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As seen in the Transitions Abroad Webzine Asia 2013 Issue
 

Fast Times in Palestine: A Love Affair with a Homeless Homeland

Excerpted from Fast Times in Palestine: A Love Affair with a Homeless Homeland by Pamela Olson. Available from Seal Press, a member of the Perseus Books Group. Copyright 2013.

Editor's Note: The book was named  by Publishers Weekly as one of the top ten travel books of 2013 and National Geographic as one of the best travel books of spring, Fast Times in Palestine: A Love Affair with a Homeless Homeland (Seal Press/ March 2013 / $16.00) is a powerful, and deeply moving account of an indecisive college graduate turned international journalist, over the two-year span she spent in the Occupied Territories. From idyllic olive groves to Palestinian beer gardens, from Passover in Tel Aviv to Ramadan in a Hamas village, readers will find Olson account encompasses not only the political tension that disrupts the region, but also its scenic beauty, its historical richness, its culture, and the day-to-day existence of its civilians. Thoughtful, shocking, and galvanizing, Fast Times in Palestine is a gripping narrative that challenges our ways of thinking—not only about the Middle East, but about human nature, cultural identity, and our place in the world.

Fast Times in Palestine

The driver dropped us off in front of a house where half a dozen men were sitting on the porch in a circle of white plastic lawn chairs sharing an ornate nargila. Yusif greeted everyone and introduced me. The house belonged to Amjad, a barrel-chested mechanical engineer with a neatly-clipped black mustache. One of the other men asked in English where I was from.

“Oklahoma,” I said.

“Ah.” He looked confused. “You are Japanese?”

I smiled and shook my head. Another man in Egypt had made the same mistake. “No, not Yokohama. Oklahoma.”

“So you are from America?” Amjad asked. He had a booming voice, and his question might have sounded like an accusation if not for the amused expression on his face.

I paused. “Yes.”

He laughed. “You are ashamed?” I wasn’t ashamed, but I said nothing. It seemed wise to keep a low profile until I had a better idea of what was going on. “Do not worry,” he said reassuringly. “It is a good country. Good people. Just your government is bad. Arab people, we understand bad governments. Our governments are very bad.”

Yusif shook his head. “It seems like the nicest people have the worst governments.”

“Ah, Oklahoma!” the other man said, finally putting the pieces together. “Yes, Oklahoma City. It is a dangerous place?”

I couldn’t imagine what he was talking about. Cowboys? Indians? “Dangerous?”

“Wasn’t there a bombing?”

“A—? Oh, right. Yeah, well, there was one bombing.”

“But it was a very big bombing, yes? Many people killed.”

“Sure, it was very big. But it was one bombing almost ten years ago.” We were in occupied Palestine and this guy was worried about Oklahoma being dangerous? I supposed that was what happened if you knew nothing about a place except its bombings.

Just then a goat came limping up the stairs and shyly peeked around at us. A man shooed it away, and it looked so startled and goofy, I laughed out loud. No one else did.

Yusif whispered to me, “The goats are living under the house because Amjad’s brother and father have been kicked off of their land by the Israelis. They have nowhere else to put them.” I nodded, chastened, and made a mental note not to laugh at any more goats.

A man with a large black beard and kind eyes walked by on the street and said in a sonorous voice, “Salaam alaykum.” (Peace be upon you.) Everyone answered, “Wa alaykum al salaam,” (And upon you be peace) as he joined us in the circle. He was wearing a long white robe and a keffiya, the black-and-white checkered head scarf made famous by Yasser Arafat. Yusif said something to him in Arabic. He turned to me.

“Ah, you are new here.” He bowed his head politely. “Ahlan wa sahlan. You are very welcome here. My name is Suleiman. Yusif wants me to sing for you. Is this OK?”

“Sure.”

He took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts. “Do you know about Solomon and the Queen of Sheba?”

“Of course. They’re in the Bible, right?” I wondered why he was bringing up a Bible story.

“Yes, they are in the Bible. They are also in the Quran.”

“Oh.” I felt chastened again. After two months in the Middle East, I still knew almost nothing about Islam.

Suleiman smiled. “Yes, in Islam, we believe Solomon and his father David were wise rulers favored by God. But in Arabic, we call them Suleiman and Daoud. And Yusif”—he leaned back and indicated our blond British friend—“is Arabic for Joseph. Same same.” I nodded. Suleiman seemed pleased. “Listen, I will tell you the story.”

He cleared his throat and began to intone in that not-quite-singing, not-quite-speaking way people recite the Quran. The others stopped their conversations to listen in. In my mind, Bible stories had always been associated with itchy Sunday mornings on hard wooden pews. But sitting in the Holy Land hearing a man sing with such mesmerizing expressiveness made the old stories seem startlingly human-scale, almost mundane, yet more beautiful, rich, and real.

When he finished, everyone enjoyed a moment of appreciative silence. I smiled and thanked him, and he nodded graciously. Then someone got up to make another pot of tea, and conversation resumed.

It was baffling to see everyone so full of energy and good humor, with smile lines around their eyes and warm welcomes for wandering foreigners, when wars and occupations were going on all around. They seemed to be enjoying a nice, carefree time on the porch with friends and neighbors drinking sweet tea in the clean night air, not unlike we did in Oklahoma, as the last lights faded from the coastal plains far below. I could only shake my head and laugh at myself. The longer I traveled in the Middle East, the more I realized how little I knew the world.

 
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