Arab-American poet Naomi Shihab Nye recalls a transformative, unexpected occasion of generous acceptance:
Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal … I heard an announcement: “If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately.”
Well—one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly. “Help,” said the flight service person. “Talk to her.… We told her the flight was going to be late and she did this.”
I stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke to her haltingly. “Shu-dow-a, Shu-bid-uck Habibti? Stani schway, Min fadlick, Shu-bit-se-wee?” The minute she heard any words she knew, however poorly used, she stopped crying. She thought the flight had been canceled entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for major medical treatment.… I said, “No, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just later, who is picking you up? Let’s call him.”
We called her son and I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother … and would ride next to her.… She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I thought … why not call some Palestinian poets I know and let them chat with her? This all took up about two hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life, patting my knee, answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—and was offering them to all the women at the gate. To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the mom from California, the lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same powdered sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookie.
And then the airline broke out free beverages … two little girls from our flight ran around serving us all apple juice and they were covered with powdered sugar, too. And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing, with green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought, this is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in that gate—once the crying of confusion stopped—seemed apprehensive about any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too. This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.
Reference:
Naomi Shihab Nye, “Gate A-4,” in Honeybee: Poems & Short Prose (New York: Greenwillow Books, 2008), 162–164. Used with permission of author.
Image Credit: A path from one week to the next—Madison Frambes, Untitled 1, 7, and 5 (detail), 2023, naturally dyed paper and ink, Mexico, used with permission. Click here to enlarge image.
Though she weeps, the woman is moving forward. Pain is a natural part of healing.
Story from Our Community:
Sometimes, I experience a taste of everyday mysticism. I’ll catch a glimpse of a tree for example—one that I have seen many times. Only, now it looks different. It’s no longer static; it’s alive, breathing, moving through space. It whispers even. I can’t quite understand what it’s saying, but at the same time, I seem to understand it entirely. I feel that it’s blessing me, I’m blessing it. During these experiences, I stand there in awe, and I’m conscious of the sun warming my back. Thank you, CAC, for giving me entry into this world—the real world. —Joseph K.
