I met Milad on either the first or second day post arrival in Jerusalem, as he was a waiter at the hotel where we were staying. Everyone who works in the old city seems to be Palestinian. And within days, they all feel like life-long friends. Over the course of three weeks, well, Milad was family. At nights he would sit with us on the roof of the hotel, having a smoke and telling us about his home, his family, his faith. There was no pretentiousness, only a desire to share life. And so it was that I, along with a few others, were invited to spend a Saturday with Milad in his home, the West Bank.
Milad met us in Bethany, after a 30 minute bus ride from Jerusalem. It is a town coated in barbed wire and concrete walls, seemingly always under either construction or destruction. Our first stop was at the day school Milad, his brothers, and father had started for peace and reconciliation between Palestine and Israel. The place, in itself, is a miracle. In a place of such oppression and rampant hatred, this man and his family have fought to teach children peace. To teach them the very opposite of what they, by nature, are born into. Twelve to fourteen hour work days at a hotel in a city not his own, a city where his wife is not allowed except twice a year on Christmas and Easter simply because she was born in Bethlehem, a city that takes Milad sometimes 3 or more hours to get home from because of the Israeli checkpoints, a city in a country where he is not welcome, and all for the sake of Saturday. For the sake of coming to his school and teaching children whose lives are constricted to the few acres of concrete called home that there is peace to be had. Forgiveness to be given. In the face of a concrete wall 9 meters high that forms their prison, these children sang and danced for us, practicing their english phrases, and giggling with the simple pleasure of a high five from some blonde-haired and blue-eyed foreigner, come to hear their stories.
After, we were joined by Milad's wife Manar, who volunteers daily at the school. She took us to her family home, amidst the crowded streets of Bethlehem in a fifth story flat. Despite the fact that the water in their town had been shut off for 12 days (a common and unannounced occurrence in the West Bank), Manar's mother had cooked us a full Arab lunch. Pita bread, cucumbers stuffed with rice, meat wrapped in grape leaves, almond rice, chicken, vegetables, fresh fruit, the food kept coming out from the kitchen and I kept eating. It is quite improbable that one can get a full understanding of the meal, but simply take my word: it was astounding. By far the best meal I had eaten in my three week tour of Israel.
A visit to Milad and Manar's home, some Arabic coffee, a few minutes looking at their wedding photos, and we were on our way again, this time to find a place to sit and talk. And since we were in the Middle East, we found a hookah bar (I should say tent, to be exact) and settled into the couches. The conversation we had was varied, and almost impossible to relate. It ranged from life stories, to silly questions of what we wanted to be when we were little. Milad had wanted to be a hero.
The last part of our day is hardest to relate, because it is the most filled with emotion. We said goodbye to Manar, and Milad drove with us to the check point between Palestine and Israel, the only thing standing between us and our bus home. Walking in the shadow of the graffiti covered wall, we experienced what Milad experiences every day of his life. Except, we didn't. Because when the six of us Americans walked through the beeping metal detector and held up our passports to the two Israeli guards in the glass booth behind it, they did not so much as look up. It was as if we didn't exist, as if the fairness of our skin and the emblem on our passports were enough to merit a wave of the hand and not a second thought. But when Milad went through, it was different. Immediately. After three times through the metal detector, each one resulting in a loud beeping and a subsequent removal of the offensive article, belt then shoes, Milad was called over to the booth. After a few sentences of Hebrew, not understood, the young women asked Milad in English if he had ever done this before. He said yes, almost every day. Then shouldn't he, the guard jabbed, know how to do it properly by now? Milad said he didn't quite understand. After two more trips through, his documents were demanded, produced, and examined. Finding all in order, the guard finally waved disdainfully and we were through.
As he put his belt and shoes on, Milad simply shook his head. They are stupid, he said, but I forgive them. Nothing more, no rationale. Just that simple sentence. It is a sentence that Milad must repeat every day, because his is a daily humiliation and a daily forgiveness.
Goodbye was not an easy word to say. As Milad stood with tears in his eyes, thanking us for sharing in his life, I couldn't help but realize the irony of it all. This man, thanking me, after he had spent a day feeding me, showing me his home, and sharing his heart and life. For three weeks I had been in Israel, and in one day I had been shown more than could be understood. It may be that I will not see Milad again in this life. But it does not matter, for he has forever changed my life, and is more than family.
I am not sure if he knows it, but Milad already is a hero.
Brilliant my friend. Thanks for taking the time to put that life changing experience into words. Couldn't have said better myself. We are so grateful to have shared that with you.
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