Things I won’t forget (“Peeling Oranges” final installment)

As I finish up my writing about Jordan and Palestine, I’d like to share some final snapshots.

Faces 

My host mom, who walks by my room and says a cheerful “Keefik ya Jordan?” after a long day at work. 

My baby sister, who sits on my lap, pressing the tops of my fingernails and squeezing the skin between my thumb and forefinger.

My nine-year-old brother, who spins a Frisbee in the street, mumbling songs from Glee in broken English.

My twenty-year-old sister, who throws her head back in a hoarse laugh, and slapping her leg.

My sixteen-year-old sister, who kicks her feet as she shows us her new dakbeh dance moves.

A nine-year-old neighbor boy, who shyly says “marhaba” as the white blossoms of a cherry tree fall into his black hair.

An Iraqi tweenage refugee, who invites me to play basketball, her icy blue eyes growing wide on her creamy face that reminds me of an upturned almond, shaved of its skin.

Our cab driver Samir in Bethlehem, who insists on showing us Aida refugee camp, the separation wall, and the famous graffiti that’s sprayed on it.

Our tour guide ‘Eisa (Jesus) at the Nativity church in Bethlehem, who explains every detail of the church, and shares with us his frightening childhood memories of the 1967 war.

Our favorite Armenian shopkeeper Maro in Jerusalem, who tells us about her daughter in America while selling us hand-embroidered crafts from West Bank cities at a discounted price.

Our fellow travelers from our hostel in Jerusalem (a Yankee, a Scot, an Aussie, and a Kiwi), who make me realize that I need no reason or justification to travel and see the world. 

Images

Clouds sweep over the golden Dome of the Rock, the orange rooftops, and the green Mount of Olives—all visible from a church bell tower in Jerusalem’s center.

Flocks of birds dipping and turning between the boxy, cement hills of Amman in the pinkness of twilight.

The viridian, rock-studded hills of north Jordan, which seem to shift and overlap as our bus flies down the slopes.

Tastes 

Spoonfuls of sugar and sage leaves in boiling black tea.

Spinach-laden broth poured over steaming, soft rice. 

Olive oil and zaatar (a thyme and sesame seed mixture) stuffed between the folds of warm pita.

Lemon and mint blended together in a cold glass.

Crispy falafel and yogurt-covered cucumbers in a sesame-bread sandwich.

 

 

Palestine and the unanswered question

Back in 2008, I heard about a young Palestinian named Ibrahim Abu Jayyab, who made campaign calls to the U.S. urging Americans to vote for Obama, who he thought would help the Palestinian cause if he became president.  When I interviewed Obama in Indianapolis that year, I told him about Ibrahim, and asked him how, if elected, he might repay youth like Ibrahim who advocated on his behalf and who sought his help.

Interviewing Obama in Indianapolis in 2008

Not prepared to answer such a specific question, especially one calling into question the U.S.’s long-standing policy of blind support for Israel, Obama responded vaguely, talking about how the U.S. needs to be a beacon of hope for young people all around the world.

Four years later, Obama is vowing to veto the Palestinians’ bid for membership in the United Nations, a move that will no doubt please the Israelis but be received by the Palestinians (and much of the Arab world, for that matter) as a slap in the face.  (Here’s a great article that summarizes the issue.)

The president has not lived up to his own goals and many people’s expectations in regard to the Palestinian plight.  He’s backtracked on moderate statements, let Israeli PM Benjamin Netanyahu drive the discussion, and refused to stand up to the Israel lobby in America.

Though Obama didn’t respond to my question three years ago, his planned veto provides a clear answer.  If I’m disappointed by Obama’s response, I can only imagine how dissatisfied Ibrahim must be.