Hassan

Hassan’s ivy green eye’s flashed in the sunlight as he peered around the door to his house into the street and said “hello!” In Deheishe refugee camp streets are more like alleyways and running water is a luxury left to the whim of the gods. I responded in Arabic, “marhaba.” Hello. His curious face brightened and he smiled as he reached for my hand. Doors in Deheishe are beautiful. Each seems to have its own unique flare. Deep emerald greens. The swooping flow of green Arabic graffiti on vibrant orange. Speckled red rust like stars in a sky of navy blue. The camp—which is more like a massive dilapidated neighborhood than a camp in any sense—is a paradox of beauty and depravity. Like a white orchid in the desert, a rose in a rock bed, glints of beauty haunt Deheishe. The people and their uninhibited hospitality. The colorful doors. The occasional mural. The rich, grainy smell of frying falafel. Fresh pita.

Perhaps it should have surprised me when Hassan, not more than ten years old, took my hand and said “welcome.” But it didn’t. And perhaps it should have surprised me that within minutes Meg and I were seated in Hassan’s family’s courtyard outside his house sipping steamy “chai”. Tea. But it didn’t.

Hassan’s English was broken. Each time he couldn’t recall a word or a phrase he would put his head down and apologize. Hassan and his younger siblings and friends, marveled at us. They asked us questions. Why were we here in “Filistine”? To find hope and beauty in the midst of ethnic cleansing. Did we like it here? Yes we do, very much. They giggled when we cursed Bush. Do we think Palestinians are terrorists? I don’t watch Fox News. Welcome. Welcome. Sipping tea with fourth generation Palestinian refugees. I couldn’t help but look into Hassan’s eyes and see a boy whose daily reality makes all the compounded suffering in my life seem insignificant and I feel a tinge of guilt. Guilt for my wealth. Guilt for my nation’s role in sustaining Hassan’s suffering. The tea was sweet, fresh mint leaves gave it spice. As Hassan’s younger brother smiled at me the last cup of tea slipped off the tray he carried. It shattered on the concrete floor.

Refugees in their own land. Children forced to act like adults in order to cope with the strains of life under occupation. Under apartheid. So much of me wants to know their pain, romanticize their plight. But I know I shouldn’t. As we finished our tea and said our goodbyes to our new friends I saw it in their eyes as clear as crystal… Understand my suffering. Enjoy my hospitality. Recognize my powerlessness. Tell my story. Enjoy my homeland for its broken beauty, its wild potential. Drink chai with me and don’t forget what you have seen and heard but whatever you do don’t fall in love with my suffering. There is nothing lovely about it.