Why?”
“This is where our village ends.”
“And what’s down there?”
“Muslims.”
“Let’s go there.”
“No!” Hanouf protests fearfully.
“Why?”
“I’ve never been there alone.” She means, without a man.
“And what are you afraid of?”
“Wait,” she agrees and makes a few steps towards a crowd of Arabs standing by a shop on the Christian side. A tall, broad-shouldered young man approaches us.
“This is my cousin,” Hanouf introduces him. “He’ll go with us.”
The guy smiles bashfully.
There is no border between the two villages. Houses with kaabas begin where houses with crosses end. Kaaba is a cube-shaped temple in Mecca, the main place of pilgrimage for Muslims.
Today is Friday – the holy day for true believers. Almost all the shops lining the road are closed. From the mosque, through a loudspeaker, comes the call of the Imam.
Here I attract even more attention than in the Christian village. I look back at Hanouf and suddenly I also experience fear building a wall between me and these people. People whom days ago I completely trusted with my own life. And whom I’ll trust again tomorrow.
“Don’t you have friends among Muslims?” I ask Hanouf.
“No.”
“Are there no Muslims in your school?”
“We have different schools: we have our own school and they have their own.”
“Does it ever happen that a Christian girl marries a Muslim man?”
“No! Never!”
Unlike Hanouf, her cousin is completely calm. He is shaking hands with someone.
“Does he have acquaintances here? Muslims?” I ask.
“He was shaking hands with Christians.”
At a mechanic’s shop like the one in the Christian village, a handful of men – Muslims and Christians – are talking. They are likely discussing important business: how to fix a carburetor, or whether it makes sense to overhaul the engine. They seem to be oblivious of any silly fears, rumors, or feuds that have been started by someone for some unknown reason.
The Syrian Church
In the evening, Hanouf’s father takes us to another nearby village, which is bigger and has four churches.
We drive up to the huge Orthodox church, which was built quite recently. Its white walls glow in the violate twilight.
The large carved wooden door turns out to be locked.
“It’s very beautiful inside!” Hanouf makes me even more sorry that we cannot go inside.
Instead, we go to the old Orthodox church and find a wedding service. The priests recite the rites and prayers in Arabic. I recognize the word for God, which in this language is still “Allah”.
I look at icons with Church Slavonic inscriptions in the little church shop. A man comes in and we begin talking in English. He apologizes for his Canadian accent:
“I worked there for a long time.”
“What did you do?” I ask, already guessing the answer.
“I’m a priest.”
I smile broadly:
“And could I ask you for a blessing?”
“Yes, but I don’t like it when people kiss my hand.”
“I won’t do that.”
He blesses me, and meanwhile another man comes in. There is no need to ask him about his profession: his robe speaks for itself. Hanouf says something to him, and it turns out that he is the senior priest of the church that was closed.
“Let’s go!” Hanouf calls.
“Where?”
“The priest has agreed to show us the new church.”
I’m holding the cup, plate, and spoon for Communion. I’ve never held anything like this before.
“These inscriptions are in Old Church Slavonic,” I say to the priest. Like the “Canadian,” he too speaks excellent English.
“Read it to me,” he says and so I do.
The inside walls of the church are as white as the outside. But here within they shine even more brightly, flooded by the electric light.
“Are there many worshippers here?” I ask, looking at the vast space filled with benches.
&n
bsp; “On Sundays the church is full.”
There aren’t many icons on the walls, and the priest tells us that most of them were brought from Russia.
We walk out of the church.
“And where did you study to become a priest?” I ask.
“In Lebanon.”
“And where is your patriarch?”
“Constantinople.”
I don’t know how long we would have gone on talking if Hanouf’s father hadn’t been waiting for us in the car.
In the end I can’t hold back and ask:
“Listen, are you really an Arab?”
“Yes,” he smiles, understanding the reason for my question.
No matter how difficult it was for me to comprehend this, I carried undeniable proof: the Gospel in Arabic, a gift from the priest.
The village of brothers and sisters
Hanouf has two older sisters and a younger brother. Salim – the guy who brought me here – already has three children, even though his wife is not yet thirty years old. Hanouf’s father has about ten brothers and sisters. A big family needs a big house, which is why homes in this village can be adjusted to increase in size. No magic is involved. On the roof of each of the houses there are concrete pillars. When a son brings a wife, and they need a place to live, they build another floor using those pillars. There’s no need to split up, families can stay together: one big family in one big house.
We visited an uncountable number of houses as we walked through Hanouf’s village: Hanouf’s aunt, her grandfather, cousin, her best friend from school… In each house they wanted to feed me, to offer me at least some tea, some tangerines, some cookies. They were so earnestly hospitable, so genuinely happy to meet me that I found myself again and again agreeing to just one more visit. It turns out we didn’t skip a single home in the whole village.
Hanouf has so many relatives that there’s not a single part of the village where she can’t turn her head to say: “Oh, there’s my cousin (walking, standing, running).”
Even when one steps out of the house he is still within his family as family members surround him on all sides. All around you are your own people.
* * *
It was already dark and we were on the way home when we stopped at the house of yet another friend of Hanouf’s. This friend studies at the university, and she has an older sister already graduated. They also have an older brother. He came out to meet me wearing a white shirt, black pants and a serious expression. He works as a lawyer.
“This is my girl. We’re engaged…”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-two.”
“And you?”
“I’m thirty.”
I look at this handsome grown-up man, silver hair already streaking his dark head, and he’s only just engaged! Knowing local tradition I know that his fiancée has not yet become his wife in any sense.
Hanouf’s father got married at about the same age.
Hanouf and I and one of her uncles are strolling on the already-sleepy village road.
“I would also like to go with you,” he smiles.
“Come along,” I answer and smile back.
“First,” he said, “I need to bring up my daughters.”
“And how many daughters do you have?”
“Three. The oldest is eight and the youngest is not yet one.”
I look at him; he doesn’t look younger than forty.
“And how old were you when you got married?”
“Thirty.”
“And why so late?” I finally ask my long suppressed question.
He looks at me with surprise.
“What? I first had to earn money, build a house. I first had to prepare everything for my future family. And only then could I finally get married.”
My eyebrows go up as if this is the first time I hear about this approach to family life.
Chapter 3. Venerable Jordan
In Turkey, at the house of the schoolteacher in Mardin, I had jotted down lots of Turkish words from a book he gave me, even though I would part with Turkey the next day. Now I don’t want to deprive myself of the pleasure of dreaming how I might one day live in Turkey. In Syria I decided that I’d definitely return and live here, even for a short while. Here people surround you with such sincere care and love that you want to come back.
“They live in poverty. For them a foreigner is a novelty. Their concern is no more than curiosity.” Some people would probably be satisfied with this simple and convenient explanation.
The bright and spacious building of the Jordanian customs office shines with cleanliness. I present my passport. The customs officer cannot keep from smiling, even if it reveals the gaps in his teeth.
“Is this your first time in Jordan?” He asks almost laughing, exultant.
“Yes.”
“Excellent! Welcome! Would you like some tea?”
Two years ago I was shocked by an offer of tea on the Syrian border. Back then, they didn’t even ask, they simply brought us tea. While they stamped your passport why not have a glass of tea in the boss’s office? Tea is traditionally a hot sweet drink which is drunk from a glass. The Syrian office had a shabby couch and dusty floor. The Jordanian customs office is different, but the offer of tea is the same.
Accelerating goodness
Huge shiny Jeeps drive up to the customs building. Slowly, some Jordanians get out of the cars. Only later do I learn that they are not Arabs but Bedouins, a different nationality: darker skin and stronger facial features.
Their white robes reach down to their feet, and they wear red-checkered headscarves. Their unhurried movements convey an awareness of self-worth. Jordan is a rich country. Although I’ve heard countless positive comments about Jordan I still wonder: “And what if people here are not as hospitable? And what if they won’t pick me up when I hitchhike?”
Passport in hand, I walk in the direction of the last customs booth. Once I show them my entrance visa, I’m in Jordan, and I’m here for the first time.
The customs official notices me from afar. He follows me attentively and even calls for reinforcements from another booth.
I notice their impeccably-fitting military uniforms, their berets playfully pushed to the side. Most of them wear neatly trimmed moustaches.
“As-salem, va rahmat Llahi, va va barakyat! Peace be with you, mercy and blessings of the Lord!” I greet them loudly.
“Va-aleikum assaliam,” they answer, brows furrowed, forgetting to smile politely.
I understand their surprise since they only ever see Mr. and Ms. White in big tourist buses accompanied by guides and interpreters. And now they see someone going on foot! And a girl! Alone!
I show my passport and begin to move on.
“Where are you going?” One of the border policemen stops me.
“To Amman.”
“And where is your bus?”
“Mafi. Ana mashi. There is no bus. I am here on foot,” I answer in Arabic.
“Mashi? One hundred kilometers! On foot? One hundred kilometers!
“Tamam. Fine.”
To me this is tamam, while they just blink helplessly. I take pity on them and explain:
“Shvaye-shvaye mashi, seiara. A little bit on foot, and then by car.”
The poor customs officers experience a wave of relief. They cheer up:
“So wait then, we’ll get you a cab.”
“But I don’t need a cab. I need a free ride.”
“OK, OK.” The customs officials are ready to agree to anything just to prevent me from going on foot. “How’s that possible anyway, to go on foot… all the way to Amman?”
I lean on the fence so that the gazes of the border policemen, fixed on me from all sides, don’t knock me over. As soon as I raise my eyes they look away, like tiny mouse-thieves scattering across a room when someone suddenly turns on the light.
In the end, they call me up to a tall black Jeep. I say a warm goodbye to the customs officials.
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sp; Inside the Jeep, there are three Arabs. One of them leaves us rather quickly. The driver has a big bushy beard, a great rarity in both Jordan as well as in Syria. An Arab businessman is sitting in the front seat. He is wearing a white shirt, a leather jacket, and sunglasses. His phone rings and he answers in fluent English.
“I’m sorry they stuck me in your car,” I address him cautiously.
“No problem, it’s fine,” he answers and turns back to the windshield.
Some time later he casually asks me where I am going and why, but without any keen interest. Then he falls back into indifferent silence.
We arrive in Amman. The twilight enveloping the city brought on similarly murky thoughts: “Arriving in an unknown city at night…where even by day… you can’t find a hostel… And in a car the customs officials put you into, you didn’t even stop it yourself…”
“Where should we drop you off?” asks the businessman as if reading my thoughts. “Where will you sleep?”
“In a tent. I just need to find a park. You don’t happen to know of one?”
“I do,” says the Arab as if it were an everyday occurrence for some random foreigner to ask about a park where she could spend the night. “There’s one not far from here, I’ll show you.”
And so, despite my assurances that I only need walking directions, the Arab releases his driver and accompanies me, taking all his briefcases and laptops with him.
“I could invite you to my house…” he volunteered in a low hesitant voice.
“No, thank you,” I refuse, seeing clearly that his offer was merely polite.
We find the entrance gates locked.
“It’s OK. I’ll find another entrance, thanks,” and I rush to say good-bye to the businessman who has so kindly wasted his time with me.
“If you wish, you may spend the night at my house,” he offers again, unexpectedly.
I fall silent, trying to guess the reason of his proposition.
“You can have some dinner, take a shower,” he adds. “If you so wish…”
Off the Beaten Tracks Page 25