"Well, if you hadn't decided to go blonde, we wouldn't be so noticeable," my husband, Andrew, said.
"Oh really, well maybe if you speak up with that Prince Charles accent of yours, the Arab gang waiting in the next alley will give us a warm welcome."
The joking stopped as we walked further away from the traditional Palestinian restaurant in East Jerusalem, called Philadelphia. All the guidebooks had recommended it. Even President Jimmy Carter called it his personal favorite. Yet there was something downright creepy about the entire experience. Philadelphia was certainly an odd name for a traditionally minded Middle Eastern restaurant, and Jerusalem isn't exactly the city of brotherly love. Still, always seeking out something unique and authentic, we decided to leave the cosmopolitan, very Jewish West Jerusalem for the riskier, heavily Arab-populated area known as East Jerusalem.
For starters, we were the only people in the restaurant for dinner that night. It was a very large restaurant, with photos of famous faces and of heads of state adorning the walls. Curious, it was then, that we, a British/American couple, were the only patrons there. The food was excellent, but we felt awkward and self-conscious throughout the meal, as the male-only staff in the very dimly lit restaurant stood back, unabashedly observing us as we ate. It was after 10pm when we finished our meal and proceeded to leave for West Jerusalem. Naturally, we assumed that in such a large city we would simply hail a taxi and be safely on our way.
When our feet hit the sidewalk of Azzahra Street in this very Palestinian neighborhood, it was apparent that we would have either a long walk or a long wait for a taxi—or both. There were very few people or cars around. The street lighting could be generously described as sparse. As we walked, hoping for a taxi, fear started to take hold. It did not take long before I decided it would be wise to cover my head with the hajab I had brought with me. The joking ceased as we hastily walked along the dark street in search of a taxi. My husband kept his very British accent down to a barely audible whisper and I was too nervous to speak at all.
As our nerves were just about frazzled, along came a vacant taxi. What a relief! The driver was an Arab man of about seventy. He introduced himself as Rahid. He spoke perfect English and was warm and engaging. During the ride to our hotel, we became quite charmed by him. We asked him to be our driver and tour guide for the next few days while we were visiting. He informed us that he shared the driving duties with his son, Bahir, who would be on duty the following day. He agreed to have his son pick us up at our hotel the next morning.
The following day, we went to the Dead Sea, about an hour from Jerusalem. We enjoyed a nice chat with Bahir and found him as pleasant and gregarious as his father. The day after, Rahid picked us up at our hotel and drove us to Bethlehem. He shared many wonderful stories with us about his life there. En route back to our hotel, late that afternoon, Rahid said he wanted to take us somewhere special if we had time.
We began to fidget in our seats as it became clear we were headed into a Palestinian neighborhood, well off the main road. I could feel my heart pounding. Andrew grabbed my hand and gave me a look that I knew meant he was worried too. Where was this man taking us? We continued to make small talk and tried to behave casually, while visions of Danny Pearl’s fate were swirling in our minds. The car continued to wind through residential streets, getting further from any main thoroughfare. Were we being paranoid? Had we watched too much television? Too much westernized press, suggesting that Arabs were ruthless killers that would like nothing better than to slaughter Blondie and her very proper British husband? I began plotting escape tactics in my mind. What would we do if there was a gang of "them" awaiting us at our destination? We had a two-year-old to raise! I imagined all the people back in the US attending my funeral, shaking their heads and telling my parents how foolish I was to venture to the Middle East to mingle with those savage beasts. I was near tears. My husband didn't look much happier.
The car pulled into a driveway that was framed by a very large stucco fence and a gate that closed behind us. "This is it," I thought. "It's over. Our pictures will be in the newspapers as yet another shining example of Christians annihilated in the Middle East." Andrew and I squeezed hands as if to say goodbye. Rahid said that we had "arrived," and to get out of the car.
We got out of the car and saw a familiar face. Standing on the step leading up to the house was Bahir, surrounded by his hajab-ed wife and four young children. They wanted to surprise us by having us over for dinner. I am not sure whether relief or shame overwhelmed us more at that moment. Here was this lovely family who wanted us to see their home, meet their children, and share a meal with them, and we thought we were being led to our execution!
What followed that evening was not so dissimilar from any social experience I have ever had. Really, what could be simpler than a group of people coming together to eat, talk, laugh, and share? This family was interested in learning about us—what our lives were like, what it is like to live in England and the United States, our politics, our ambitions—and they most especially loved hearing about our two-year-old daughter since they had small children as well.
We in turn had the unique and special opportunity to learn about their lives, to see how a "real" family lives in East Jerusalem. What we found was that they lived in a very nice modern house, with the same stainless steel kitchen appliances that Americans love. Their furnishings were comfortable and tasteful and no different from what we might find in the homes of our own friends in America. Their three-year-old daughter, Safaa, took us both by the hand to proudly show us her bedroom, which was decorated floor-to-ceiling in Hello Kitty, one of my own daughter's favorites. This child was not unlike my own daughter. Her skin was darker and she lived in another part of the world, but they could be friends, comrades. These people were not the monsters our media made them out to be. This family had Jewish neighbors on their street with whom they were close friends. They spoke Hebrew, Arabic and English. As both my husband and I are unilingual, we were astounded by their language fluency. No one in this family had any formal higher education, yet they were open, inquisitive and intelligent. Clearly their values were not so unlike ours.
In many ways, the simple event of a meal in this family's home changed me forever. I am now more skeptical of the presentation of particular groups of people in the media. Certainly there are despicable zealots of every type, but our media has presented these zealots to the public in such abundance that the average citizen has come to believe that this is the rule rather than the exception. I do not believe this is the case. Evidently, I once bought into it all, hook, line, and sinker. The interesting thing is that I never gave it much thought. It was only when I was in an unusual situation where an Arab was involved that I immediately concluded that he must have the worst of intentions. Furthermore, I was so sure while walking away from that restaurant, on a dark street in a Palestinian neighborhood, that we might be the next statistics. Reflecting back to our dinner experience at Philadelphia, it wasn't that it was an unnerving experience at all. Rather, I now believe that I was so rooted in a particular perception of that ethnic population and geography that my experience there was compromised by my own mindset. Surely, had we been in a near empty restaurant in Paris, our discomfort level would have been vastly different.
Could it be that I, an educated well-traveled person, was poisoned by media like everyone else? Maybe God, luck, or fate intervened on my behalf. I was blessed with the unique and delightful opportunity to see first-hand that the human spirit doesn’t change based on our location, color, or upbringing. Most people value the same things from wherever they may hail. The basics: love, respect, dignity, and kindness. Those are simply the fundamental ingredients of humanity. I am grateful for the life lesson.
I think I needed it.