These two pictures are snapshots of the view from my family's apartment balcony. It was not until very recently that buildings began to be constructed with glass and steal. Up until this point the stone that was used as the support structure could not accommodate more than four to five stories. One of my very first days in the Hammad family, my baabaa took me out to see this urban vista. He told me a bit about the various buildings and developments around and then stopped to give me a brief comparative analysis of the urban architecture of the West and East. He said, "If there was a bomb here, the building will shake, a little. But in America, everything falls down! I say, 'Why you build things with wood and glass?' Here, we use stones. They last forever." He then proceeded to make an interesting sort of Neo-Marxist claim that this choice was really about making sure the construction sector would have a steady, recycling market.
My homestay family has taught me a lot about their culture and its many different dimensions: religious, social, and linguistic. My maamaa was immensely excited to learn that we started memorizing the Arabic numbers in class. Before I could even finish describing what the experience was like, she immediately interrupts,
"Go! Tell me! Cero..." waiting for me to take the lead, she stared with a jovial intensity that inspired me to try my damnest to remember those ten digits.
Dubious, I respond, "Wahhad... ...tneen...t.t"
She helps as I desperately limp along..."tlatta."
"Tlatta!" I mimic enthusiastically. We continue on like this until we reach the end, taking what felt like hours. Finally, as patient and attentive as she was when we first embarked on this tireless journey we reach our end, "a.." she utters.
I fumblingly respond "A...ash..ashra!?"
Then she lets out an exuberant celebration of synchronized clapping and clamoring, "ashra! ashra! ashra!" Then baabaa and Ehab too join in the festivities, smiling smiles of pride and support that truly warmed my heart. There are few times in my life when I was congratulated with such cheerful vigor for successfully counting to ten, and I will definitely remember this one.
Sometimes there are moments when I feel a rather shameful embarrassment almost overwhelm me as I watch my family struggle to translate their thoughts and emotions into a language they once learned but barely use, all because I arrogantly decided to show up as a guest in their house and country without really knowing a word of their language. I thought one way to perhaps show my immense appreciation for boundless support and patience was to share something with them that I love: cooking. So, I told my mother that one Friday I would relieve her of the usual responsibility of preparing dinner, and after revealing that I had spent a few years of my life making pizzas in an Italian restaurant, she knew exactly what she wanted me to make. In fact, after we had planned out the meal, we were all sitting down watching TV, flipping back and forth between a popular musal sal (soap opera) and the news, and all of the sudden on comes a pizza hut commercial to which my mother vivaciously responds, "Tony! Tony! Make that Tony!"
"I'll try!" I say with confident reservation.
However, il-humdulillah (thanks be to God) the pizza party came off without a hitch. Frida (my homestay sister) and her husband came over and we had ourselves a regular intercultural feast with Nadia making a very delicious traditional meal, the name of which I have of course forgotten, and me making the 'American' classic we all know and love. On this sunny Friday afternoon, two culinary traditions collided, nay melded into one deliciously diverse harmony of savory and sweet. Moments like these encourage me to take pause and hope. It's true that this was only one meal. But in many ways, in my gloriously deluded and optimistic mind at least, on this day a gap was bridged, and I'm sure many others can be as well.
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