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Arab Music
by Jennie Rothenberg
(From The Kindness of Strangers, a Lonely Planet travel writing anthology.)

I heard the music that first night, at two in the morning as we drove up the hillside. It hadn’t rained for three months and the air itself seemed to be sleeping. There were no crickets chirping, no locusts humming. When we turned off the engine, the only sound was the pop of the trunk and then Allon’s footsteps as he went to rummage for his sleeping bag. His girlfriend Nimrah, a thin Yemenite Jew with bead-laced dreadlocks, hauled out the tent she’d brought from her mother’s house. I stood a distance away from them, just making out the shape of the landscape against the background of stars. The hills were immense here, almost mountains, and in the morning I would see they were covered with olive trees. But tonight I noticed only the clusters of lights—and the sound of far-off music.

“Where’s that singing coming from?” I called to the others.

Allon lifted his head. “It’s coming up from the valley. All those lights down there are Arab villages.” Listening closely, I could just make out the distinctive Middle Eastern warble and what sounded like drums or clapping.

It was July 1999, a peaceful time in Israel. Nobody died that summer, or if they did, it was from sickness, accidents or old age. People spent their days at the beach in Tel Aviv eating glida, rich gelato-like ice cream. They wandered through markets, bargaining with Sephardic vendors for handmade leather sandals. In the Old City, Arab boys lay in the courtyard outside the mosque, heads in their mothers” laps. A deep contentment flowed like sap, and it was hard to imagine anything coming to disturb that feeling.

I was in Israel because it seemed like a good summer to travel, and because I had some sixty relatives scattered throughout that small country. I also had Allon, a college friend who had insisted on hosting me for the first few days. He was a skinny boy who carried himself like a true Israeli, walking briskly with his head held high. I’d been in the country only a few hours when he announced that we’d be leaving Tel Aviv at midnight for the Galilee.

Our campsite was at the edge of a little town called Harrarit, the only Jewish community for miles around. Allon had many friends there, and the next morning, a woman named P’ninah invited us over for breakfast. The view from her kitchen window swept down the bright hills toward the Arab villages below.

I asked P’ninah about her neighbors in the valley. “Sure, we have many Arab friends,” she responded, cutting slices of bread for her two small girls. “You have to remember, the Arabs in the Galilee are Israeli citizens. They speak Hebrew and work with Jews every day.’

“Harrarit people all buy their vegetables in the Arab markets,” Allon added.

“You can take her there, Allon,” P’ninah suggested. “Why don’t you call Motlak?’

“That’s a good idea,” he agreed, stretching out his long legs. “But don’t tell her anything. Just let her see.’

After breakfast, we were in Allon’s car again. Nimrah put on some loud music and Allon drove quickly, too quickly, down the steep, winding road. The greedy light seemed to swallow all color, leaving bleached terrain and pale blue sky. Looking out the window, I saw all I hadn’t been able to see the night before. Rows of gnarled olive trees spread out like a quilt in all directions, and the valleys were dotted with cube-shaped white houses.

We dipped into a narrow street lined with Arabic signs. Many buildings looked only half finished, but their arched windows gave them an odd note of elegance. An old woman sat at the side of the road, and I could tell from the bobbing of her head that she was singing.

When Allon pulled into a dusty driveway, a moustached man came around a corner to greet us. “Shalom,” he welcomed Allon, slapping him warmly on the back. “I, Motlak,” he announced to me. “I speak English . . . fifty-fifty.’

Entering the courtyard, I saw that Allon had made a “reservation” at a sort of restaurant where we were the only guests. A woman, introduced as Motlak’s wife, was setting the table with curved white dishes. A pool of oil lay atop the paprika-flecked hummus, and there were several bowls of olives, both green and brown. We used freshly baked flatbreads to scoop up the eggplant, okra and a sour substance called lebne. Vines twisted overhead, and peering upwards, I saw that they were hanging with green grapes and pink flowers.

After the meal, Motlak reappeared and led us through a low doorway into a cool, dark room. All kinds of ornaments decorated the walls: long robes, colored lamps, musical instruments. Our host motioned to a wooden bench strewn with colorful pillows. “Bavakasha,” he said in Hebrew. “Please. Sit.’

Something on a low tabletop caught Nimrah’s eye. “Allon,” she whispered, “a nargila!” She grinned at me. “You can tell everyone back in America that you smoked one.” I looked suspiciously at the enormous water pipe. With its tubes and bulbs, it reminded me of something from a mad scientist’s laboratory. Motlak dropped a sticky square into the top, and a moment later, the glass filled with pale brown smoke.

“Come on,” Allon urged me. “It’s only apple-flavored tobacco.” But I just watched as Nimrah and Allon lay on the cushions, blowing smoke rings like the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland. Their posture was supremely relaxed, but their eyes betrayed their giddy excitement. They were Tel Aviv kids who rarely saw this other side of Israel. Nimrah lived in an apartment building on a busy street, and Allon lived in a suburban house with a big swimming pool.

While his guests smoked, Motlak brought out a violin. He began to play for us, liquid, sliding notes that echoed faintly against the cave-like walls. As if she’d been called for, a little girl came shyly into the room holding a drum one third of her height. She tapped in time with her father’s song, an intricate rhythm that seemed to move effortlessly through her fingers. I forgot about the nargila and leaned forward, wholly absorbed in the music.

After the performance, Motlak beamed at my praise. He said something to Allon in Hebrew. “You are invited to be a guest of his family,” Allon translated. “You can eat supper here and in the evening they’ll show you the whole village. They’ll drive you back to us in the morning.’

The invitation was both frightening and enticing. I opened my mouth to politely decline. Then I looked down at the little girl who was staring at me in wonder. These were Arabs, people who had existed for me only in the troubled lines of black and white newsprint. Now here was their world, alive, in full color and flavor. I doubted whether an opportunity like this would ever come again.

I half expected Allon to dissuade me, but I saw only a well-concealed flicker of surprise as he coolly translated my acceptance. I guessed he was as curious as I was to see how my adventure would turn out. Rising for the door, he kissed my cheek and told me, “We’ll see you in the morning.” Motlak’s little daughter led Allon and Nimrah to their car, and a moment later, the engine’s sound disappeared into silence. We were alone. Motlak and me.

Motlak brought two small porcelain cups of coffee. “Drink,” he insisted. It was bitter and strong. He sat on the bench, facing me. “I speak English . . . fifty-fifty,” he quipped again. I tried out a few words of thanks in Hebrew. He nodded and then said, “Good. Very good. I . . . love you.”

I pulled back, astonished. Something had obviously been lost in the translation. I let an awkward moment go by and then asked, “Where will I sleep tonight?”

“Po,” he replied. “V’gam ani po.” Here. And also me here. To clear up any ambiguity, he raised two fingers and spoke the Hebrew number, “Shta’im.”

Looking back, I can never quite understand why I didn’t leap to my feet and demand to be brought back to Harrarit. I was as if in an altered state, dazed by the foreign surroundings, bewildered by the surreal, broken Hebrew. If I stopped to think, I would risk coming to my senses and leaving this adventure behind forever.

Four Hebrew words stumbled off my tongue: “Lo. Rak ani po.” No. Only me here. Motlak understood. He threw up his hands as if in surrender. “Okay,” he assured me. “Kol beseder.” I told him that I wanted to spend the day with his children, and he jumped from his seat. When we passed his wife, washing dishes at an outdoor sink, I searched her face for signs of distrust, but her smile seemed genuinely friendly. Whether or not she suspected Motlak’s offer, he would not repeat it again.

The sunlight blazed brighter now, merging all the features of the landscape together. Motlak brought me down a steep ladder, through twisted bushes and clouds of loose dust. I started to slip and Motlak stretched out his arm. “Fifty-fifty,” he joked. “Fifty-fifty.” I had no choice but to rely on him as he led me down the slope, supporting me with his hand.

We came to a newer white house halfway down the hillside. A man in thin rose-colored pants sprawled out on the couch while five children played on the floor around him. "Welcome to our home," he said in English that was better than "fifty-fifty." "My brother says you would enjoy to stay here this afternoon."

A child came over to inspect me; a bright-faced girl wearing a yellow T-shirt with Arabic lettering. The little drummer stood behind her, a blue ribbon tied in her hair. I picked up a crayon and drew a stick figure with a bow on top of its head. Both girls giggled. Passing the paper between us, we drew houses, animals, flowers, trees and the sun that shone outside the large open windows.

Late in the afternoon, Motlak’s brother asked if I’d like to take a nap. “You can rest in the children’s room,” he offered kindly. With a smile, his wife handed me a long blue robe and led me to the back of the house, showing me where I could shower and rest.

I awoke two hours later to the sound of children’s voices. Wandering outside, I saw the girls sitting on a dusty slope, absorbed in a game of dolls. Neighbors sat all around in folding chairs, eating slices of watermelon and drinking black coffee. The gathering had the air of a holiday, but I knew the scene must have been the same at this time every afternoon. The light slanted from the west, turning the dusty hills and air to gold. Somewhere in the distance a cow mooed. A wind chime tinkled. In the spaces between its notes was an immense, expansive silence.

While the adults drank their coffee, the smallest boy crawled up onto my lap. He was all softness and big eyes. I rested my chin in his hair, listening to the relaxed chatter. A little girl smiled at me, leaning against her father’s arm, and I smiled back. She reminded me of my own childhood photographs: same dark hair, same almond eyes. When the boy reached for his mother, a group of girls bounded over and pulled me up, holding onto my hands. Together we half walked, half ran up the road toward Motlak’s house, through the hills and the thick sunlight.

In the evening, Motlak’s seventeen-year-old son, Alaa, came home from his day’s work on a Tiberias cruise ship. He was a tall boy with a heart-shaped face, sleekly handsome like a cat. His English was better than my Hebrew, and once I finished eating, he asked if I’d like to go for a walk. “I can show you around Dier Hanna,” he said. I realised then that I’d never known what this village was called. I liked the way it sounded, like the name of an old woman.

It was eleven o’clock, but children were still playing and songs came from every courtyard. Some families listened to the radio, while others made their own music with drums and instruments. One old man in a white headdress was playing a reed that sounded like a bagpipe. Alaa pointed out that he was breathing in and out almost simultaneously. His red cheeks bulged as he squeezed out the melody.

At a curve in the road, Alaa leaned over a stone railing. “I would like to go to New York,” he confided, looking toward the horizon. “But I’ve heard it’s dangerous there, that everyone has guns. Do you think I would be safe?” I smiled and thought of my grandmother, sitting in her Brooklyn apartment and worrying about the violence in Israel. “I want to travel,” Alaa told me, “but I want to come back home. I know Dier Hanna is the best place in the world.” He gave a satisfied sigh, gazing at the village lights that receded into the distance like stars.

We walked on until we came to Motlak’s courtyard. Leading me up an outdoor staircase, Alaa suddenly turned, grinning. “Where you sleep tonight?” he whispered. “With me? Sleep with me?’

The question was not so surprising this time. I knew how to handle overeager teenage boys. “No,” I replied firmly. “I’ll sleep alone.’

He threw up his hands as his father had. “You can sleep in my room alone,” he promised. “I give you a key to lock the door.’

Inside the family’s small apartment, Alaa’s mother had left a set of clean nightclothes folded for me. I heard snoring and saw that Motlak had gone to sleep just outside the threshold of Alaa’s room, as though he were keeping watch. To reach the bathroom, I had to step over his sleeping body.

When I came back, Alaa’s room was dark, but I heard someone call my name. Alaa was sitting on the bed. Reaching out to me, he hissed, “Kiss me!’

It was all so dramatic that I couldn’t keep from laughing. Alaa looked wounded. “You don’t understand me,” he said moodily, handing me the room key. “I just want to remember you!’

He gazed up at me with unguarded curiosity, like the girls with the coloring book or the boy who had crawled onto my lap. I tried to imagine what he was seeing—a Jewish stranger as exotic to him as Dier Hanna was to me. I dropped a kiss on the top of his head.

“There,” I told him. “Now you can remember me.” He left the room and I climbed into bed alone.

All night I could hear Motlak snoring and see Alaa tossing in bed through a small window. All night I could feel the presence of the thousands of lights twinkling throughout the Galilee. At four in the morning I heard a rooster, then a voice over a loudspeaker singing the Muslim call to worship. It wasn’t worry that kept me awake. Fear and magic combined to form a state of heightened awareness, hours of unbroken wonder and amazement. Lines from the poet Rumi tumbled through my mind:

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don't go back to sleep. You must ask for what you really want. Don't go back to sleep. People are going back and forth across the doorsill where the two worlds touch. The door is round and open. Don't go back to sleep…

The next evening, I sat with Allon and Nimrah at the top of the hill. P’ninah had been furious with Allon for leaving me in the Arab village. She’d ordered him to drive back for me, but he had waited stubbornly for my return. Now he listened, fascinated, to my Dier Hanna stories.

The sky was clear that night. The Sea of Galilee shimmered in one direction, and in the other we could just make out the Mediterranean. Deeper in the hills, a curved red parachute sailed above it all.

“This is a good place to paraglide,” Allon commented. “It gets dangerous further east. Too close to Syria. You could drift down and find yourself on the wrong side of the line.” Nimrah settled back against his shoulder.

“So how do you like our Israel?” she asked me.

“It feels like home,” I admitted, lying back in the grass.

“Then why don’t you move here?” Allon said, grinning. “There’s something special, you have to admit it. It’s not like this in America.” The three of us looked up in silence. The moon was rising and distant melodies began to climb the hillside. I lay beside my friends, intrigued by what I knew and they didn’t. I knew where the music was coming from. I’d seen the night sky from inside an Arab village, something I wondered if they would ever do.

Allon saw my face. “She’s hearing the music,” he teased. “Just watch, she’s going to follow it down there again.’

I laughed. For all my spirit of adventure, I was happy to be back with my Jewish friends. It would be good to sleep soundly, and the next morning, to head back to a familiar city. I was looking forward to sharing the previous day’s adventures with my cousins, and later with friends back home, savoring the whole thing as a far-off, fantastical memory.

But that night, after Allon and Nimrah were asleep, I found myself lying awake again. I came outside in my pajama pants and tank top and sat cross-legged, my palms resting on the ground. I sat alone and I listened.