A Long Awaited Reunion with the Jamous Family

[Distclaimer: After re-reading this post several times, I feel like I spent too much time concentrating on the cultural difference that stand out to me in my relationship with the Jamous family. This post does not reflect accurately the overall feeling of my visit with them, which was one of a joyous reunion. Seeing as how I don' have time to re-write it, please keep in mind that what follows tends to focus, not necessarily on the great friendship I have with this family, but more my observations on their life and reality as it is different from a cultural, and security standpoint, compared to that which I experience in the U.S. The Jamous family has always welcomed me into their home as one the family, and I'm grateful for their friendship.]

During my first visit to Nablus I became good friends with one of the student ambassadors, a girl named Yasmin. I was also friendly with her two sisters and brother, who were also involved in the camp to varying degrees. I was invited to their home to meet their family and to make kunafeh, a traditional Nabulsi dessert (Mr. Jamous , pictured at left with granddaughter Jenna, is quite proud of his kunafeh, as he should be). From the time I decided to come back to Nablus I had been eagerly awaiting to see the family again and to meet Yasmin’s Husband, Bashar, and their 6 month old Jenna (Yasmin & Jenna below).

Heckem, the oldest son, invited me over to the family’s house last Friday to join him and his colleagues for a lunch in honor of his upcoming departure for a job in Dubai. I arrived to the house before the rest of the guests and waited patiently in the living room, chatting with Heckem and greeting his father. His colleagues began to arrive and we all talked (I wasn’t doing too much of the talking of course) while the food was being prepared behind closed doors. When lunch was ready, we were invited into the next room, where the table was already set and the door to the kitchen was closed. The women of the family were kept out of sight the entire time. This, of course, was tough for me because I was waiting to see the rest of the family. The meal was delicious and was followed by kunafeh, this time, not Mr. Jamous'.

Once the rest of the guests had left I got to see the whole the family. Both Yasmin and Mais (Yasmin’s younger sister) are a bit more conservative. They wear a head covering and won’t shake a man’s hand… this was always a little tough for me, especially saying good bye to Yasmin four years ago, when a hug was definitely in order. On seeing them again, my immediate response was to get up and give them a big hug… but I stayed put and said hello with a wave (as awkward as this felt for me).

I stayed at the house chatting with everyone for the next 5 hours or so. Of course religion, politics, and the conflict came up. Mrs. Jamous (at right with Yasmin and Jenna) recounted to me that about three months ago Israeli military came into there house around 2am and forced the family out onto the street until 5 in the morning. It seems they were looking for someone or something in the house adjoining theirs. In the end there were bullet holes in the front of their house, and some of the younger children still get upset from the event.

When people here tell me their personal stories of their reality living under the occupation, I can't fully understand it. I tend to grasp for the emotional response that is warranted, but I am constantly trying to view their stories from some sort of objective lens, always trying to understand the factors that perpetuate the conflict here. Sometimes though, it really is just an innocent family suffering as they try to get on with their life (and this, I would venture, is by far, more often the case than not).














peace,
ryan

Funerals and the “Most Disgusting Restaurant”

At the end of my first full week in Nablus I left with Alaa, Jilal from the office, and two other members of the university staff. We were going to grab some food, but needed to make a stop along the way to pay our respects to a colleague whose father had passed away. On arriving at the house I suggested to Alaa that I wait out front, seeing as how I didn’t know this person, and that I was wearing sandals, ect… “No, no Ryan, if you going to lean about our culture you have to share not only in our celebrations, but also in our sad times…” so there was not getting out of it.

In Palestine, when a Muslim dies (I don’t want to make any assumptions about custom outside Palestine or for non-Muslims within Palestine), the body is buried and then there are several days of mourning afterwards, during which two homes are opened (one for women, and one for men) for members of the community to go and give their condolences. You are greeted at the door by several members of the family and offered to sit down in the family room or parlor. A very small cup of very strong coffee is served along with a large fig. We sat in silence for five minutes or so, then there was some soft chatter, and then we got up to leave as another group of men entered the home. Unfortunately, this past week I attended another such event for Mohanad, a university student who has become a good friend, after the passing of his oldest brother.

Following the first of my experiences in mourning in Nablus, our small band headed down to the city center to eat at the “The Most Disgusting Restaurant,” as it was heralded by Alaa. The event began with the purchase of olives, pickles, beverages, and napkins at a small shop next to our final destination. Newspaper served as our tablecloth, and the grease and oil from the liver sandwiches we feasted on claimed a few shirts. It was a spectacle. Everyone left happy, and the restaurateur has requested a copy of the picture at right.