If you Give a Camel Peace

By Mira Treish

Then again, maybe I was simply late all the time. Not a quirk or clear evidence of my “Arabness” against the backdrop of Boston, Western Europe—anywhere other than a virtually, and physically, obscured home.  Rather, it was a character quality (a bad one, so I am told) born sometime during high school and acknowledged during my first year of college. 

Every day poses a debate in the form of conversation, and the entirety of my character is situationally attributed—by myself. In other words, my behaviors, mannerisms and customs must be a product of an external circumstance, and I was thrilled for said circumstances to include my culture and upbringing. I could not be late because my brain chemistry, bad habits and poor scheduling dictated so; it must be an active representation of a whole people, history and culture shock. More so, this approach saves me time and god-awful introspection.

I believe this sort of personal attribution arose during my first year of college. The bigger person in me (who seems awfully small now) would say that this approach to sense of self brought me closer to my family, while solidifying my place as a member of a collective—one to which I so diligently belonged. 

But because I still remind myself that it’s my face staring at me from the mirror and I am as tangible as the desk in my room, I admit this approach intended for the sheer opposite effect. That is, to diminish my place as a member of a collective—the American youth. 

To clarify, I am not American. Despite the color of my passport, I do not belong to the land of the free and 3.8 billion dollars of military aid, where cigarettes get you “domed” and unpleasantries are deftly archived by avoidant eyes. In the pursuit of higher education, I found myself on Planet America, at Emerson College in Boston, where I was to study writing and publishing. 

Two years of conversations, verbal altercations and social media storms proved to me that defending my right to exist was an activity I preferred not to partake in. And yet, it was an activity exclusive to America, where over piss-flavored hard seltzers and menthol Juul pods, the boyhood shattering experiences of men my father’s age (such as my father) were reduced to “everyone wants peace anyways.” 

One night in November, sophomore year, I took an edible with my two friends who were dating. I drifted into the living room and waited for bliss to fall over me like a piano. Right on my head. Instead I landed in a conversation with my other friend, Ryan. I couldn’t quite hear jack shit, so I scanned the room with my ears. And a kid—because he looked like the oldest bearded child I had ever seen—had locked eyes on my black and white keffiyeh, draped loosely over my shoulders. 

I think his eyes narrowed before he made this point; nobody there could understand what it’s like to be relaxing on a sticky summer’s day on the beach with a drink in your hand only to be alarmed and carried by a siren (safely, knock on wood) to a bomb shelter—democracy in the Middle East looks like an inviting bomb shelter. I miss my girlfriend, he said, but she’s a soldier overseas and that means I’m proud of her. Nobody wants this war, he assured everybody, but when some people won’t cooperate…I know some people. I am one of some people. I threw a rebuttal. We spoke over each other and our friends neutralized the situation. An observer is not neutral, though, and no Security Council resolution can prove otherwise. 

Then the edible hit so I saw myself out.

There, I was not dynamic in ways that were real, only ways which proved a convenient truth. And taking to the internet to vent frustration has never been my style, especially when it will seal my name on a professional blacklist—so I observed others that came before me and settled on a new approach.

Being Palestinian in America means I find myself, more often than not, acting obnoxious about my identity; forcing it into conversation about the World Cup and contradicting comments that are simply put, comments. Obnoxious is time efficient, and how can I afford to be slow when, since the start of the new year, 82 Palestinians—of camps and big street cities alike—have been robbed of time forever.

***

Travel is nostalgic. The world seems large the way it did when sharpened sticks were swords, and willpower seemed to be freely distributed. With politics comes shrinkage, and with adulthood, every trip away from home is undeniably political. And the world becomes smaller with every stamp.

When I was nineteen and on my way to Boston for my second year of college, I was held in security for fifty minutes. To Palestinian travelers in Ben Gurion airport, this isolated section where time does not exist (no phones, watch or questions allowed) is simply known as VIP. I could tell my time was nearing its end, as evidenced when the mousy woman told me I could put my shoes back on. Then she stuck the security wand down my pants. 

She could have at least bought me dinner first.

Men and women alike are loud in VIP. They don’t make soft interrogation easy and burst into laughter sometimes when being strip searched. I do too now, because it’s stupid for officers to assume one can grow out of ticklishness—or hate. People in VIP security must speak at a high volume (all the time), and shuffle their feet when they walk, as a culmination of generations-long customs and cultural norms. Not because they are enraged to be deprived of time and space outside that makeshift room. And certainly not because a right to dignity and calmness are mutually exclusive.

If I could squeeze in Arab timing between baggage drop and VIP security, I surely would.

***

What is one’s destination meant to be when nostalgia is preceded by humiliation? 

The Dutch village of Well, evidently. In a double moated castle with koi fish that most certainly are pumped full of hormones, where everybody keeps their blinds open because everybody loves natural light—or in authentic Protestant fashion, are eager to prove they have nothing to hide. I am more certain in the former. There are no ants here, only ladybugs, which contributes to the collective belief that overseas is simply better. I wear my keffiyeh at least three times a week, and it seems to be enough. I teach my friends Arabic phrases such as shukran and kus emak, and that is also enough. I am stoic and do not have to represent my lived experiences obnoxiously—simply put, I answer the questions I am asked. 

This is not home; nobody gives a damn what my father’s first and last name are, and my bra sits in a desolate drawer, forgotten. Sheep are well behaved and unaccompanied by two mutts and a young man, and honor doesn’t belong to anyone and cannot be stolen.

I have received no indication that I exist too much, and therefore find it difficult to accept I exist at all.

By this wild logic, I am concerned that the only times in which I am grounded to this life are when I must prove I deserve so. The feelings emerging do not include discontent; pessimism and gratitude are not contradictory. 

My being here, safe and below a blue sky that is also Dutch, coupled with the lack of threats to my agency and history, have contributed to my dissatisfaction with myself; with the roles I fulfil and habits I assume while in comfort and in search of “magical human contact” (Baldwin). My application of the title “culturally Muslim” and referral to myself as an air-rab is a pursuit of human connection and laughs. It drives me to make small talk in the dining hall, classrooms, and smoking area. 

I hate small talk. 

Formerly, I would have referred to this as a longing for human decency, an understanding rooted in liberal arts empowered angst. In truth, I want to achieve a legacy, and this is precisely why I would like to skip parenthood and be a Taita immediately. 

But when you hope to touch so many places, you lack preparation for how a place may reciprocate. This phenomenon may be why I’m unsure if there are a dozen thoughts in my head, or one long one. There is no fear of censorship here, a novelty unavailable both in Boston and home. And although I feel a pit of guilt for not being there for every news update, raid and massacre and general strike, being home would resort to my chugging NyQuil, which I only enjoy when battling a sore throat. Or headache. Or a long day.

Exile has forced my eyes open and slammed my mouth shut. It has provided sovereignty and provoked critical thinking on my vision of myself, people, current and former government. Yet such critical thinking would never have come to fruition had I not attempted to “other” myself for the better part of two years. In my own case, the claims I “exist too much” which I crave may be achieved with six simple words: I’m Mira, I’m late a lot. 

Last week I arranged a study session with a friend. We had stumbled across each other in the hallway just as I entered our residency hall; we then agreed to meet in fifteen minutes in the library.

I arrived 35 minutes after that fact. She sat cross legged on the library floor and simply said “CPT.” At my puzzled expression, she repeated “colored people timing.” A white person saying that would have made for a funnier story, but I guess solidarity prevails. I was all too familiar with this concept, albeit by another name, “Arab Timing,” and explained that where I came from, 4 pm meant 5:30 and late was an almost unachievable title. I had previously presented on the matter in a Speech Communications class, and could never conceal my excitement when somebody recognized, and even expected, my concerningly flexible calendar. This was a product of my culture, and anybody inconvenienced by this ought to have more conversations with their foreign friends and watch subtitled films and despise chocolate hummus.