I return to Ramallah from Taybeh, beer and wine in tow, to find Shehada, the Palestinian violin maker from bus 18, waiting for me outside the Al-Wehdeh hotel.
He is here to take me to his home in the Old City, to share iftar, Ramadan’s daily fast-breaking meal, with his family. It’s an awkward honour: only Shehada and his father, an architect, and his incredibly bright seven-year-old sister can speak English, and my Arabic is limited to the point of non-existence. But I am welcomed with open arms nevertheless and by a seemingly endless parade of relatives: Shehada’s mother, sisters, grandmother, aunts and cousins are all very pleased, or so I am told, that I have come to Palestine for Ramadan. Shehada’s six-year-old brother is pleased that I’ve come, too, but mostly because he likes strutting around in my aviator sunglasses, pot-belly puffed out and hair slicked back. “Don’t worry about him,” Shehada says. “He’s crazy.”
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NOTE: This series of articles was written in the present tense. Any confusing changes in tense that appear in the online version are the result of the publication’s sub-editing process and will be addressed in the forthcoming e-book version.
