Postcard Companions

Day 32: September 24th, 2008

The stars had only one task: they taught me how to read.
They taught me I had a language in heaven
and another language on earth.
Who am I? Who am I?
I don’t want to answer yet.
May a star fall into itself,
And may a forest of chestnut trees rise in the night
toward the Milky Way with me, and may it say:
Remain here!
~ Mahmoud Darwish

Lately I’ve been wandering along my memory bank and rediscovering the value of so many moments in the company of genuine and tenderhearted people. And while my eyes translate the poetry etched in rock faces and my fingers trace the footprints of vagabonds and unsung artists, I’m convinced that when I turn around I’ll find my mother, my father, my lovers and lovelies just as dumbstruck and awe inspired as I am. Thus, I’m constantly disappointed that you are not there beside me and that I could never fully articulate the wonder that is sun and sand kissed gorges or calm waters dividing and uniting conflicted nations. We have yet to invent a lens that captures the taste of a breathless heart when the rose rock tomb suddenly emerges from its disturbed resting place. I don’t have a word in English or Arabic that describes newfound peace in the echoes of silence while lying on star studded sand. How do I squeeze former ocean floors, table top mountains, the intoxicating rhythm of a camel’s steady pace and the sand dunes in my shoes into a tidy three by five?

In the midst of all these wonderful sights and ponderings, poverty and the deterioration of land, language and culture lurk not-so-quietly in the background. As is custom with globalization, the Bedouin in Petra have their children sell jewelry and postcards to tourists for the “pity buy” that it will inevitably acquire. Each stall sells the same assemblage of Chinese beads and fake turquoise that we demand, consume and pawn off on unknowing relatives and friends. “It’s Bedouin silver,” we’ll say, “Got him to give me a 75 percent discount!” What is the cost of a bargain to the sixteen year old saleswoman? How much is a seven year old entrepreneur with functional English, attitude and a touch of basic math? How much is heritage and hospitality to a people devoid of culture?

Mind you, that last note was not intended as a lecture for other travelers as I am no genuine authority on the subject. It’s more of an inward-bound reprimand for what I did not resist when faced with the choice to consume or to question.

I should mention that I am convinced of the blanket of soul matter that wraps all beings in a web of electric thoughts and sensations. When we pull the memory of a loved one toward the center of our hearts, we embrace whatever part of their soul we’ve acquired and surround them with all things warm and splendid. The other person experiences that ecstatic embrace in a stranger’s smile, in open arms, in unprovoked giggle fits and in the sudden awakening of a misplaced memory. So, I suppose you’ve been there all along exploring Petra, Aqaba and Wadi Rum with the same wild-eyed spirit and love for life that surrounds my favorite memories of you.

Mom, Pop, I miss you.

Peace.

P.S. Happy Birthday, Papa! I beg the world and God grants you a great many more years to spend in the wild world of new dawns and never yet seen horizons. Everytime someone hands me Turkish coffee, I think back on how you sip it at home and dream of your days in Gaza. Then I think on how blessed I am to be following in your Titan-sized footsteps. My Papa, it's a new dawn, a new day and I sure as hell hope you're feeling good. Happy Birthday, you delightful old fart. :)