Ramadan Kareem.

Yesterday marked the first day of the Muslim holy month of Ramadan--a 30 day period of fasting from sunrise to sunset, worship through giving and prayer, personal growth, and communal traditions. Although I am not celebrating Ramadan myself, I feel a sort of warmth as this month begins, knowing how deeply many of my Muslim friends cherish this time. 

In recognition of this special season, I have spent some time thinking about the many ways my own life has been touched by dear Muslim friends and families throughout the years...

I am reminded of my first Muslim friend in high school, sweet and spunky Alia, who patiently answered my questions about her faith and invited me to her graduation celebration, where I first learned how much Arabs love to party :)

I think fondly of the Iraqi families I got to know in the refugee community of Clarkston, Georgia, back when I was just beginning to study Arabic. I smile widely remembering summers spent with my precious Iraqi girls--all of the laughter, silly games, messy art projects, and serious life conversations. I cared for those girls like they were my sisters--proudly celebrating their accomplishments and dreaming for their futures. I won't soon forget each of their distinct little personalities, or the creative ways they showed love. 

Celebrating my birthday with these sweet girls from Iraq

I remember starting college and meeting Noor, a Saudi student studying abroad who quickly became one of my closest friends. We met for lunch every single week, wanting to get to know each other beyond the stereotypes often prevalent between our communities. We learned that we had much more in common than either of us had imagined, and sought to share this discovery with others--through planning dinners to bring our Muslim and Christian friends together, and even speaking at public events on campus. This remarkable woman taught me so much about the beauty of faith, courage, and sisterhood that transcends barriers. 

Noor and I at a Thanksgiving dinner
we planned together

Other Muslim friends whom I met in college stand out as well. I recall being welcomed to participate in many gatherings where we ate delicious meals, swapped stories over Arabic coffee, and danced late into the night (well, they tried to teach me how to dance, but that didn't go super well). One time, a couple of friends actually invited me to take part in their Ramadan traditions--fasting during the day then sharing the iftar meal together in their home, complete with gracious explanations of what this holiday meant to them. I so appreciate the openness, hospitality, and kindness I consistently experienced through these friendships. 

With a friend I met at Georgia State

I also met Muslim students who are passionate activists in their communities, fighting for social change and the recognition of human rights for all. We worked together on various projects, and I witnessed how their faith both informed and strengthened their desire for justice. I also noticed a remarkable willingness to partner with people from other faith backgrounds to work towards shared ideals and goals.

Most recently, as you may know, I spent five months living in Palestine, where of course I met many Muslims. One of the highlights of this experience was time spent with my friend Aya's family, in a neighborhood of East Jerusalem within walking distance of the famous al-Aqsa mosque. This family was generous towards me in every way, but I think I felt most honored when they invited me to visit the mosque with them. Her sisters all ensured I felt comfortable and offered me a history lesson, along with tales of their own experiences, as we were on our way. I cannot imagine a more special way to experience this sacred place.  

Visiting al-Aqsa with Aya and her sisters 

Thinking about all of these people and the crossing of our paths, my heart fills with such joy and gratitude. However, I also feel sadness and frustration, knowing that many other non-Muslims hold very different, and often very harmful, perceptions of Muslim people. I hate that many Americans know nothing of Muslims apart from the biased and dehumanizing presentations they are likely to see on the news. I get angry when I hear comments like Islam is a religion of violence that teaches its adherents to hate, or Muslims are backwards, primitive people—a detriment to society. Or when people ask me questions like: You are studying the Middle East? Why would you want to go there? Aren’t you afraid of those people?

Now, I can't speak for all Muslims in the world, but I can speak from my own experiences. In the overwhelming majority of my conversations and interactions, Muslim people have shown through their words and actions that their religion leads them towards loving others, even outsiders, and respecting those who are different from them. I have learned so much, and been loved so well, by the many Muslims I have been blessed to know. I have also been challenged—to see the world from a different perspective, and to recognize that all religious/racial/national groups resist stereotyping because of the simple fact that they are made up of humans.

So to the non-Muslims reading this, I challenge you this Ramadan to step out of your comfort zone, perhaps for the first time, and try your best to get to know a Muslim person--regardless of differences in religion, race, cultural practices, or whatever else may stop you. Look for events in your community, attend a meeting on campus, or just say hello to a stranger. Question the prejudices you may hold. Ask questions instead of making assumptions. Listen, learn, and be inspired. Be open to changing your mind, and more importantly your heart.

And to my Muslim friends around the globe, I wish you the very best during this Ramadan season. I hope you feel renewed, encouraged, and empowered. Thank you for offering compassion and generosity towards me and our world. 

Photo Tour of al-Quds.

Just wanted to share some photos I took within the Old City of Jerusalem [al-Quds]. Enjoy!

View of the Dome of the Rock from outside the Old City walls 

Entering the Old City through Baab al-Amoud [Damascus Gate]

Approaching the Church of the Holy Sepulchre

Inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre

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The Church of the Holy Sepulchre, looking up

Framing the Dome of the Rock 

The Dome of the Rock, layers

Al-Aqsa Mosque

Home.

I sit on the floor of my room in Bethlehem, with the fruit trees and kids playing soccer outside, carefully packing my suitcase to head home. Some things will return with me, in roughly the same condition as when I first packed them many months ago. Wedged in between are new things I have picked up on this journey. Some things no longer fit, so I make the decision not to carry them further.

I'm not sure how I feel, but that has come to be expected in this land of contradictions. I can't wait to hug my family, to reunite with friends, to rest in the comfort of all things familiar. Yet I am fearful of difficulties as well, wondering how I will handle such a sharp transition between here and there--after all that I have seen, all the ways I have changed. There is sadness also, for goodbyes are never easy--especially to places that hold such meaning, people that I hold so dear.

I am realizing in my leaving that I have found home here too in Palestine, sometimes in the most unexpected of places. In the friendly shopkeeper's greeting each morning. In crowded taxis and yateek alafiyas. In warm falafel sandwiches and tiny cups of strong coffee. In homes tucked inside east Jerusalem neighborhoods, with families that make me feel like one of their own. In university classrooms, with professors and students who challenge me to think in new ways, fostering my critical mind. In a coffee shop in Beit Sahur, where I have spent many afternoons studying or conversing about the complexities of life. In the presence of friends who listen well, celebrate challenges overcome, and care in moments of need.

I walk down a foreign street now familiar and slip inside the shawarma place with the owner who always smiles. "Marhaba! Keefik?" He greets me, encouraging me to speak in Arabic with his patience, just as he always does. I tell him of my soon-approaching departure, and he insists I sit down to share a meal together, on the house. Through our conversation, I feel like I've been given the gift of such genuine kindness, offered without asking anything in return. I feel welcomed, pushing past the barrier of foreigner towards friendship. This is the Palestine I will truly miss, I think to myself. He asks me what I have really thought of this place, how I feel about returning home. I know he can see on my face that the answers to these questions are not simple. Before I leave, between goodbyes and well-wishes, he looks me in the eyes and says, "anti qawia." You are strong.

I doubt this for a minute, but then I decide to believe him. Of course I have weaknesses, but maybe I am stronger than I think, stronger than I was before coming to this place.

I feel that in many ways, Palestine has taught me about life. Here I learned about layers of injustice, and the deep meaning of home. About the binding love of family, biological or not. About figuring things out alone, and also reaching out for help. I learned to be more okay with uncertainty. To try to hold together many perspectives, stories, and experiences at once. To let the harsh realities of this world bother me, but not so much that I can no longer act. To not give up on the things that matter. And finally, I think I have learned not to come to conclusions, apart from concluding to keep searching.

I think about this as I board the plane--about strength and a desire for justice, about endings and where to go from here. I consider what has happened around me, and its effect on who I am now. I remember a Frantz Fanon quote that resonated with me during these months, and it feels fitting for this moment of transition:

"It is through the effort to recapture the self and to scrutinize the self, it is through the lasting tension of their freedom that men will be able to create the ideal conditions of existence for a human world...

At the conclusion of this study, I want the world to recognize, with me, the open door of every consciousness.

My final prayer: O my body, make of me always a man who questions!"

May these be my words at the conclusion of my own study, as I travel back to a place called home--the same, but not the same. Home, no longer so easily defined: perhaps somewhere we belong, a place for finding answers, growing up. It seems that home is somehow always shifting; not replacing, but adding. Maybe home is something that travels with us, in our constant becoming.

a goodbye to Beit Laham