Tears on the tarmac

Even before the plane took off from London my neighbour was crying. It wasn’t my fault this time, rather the tragic injustices of the Middle East (which will be the substance of my life for the next few months) had decided they couldn’t wait for a few hours while I read a book and watched an in-flight movie, but had come to meet me here on the tarmac of Heathrow airport.

Jamal is a Palestinian. He’s never set food on Palestinian soil and his passport clearly says Kuwaiti, but until the day he dies that is how he will introduce himself to strangers. A few simple words of Arabic and some questions about his family resulted in this gush of tears. I haven’t actually seen many Arab men cry (many men in fact including myself, though often I long for the self-expression of salty tears), so I’m surprised by this display of emotion. As the flight progresses and we talk continuously it emerges that there was more in those tears than just the Nakba (the sufferings of the Palestinian people). He is flying back to his extended family – his parents and nine brothers and sisters – because his father is having a bypass operation after a heart attack. And there’s more, his family in America (where he’s lived since the invasion of Kuwait) is under tremendous pressure as his teenaged daughter struggles to come to terms with her parents’ separation and her own mixed cultural identity. My friend is suffering a great deal of pain, personal and political, yet at the same time he has a wonderfully bright smile and speaks repeatedly of the importance of cherishing the beauty in creation alongside all the suffering. Over the 5 hour flight to Beirut (where the plane stops briefly) I hear many stories about the occupation of Kuwait and the Palestinian struggle – all brought alive by personal anecdotes about the events and his family connections to influential actors.

My experience on the plane, the privilege of hearing someone’s stories and even to comfort him in some small way through my listening, felt like a divine encounter. My original seat on the plane suddenly broke soon after I sat down (I have no idea how) and so I was moved to the only row on the plane with free seats. Then at the very last moment before the plane began taxing Jamal arrived and was booked into the seat beside me, enabling our conversations.

Amman always feels like a homecoming. I’ve arrived at the airport five times now and the procedure and the taxi ride into town is comforting. Jordan at night, illuminated by the green glows from minarets, always seems so peaceful – a picture of how Palestine and Iraq could become one day. The conversation with my driver about his family, the feeling of reawakening as my smattering of Arabic creaks back up into my conscious mind, the triple refusal of the driver to take my payment (a polite gesture showing that he welcomes me, not an indication that I really shouldn't pay!) – I relish the familiarity of all this. Then at my hotel, where I stayed 18 months ago, one of the staff greets me by name and with a hug.

And now I’m sitting I’m my room reflecting and thanking God for such a welcoming start to this next chapter of my life. Over the last week I’ve been tense, depressed and lacking in energy. Now I feel alive again and reassured that this is where God his work for me to do. Al-hamdulillah.