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| Kamal |
“Ya le, ya le!”
Kamal makes a windmill circle with his arm towards the door. Let’s go!
“Alright, ya le.” It’s about a quarter past five. The final Playback Theatre workshop ended fifteen minutes ago, and Kamal has invited Ben and I to eat with his fmaily at their home in the camp.
We say our goodbyes to the folks still working after-hours at the theatre, and follow Kamal into the street.
Kamal is the oldest student in our class--23. Today he’s wearing heavy black shoes, combat-style olive pants and a snug black sweater.
From the main road, he leads us off into the refugee camp. The streets are narrow here--some more passageways than streets--and they wind between tall white buildings. We pass men in lawn chairs, gathered in the light of an open door, smoking cigarettes. Children gape as we pass. “What is your name?” they call in starched, awkward English.
Kamal guides us through the labrynth to his home.
We remove our shoes at the door. “Bil arabi,” asks Ben, “dheki, ‘house’?”
“House?” Kamal throws two arms over his head into the shape of a pointed roof for clarification.
“Beit!”
“Beit!” We repeat. I throw my arms into a roof in solidarity.
“Yes! Beit.” Kamal opens to door to his beit and we follow him in.
~ ~ ~
The front room is a small, mostly unfurnished square. There’s a single flourescent light against one wall and a few framed photos on the other. The perimeter is lined with long cushions in leiu of sofas or chairs.
Across the room from Ben and I, leaning against a door frame and staring at the floor, is Kamal’s father. He is balding, blind and brain damaged. He looks up in our direction as we enter.
Kamal’s father lost his eyesight and ability to speak after receiving a brutal blow to the back of his head from an Israeli soldier. He was then imprisoned for 3 months, and emerged irrevocably damaged.
Kamal speaks to him, introducing first Ben, then me. We shake his hand in turn. Throughout the night he hovers, wraithlike, silent, shuffling barefoot between the cushion and the door frame as his family eats and entertains us.
After our introduction, Kamal gestures for us to sit.
“Please!” He extends an arm, grins, and bows deeply. His limited English is augmented by incredible charm and aptitude for pantomime. Ben and I sit. He disappears into an anteroom.
We are barely seated before the room is filled with Kamal’s siblings. His youngest sister stares at me through big brown eyes.
“Shoo ismik?” I ask her. What is your name? She is maybe six years old.
“Eeli!”
The front door becomes clogged with Kamal’s brothers and friends from the theatre.
Marhaba, marhaba, hello’s all around.
Then Kamal’s mother emerges in a long dress and hijab. I stand to greet her.
All warmth and smiles, she shakes our hands and welcomes us to her home.
“Eeli!” She says. Some Arabic instructions follow, dinner-related I assume. Eeli and her siblings disperse through different doors--some out to errands in the city, some into the kitchen. Kamal’s mother busies herself peeling potatoes, seated on the floor across from the television. The program features traditionally dressed Palestinian women dancing in lines to lively music. When the phone rings, she improvises a hands-free method by propping it against her ear inside the hijab and chatting amiably as she continues with the potatoes.
The night unfolds, colored with unexpected delight. Kamal shares photos and videos with us from their family desktop computer in the back room. He explains them alternately with intense sherrades and Google translate.
There’s a bustle from the living room. Kamal’s mother calls. It’s time to eat.
~ ~ ~
Everyone sits in a circle, picnic-style, around the food. There is soup, falafel, garnishes of pickled veggies and radishes, fried potatoes and of course, hummus. Kamal’s mother passes me a stack of warm pita.
“Cooli!” Eat! We eat.
Throughout dinner, the game of sherades continues as we teach each other how to say tomato, olive oil, water. Kamal’s father has crouched down and inched towards the blanket, where he now sits, rocking gently, tearing off bits of pita and eating them. Pop music floats in from another room--Arabic pop, mixed with Rhianna and Enrique Iglesias.
Kamal’s mother asks us if Kamal is a good actor.
“Hm... ana ma baerif...” I don’t know... Kamal strikes a crestfallen pose.
“Le, le, no, inte bhkeir, you’re good.” I say. “Funny.” They don’t know the word.
Kamal gestures to himself. “Me.” He begins a dumb show, opening his fingers to jazz hands, tracing a wide smile across his face.
“Happy?” Ben ventures.
No. The show continues. He looks to has family for help. Then: inspiration. He grabs his box of cigarettes and tears a round piece of the lid off. It’s red. He moulds it with his hands and puts it over his nose.
“Ah, clown!” Ben and I say together.
“Clown! Yes! Me--clown.”
It’s true. Kamal has a gift for giving joy to those around him. “If you spoke Arabic,” the translator told me earlier in the day. “He would make you laugh all the time.” His quick wit leaves his classmates in stitches when we play improvisation games.
The rest of the night I float from the back room to the front, my mind busy snapping images of all the beauty around me. I lent Eeli my notebook and she covered it with drawings of playground equipment. Kamal’s brother taught Ben the beginnings of a traditional Palestinian dance, and the three of them bounced into the living room together, arms interlocked, feet tapping in wide, sweeping strokes.
~ ~ ~
At the end of the night, Kamal walks us back through the camp to the theater.
“Stay!” said his brother. “You can sleep here.” We decline but thank him for the generous offer. I finish what’s left of my second cup of black Arabic coffee, leaving the muddy pile of grounds in the bottom, and follow Kamal into the night.
At a junction in passageways, Kamal stops.
“Here,” he says. “Apache...”
“Helicopter,” says Ben.
“Yes! My friend...”
We realize what he’s saying in a clap of surprise.
“Right here, your friend died?” Ben asks.
“Yes! Here.”
We regard the patch of earth. I look up into the sky, and imagine a low-flying helicopter, it’s blades stirring up cacophonous wind. Terror as I dart for cover. The sound of gunfire. I imagine how many times Kamal walks through this street, past innumerable sites of violence, everyday as he goes to and from the theater.
We continue on in silence.
When we get to the theater, Kamal bows deeply, here you are.
“Shukran ekhtier,” thank you very much, I say.
“Afowan.” You’re welcome. He smiles through mischievous amber eyes. “Goodnight.” He puts two hands in his pockets and walks away.
Ben and I don’t speak for a stretch. When we get to the stairs, he says, “What a beautiful night. What a blessing.”
“Yes.”
We climb the stairs up to our guesthouse and our beds. I dream about death, and Palestine, and realizing things, until the mosque wakes me with a jolt at four. I sit up in bed, head still thick with dreams, listening, listening.
