“Don’t you have friends among Muslims?” I ask Hanouf.
“No.”
“Are there no Muslims in your school?”
“We have different schools: we have our own school and they have their own.”
“Does it ever happen that a Christian girl marries a Muslim man?”
“No! Never!”
Unlike Hanouf, her cousin is completely calm. He is shaking hands with someone.
“Does he have acquaintances here? Muslims?” I ask.
“He was shaking hands with Christians.”
At a mechanic’s shop like the one in the Christian village, a handful of men — Muslims and Christians — are talking. They are likely discussing important business: how to fix a carburetor, or whether it makes sense to overhaul the engine. They seem to be oblivious of any silly fears, rumors, or feuds that have been started by someone for some unknown reason.
The Syrian Church
In the evening, Hanouf’s father takes us to another nearby village, which is bigger and has four churches.
We drive up to the huge Orthodox church, which was built quite recently. Its white walls glow in the violate twilight.
The large carved wooden door turns out to be locked.
“It’s very beautiful inside!” Hanouf makes me even more sorry that we cannot go inside.
Instead, we go to the old Orthodox church and find a wedding service. The priests recite the rites and prayers in Arabic. I recognize the word for God, which in this language is still “Allah”.
I look at icons with Church Slavonic inscriptions in the little church shop. A man comes in and we begin talking in English. He apologizes for his Canadian accent:
“I worked there for a long time.”
“What did you do?” I ask, already guessing the answer.
“I’m a priest.”
I smile broadly:
“And could I ask you for a blessing?”
“Yes, but I don’t like it when people kiss my hand.”
“I won’t do that.”
He blesses me, and meanwhile another man comes in. There is no need to ask him about his profession: his robe speaks for itself. Hanouf says something to him, and it turns out that he is the senior priest of the church that was closed.
“Let’s go!” Hanouf calls.
“Where?”
“The priest has agreed to show us the new church.”
I’m holding the cup, plate, and spoon for Communion. I’ve never held anything like this before.
“These inscriptions are in Old Church Slavonic,” I say to the priest. Like the “Canadian,” he too speaks excellent English.
“Read it to me,” he says and so I do.
The inside walls of the church are as white as the outside. But here within they shine even more brightly, flooded by the electric light.
“Are there many worshippers here?” I ask, looking at the vast space filled with benches.
“On Sundays the church is full.”
There aren’t many icons on the walls, and the priest tells us that most of them were brought from Russia.
We walk out of the church.
“And where did you study to become a priest?” I ask.
“In Lebanon.”
“And where is your patriarch?”
“Constantinople.”
I don’t know how long we would have gone on talking if Hanouf’s father hadn’t been waiting for us in the car.
In the end I can’t hold back and ask:
“Listen, are you really an Arab?”
“Yes,” he smiles, understanding the reason for my question.
No matter how difficult it was for me to comprehend this, I carried undeniable proof: the Gospel in Arabic, a gift from the priest.
The village of brothers and sisters
Hanouf has two older sisters and a younger brother. Salim — the guy who brought me here — already has three children, even though his wife is not yet thirty years old. Hanouf’s father has about ten brothers and sisters. A big family needs a big house, which is why homes in this village can be adjusted to increase in size. No magic is involved. On the roof of each of the houses there are concrete pillars. When a son brings a wife, and they need a place to live, they build another floor using those pillars. There’s no need to split up, families can stay together: one big family in one big house.
We visited an uncountable number of houses as we walked through Hanouf’s village: Hanouf’s aunt, her grandfather, cousin, her best friend from school… In each house they wanted to feed me, to offer me at least some tea, some tangerines, some cookies. They were so earnestly hospitable, so genuinely happy to meet me that I found myself again and again agreeing to just one more visit. It turns out we didn’t skip a single home in the whole village.
Hanouf has so many relatives that there’s not a single part of the village where she can’t turn her head to say: “Oh, there’s my cousin (walking, standing, running).”
Even when one steps out of the house he is still within his family as family members surround him on all sides. All around you are your own people.
It was already dark and we were on the way home when we stopped at the house of yet another friend of Hanouf’s. This friend studies at the university, and she has an older sister already graduated. They also have an older brother. He came out to meet me wearing a white shirt, black pants and a serious expression. He works as a lawyer.
“This is my girl. We’re engaged…”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-two.”
“And you?”
“I’m thirty.”
I look at this handsome grown-up man, silver hair already streaking his dark head, and he’s only just engaged! Knowing local tradition I know that his fiancée has not yet become his wife in any sense.
Hanouf’s father got married at about the same age.
Hanouf and I and one of her uncles are strolling on the already-sleepy village road.
“I would also like to go with you,” he smiles.
“Come along,” I answer and smile back.
“First,” he said, “I need to bring up my daughters.”
“And how many daughters do you have?”
“Three. The oldest is eight and the youngest is not yet one.”
I look at him; he doesn’t look younger than forty.
“And how old were you when you got married?”
“Thirty.”
“And why so late?” I finally ask my long suppressed question.
He looks at me with surprise.
“What? I first had to earn money, build a house. I first had to prepare everything for my future family. And only then could I finally get married.”
My eyebrows go up as if this is the first time I hear about this approach to family life.
Chapter 3. Venerable Jordan
In Turkey, at the house of the schoolteacher in Mardin, I had jotted down lots of Turkish words from a book he gave me, even though I would part with Turkey the next day. Now I don’t want to deprive myself of the pleasure of dreaming how I might one day live in Turkey. In Syria I decided that I’d definitely return and live here, even for a short while. Here people surround you with such sincere care and love that you want to come back.
“They live in poverty. For them a foreigner is a novelty. Their concern is no more than curiosity.” Some people would probably be satisfied with this simple and convenient explanation.
The bright and spacious building of the Jordanian customs office shines with cleanliness. I present my passport. The customs officer cannot keep from smiling, even if it reveals the gaps in his teeth.
“Is this your first time in Jordan?” He asks almost laughing, exultant.
“Yes.”