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Published: February 1st 2012
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It seems that everywhere I go in the world, I find myself adopted by older gentlemen. Something about me (I wish I knew what) draws them to me like flies to fly paper. They want to drive me around and show me things; they want to sit and eat papaya. Most of all, they want to talk – and I’m more than happy to listen. I consider myself lucky to be so oft in the presence of wisdom that surpasses my years on this crazy planet. In Israel, I found two such men in the same day.
While on my way to catch a bus to Jericho, I stopped to take a picture of a Russian Orthodox Church. At the same moment I pressed the release, an elderly man walked into the frame. Hearing the shutter click, he asked, “Do you want to take my picture?” I smiled in response. He came closer, taking me in like a young chick eying a worm and said, “What a gift your smile is. I can see your soul shining though it.” I was touched and entered an easy conversation with him. He shared that people don’t normally talk to him, that they
think he’s crazy. I’m not going to lie, I originally took him for a bit of a kook myself. Maybe it was his yellow shades, or the orange stains (iodine?) running from his nose, or the white crust in the corner of his mouth (toothpaste?). But that’s all on the exterior; what really matters is what lies within, and he was made of the good stuff. At the end of our chat, he left me with his number and a plea to use it. He said that he knew he already loved me because it pained him to say goodbye. Although I didn’t feel the same pain, I did feel blessed to have crossed paths with him. He made me feel open and connected to the world.
Two hours later. Dozing in the warm afternoon sun on a bench in Jericho. A voice called out, “One hours sun bath, 50 shekels.” I kept my eyes closed, not wanting to be bothered. Again, closer this time, “One hours sun bath, 50 shekels.” I opened my eyes to see a hefty paunch. Above it, a gray, shaved head and dark stains encircling eyes creased in one of the most heartfelt smiles
I’d ever seen. Abu Mike. He offered to show me around, free of charge, but I kindly turned him down and set off on foot.
After a few kilometers, he pulled up beside me, insisting that it was a long walk and it would be his pleasure to take me to the Mount of Temptation, where Jesus resisted temptation from the Devil for 40 days and 40 nights. I couldn’t say no to the temptation of a comfortable ride. I couldn’t say no when he told me to call him when I was finished to bring me back to town. And I couldn’t say no when he invited me to share fruit and a coffee. Later, his souvenir-selling friends joined us and they plied me with necklaces, earring and bracelets. I laughed along with them as each turn of my head produced a cacophony of jangles. They were good company and I felt completely at ease.
As such, it didn’t take long to find myself in one of those situations where I was sure everyone I knew would call me stupid – or worse. I left my bag with Abu Mike and climbed on the back of a
scooter with Mohammed (both men I had just met) to see the sunset from the top of the Mount of Temptation. I had nothing on me besides my jangles – no money, no identification, no means of protection. I had only my trust in the goodness of people. And if my writing of this isn’t proof enough, I’ll announce that I’m still a believer.
Safely back from the sunset viewing, Abu Mike treated me to dinner. Even as we ate, he never stopped smoking. He smoked each cigarette down to its filter, pausing long enough to hack up half a lung before lighting the next one. Our conversation flowed easily, from the heart. Hours later and still talking, he invited me to spend the night with his family. He even bought me a toothbrush when that was my only excuse for wanting to return to Jerusalem.
In the morning, I woke up to the sound of the muezzin coming from my feet on Abu Mike’s couch. Through the dusty window, I could see the minaret of the nearby mosque. Farther in the distance, palm trees and sand dunes glowed in the early morning light. The next sound I
heard was Abu Mike’s voice telling me that it was time to eat. It’s always time to eat in the Middle East. We strolled down the waking streets of Jericho, as children in blue uniforms shuffled to school, rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Donkeys rambled past, pulling cartfuls of produce to the market. Men swept sidewalks, tidying the little piece property in front of their shops. Everything bathed in the soft, sweet and golden morning light. There’s something very real about Palestine to me – something easy to connect to. Its streets are dirty and its people are welcoming and humble, smiling and poor. But, I needed to get to Tel Aviv. I needed to get to the Indian Embassy. I needed to get a visa. I was sad to leave Abu Mike, but secure in the knowledge that we will be friends for life.
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