It's the time of year when most of us gather with our loved ones, where the only things that prevent us for coming together might be inclement weather, transportation glitches, work demands, and troubled health -- and even with those detriments, most of us make it home for the holidays.
But what if you were told you couldn't see your family because you didn't have the right documentation or permission to enter your hometown? Is such a thing even possible?
According to this heart-felt, true story by Maine writer, Martha Stevens-David, at Bates College, it is more than a disturbing possibility -- it's a tragic reality for one student.
Almost Home
I’ll never forget the very first time I met Samy. It was in the first week of September, 2006, at the start of the fall semester at Bates College. He came through the double glass doors of our gallery at the Bates Museum of Art and walked softly up to my desk. Having met literally thousands of people in my position as gallery attendant at the museum, I was instantly aware that I was meeting someone” special.”
Samy had applied to work in the “Work Study” program at the museum and after introducing himself, I explained the job responsibilities for his position. I liked his sweet shyness and soft replies as he answered my questions and asked about different things related to the exhibits. His ready smile lit up his face and he had a quick wit and a quick mind too. “He’s a keeper!” I thought to myself and looked forward to getting to know him better when he and I were scheduled to work together.
As the weeks passed, I got to know Samy quite well, and on weekends when we were both working, we spent long hours together talking about one subject or another, both political and non-political. In my twenty-five- plus years as a short story writer, I’ve spent countless hours doing research for my stories. I’m always interested in people, and as I’ve been known to say, “Everyone has a story.” Samy did too.
Samy volunteered stories of his own, and I learned that he came from the small town of Beit-Lahia in the Gaza Strip. He has one older brother and an older sister. His parents are both dentists in Gaza City. Samy is presently a junior here at Bates College, majoring in Political Science and Religion.
I noticed that Samy always had a sad look in his eyes when he talked about his home and his family, and I could easily see that he was missing his homeland and his family very much. He told me sweet stories about his grandparents and what it was like growing up in the Middle East. Stories about Muslim culture, the food they grew, dishes his grandmother and mother prepared for him and the reason they dressed the way they did and his plans for the future. We got to know a lot about each other in a very short time. I told him that I was going to be his “American mother” for the time he was here at Bates.
I soon took it upon myself to bring food from home. On Saturdays, when it was quiet in the museum, I taught Samy, Chiara, Hanna and Zack annahHaand several other students who were working in the Olin Arts Center, how to make homemade bread, cakes and other dishes that we Americans usually eat. This time with them became known as “Martha’s Cooking Class, 101.” It was such fun to watch these young people learn how to make basic white bread and teach them how to roll out the dough and add butter, cinnamon and sugar to make cinnamon bread. The news of the cooking class soon caught on, and I found more and more students appearing in the Olin kitchen to see what we were making that day.
I always worried about the foreign students and what their plans were for our upcoming holidays. Since so many of them were so far from home, I liked to invite them to my home to have dinner with my husband and myself. So, I was happy and surprised when another student told me the good news that Samy was “going home” for the upcoming holidays.
The following day was Saturday and Samy was scheduled to work four and half hours with me. He had a huge smile on his face as he came through the door into the museum and in his hands he held two large containers of coffee that he had purchased at the Den on campus. He gave one as a gift to me, and then he sat down in the chair next to my desk. I looked into his shining face and said, “So, Second Son, I’ve heard the wonderful news! When are you scheduled to leave?”
The smile disappeared from his sweet face and the light died in his brown eyes. He said in a voice that was almost a whisper, “Martha, I haven’t been home for a year and a half. I’m not really going home; I’m going ‘almost home.’”
Thinking that I had misheard his reply, I looked carefully at him again and asked, “What do you mean you’re going ‘almost home’?”
“Martha, you know that the borders between Israel and the Gaza Strip have been closed for a long time. So, when I leave Bates on December 14th, I will first go to Boston and board a British Airways flight to London. When I arrive in London, I will then board another flight that will take me to Tel Aviv. I cannot cross into Gaza without the permission of the Israelis, and I doubt that I will be allowed to cross the border. From Ashqelon, I can actually look into Gaza City because it is only about one hour away, but I will not be allowed to enter.” With that, Samy looked away from my gaze. I could see the tears and longing for his homeland shimmering there in the back of his eyes.
“But Samy, why are you going to spend all that money and your precious vacation time just to go to spend time in a place that is not your home?”
Samy looked at me again and said, “Because it is ‘almost home,’ and if that’s as close as I can get, I’m going to go! I’m making plans to meet my sister, May, there, if she can gain permission to leave Gaza City and join me in Jerusalem. She is planning to bring me a small bottle of dirt from my home, and I can hold her hand. My sister has been trying to leave the Gaza Strip for the past five years because she wants to marry a man from Jerusalem, but she too, has not been allowed to leave.”
I looked at this lovely young man. I was right! “Everyone does have a story!” Samy’s was the most heart-wrenching that I’d heard in a long time. “Samy,” I said, “once you arrive in Tel Aviv, if you are not allowed to pass through to Gaza City, what will happen to you?
“Well,” Samy replied, “I’ll probably be arrested and sent to a determent camp where I’ll be held until I’m deported to another country which will probably be Egypt. Then, after further detaining, the Egyptian authorities will allow me to fly back to the United States, and if I’m lucky, I’ll be coming back to Bates to finish my degree.”
“Oh, God, Samy! We, as Americans, have heard of all the Middle East conflicts, but because it doesn’t affect us directly, we normally don’t pay that much attention, I’m ashamed to say.” Samy looked at me and nodded his head, “I know Martha. It’s that way with the rest of the world too. If it doesn’t directly affect you, you don’t think about it.”
As it now stands, Samy is still scheduled to leave Bates College on the 14th of December and fly off to his homeland, hoping against hope the by some miracle, he will be allowed to cross the border into Gaza City and go home. This is the season in the Christian faith that miracles are supposed to happen, could we, just for once, forget all the trespasses of neighbor against neighbor and let this very fine young man, go “all the way home”?
Doesn’t everyone, no matter who they are and where they’ve been born, have the inalienable right to go home whenever they want? So, I’m asking the ”powers that be,” and in the Holy names of Allah, Buddha, Muhammad, God, and Jesus, to please look out for Samy, grant him a safe journey and please let him go “all the way home.”
Postscript:
The Lobster Roll
On the same day that I decided to write this story about Samy, this event happened at the Olin Arts Center, and I think it would be appropriate to include it with Samy’s story.
It was October 27th and because Bates was hosting a very prominent pianist from Manhattan, in the Olin Arts Center that evening, I was scheduled to work a twelve-hour day. I arrived early at the Bates College Museum of Art around 9:30 and immediately called security to open the museum for me.
I’d gotten up early that morning and prepared my white yeast bread and brought the rising dough to the museum in order to show the students how to make homemade cinnamon bread. After I’d taken all my cooking equipment to the Olin kitchen, I walked around the upper and lower gallery to get all the exhibits ready for the visitors who might visit the museum that day.
Because it was a Saturday, it was a while before I expected any visitors. I sat down to wait for my student helper to arrive. As Chiara and I sat talking about her studies and my latest story, a well-dressed gentleman came through the glass doors into the museum. I greeted him, and I could see that he was a little agitated. He quickly explained that he was scheduled to perform that evening and that all the practice rooms were locked. He needed me or someone to unlock a room so that he could practice. I called security and was told that someone would be over to help him as soon as they could.
I escorted him back to the Olin side and took him to the kitchen where I made him some fresh coffee. When he’d calmed down a little, he thanked me and said that he had some things to do and would be back in a little while. I went to the Olin Office and got Zack to come and help me make the cinnamon bread.
Zack was very keen to know how the bread was made. He thoroughly enjoyed stretching out the soft dough, spreading on the butter, and sprinkling on the sugar and cinnamon mixture. We cut the rolled dough into eight equal parts, put them into small baking pans, and slid them into the oven to bake. It wasn’t too long before the tantalizing aroma of baking bread filled the corridor on the Olin side of the large building.
After about twenty minutes, I wandered back to the kitchen to check the bread and as I opened the oven door, the pianist came into the kitchen once again. He said that everything was fine, that security had opened a practice room, and that he’d practiced for a while. I asked him if there was anything else I could do for him and he stated that his friends had told him not to leave Maine without having a lobster roll. He really wanted to go to a nearby restaurant to have a lobster roll for lunch.
Just as he said this to me, Samy came into the room and I introduced them. As they stood talking, I heard him say that Samy came from his neighborhood, and the thought came to me. I grabbed Samy by the arm, pulled him out into the hallway and said, “Samy, this poor man was very upset because he arrived here early this morning and he couldn’t find a room that was unlocked so that he could practice for this evening’s concert. Would you mind to take him to a nice restaurant in Auburn or Lewiston for lunch? He wants to have a lobster roll.”
Samy didn’t hesitate at all. “Sure Martha, I’d be happy to take him, but who will help you in the museum?”
“Don’t worry about me Samy,” I replied. “It’s Saturday, and usually it’s pretty slow until later in the day.”
With that, Samy offered his assistance to our guest, and off they went to find the most delicious Maine lobster roll to be had in the immediate area.
The hours slid by slowly. Then about three hours later, the museum door opened and Samy came in. He was smiling, but I noticed that he looked a little stressed. I looked at him and asked him how everything had gone. He slid into the chair by my desk and wiped a hand across his face, ran his fingers through his hair and replied, “Oh, we finally found a place that would serve him a lobster roll, and he loved it! He insisted that I too have one, and he ordered a very fine wine to go with it.”
“Oh Samy, that’s wonderful. I’m glad that he treated you, too, because it was very gracious of you to accompany him, especially since he was a complete stranger to you. Thank you very much for showing him around.”
Samy looked at me, and then he said, “Martha, did you know that this man and I are practically neighbors?”
“No, Samy, I’ve never met him before. He said that he lived in Manhattan.”
“Oh, he does Martha, but he’s also an Israeli, and he and I talked at great length about the political problems that face both of our countries.”
It was then that I realized what I had done. Both Samy and I broke into un controllable laughter. As we wiped the tears from our eyes, I apologized to Samy, and after I’d thought about it a little, I turned to Samy and said, “Samy, this is a good lesson for both of us. We go about our lives and meet strangers on a daily basis, never knowing anything about them. And today, by simply doing a good deed for a stranger, you spent time and shared a meal with a man who might have been considered a mortal enemy. Remember Samy, you’re studying to become a diplomat here at Bates, and he is a very accomplished pianist. Peace just might begin with only two men.”
Samy looked at me and nodded his head. “You know what Martha, you’re right!”
In an email sent on 12/11/2007, Martha adds:
"I wrote that story very quickly and send it off to several newspapers but none would run with it. I tried so hard to get someone to help this young man but it seems that the NY Times, Boston Globe, The Washington Post, Lewiston Sun Journal and the Portland Press Herald were all to friggin chicken to interview him/me to get the story. Anyway, he is very disappointed not to be seeing his mom. She can't get permission to leave Palistine and he can't enter. He did attend the recent conference in Washington with the Hammas and the Isralies and had the opportunity to discuss many of the issues that are so important to his homeland becoming a country in its own right. Lets hope that by the time he becomes a diplomat, he will be able to come and go at will."
Martha Stevens-David has been working on a short-story collection of more than 150 stories about life in a small Maine town for more than twenty-five years. She is a published writer and has been featured on the Bates College Eclectic E-Zine online magazine, the Lewiston Sun Journal newspaper and by www.Maine.gov, the official State of Maine information site. Her stories can also be reas at www.ideagems.com. Please feel free to contact her at: lmdmsd@megalink.net
I simply don’t understand it. I pay no attention to the political scene (not for a long time). I don’t read the papers (too depressing). I don’t watch the news (Discovery and SciFi channels only). Then why, oh, why is President Bush in my brain?
Last night I had a dream where I was visiting friends in Maryland. They had a luxurious home and were expecting many visitors. I was sitting on the lush green lawn when suddenly a black limo pulls up to the curb and out steps GW.
I was in total shock and dismay. One, I never expected HIM to show up. Two, I didn’t want anything to do with HIM. And three, I was afraid HE would embarrass me in front of my left-of-center friends. But there HE was and he was becoming pretty friendly.
GW casually sidled up to me and struck up a conversation. First, he asked me what I did and other small-talk generating questions. Slowly, he gained my confidence. Then came the true confessions (on his part) about how he had been sorely misrepresented by the media and the administration. He didn’t really believe in all the inane policies and actions that had transpired during his tenure in office. He was actually against the war and rumors of WMDs. 9-11 would be his great shame for not responding in the way he really wanted. He felt totally manipulated, blackmailed even, into doing and saying the outrageous things he had done.
I sat there listening as my friends’ guests began to arrive. Seeing me sitting with the reviled Prez, they all gave me peculiar looks. I feared social ostracizing and smiled nervously. Bush wanted to be introduced. Uh-oh….
We went inside the house where he proceeded to glad hand and back slap as if he were among old acquaintances. People grinned and politely scuttled away. He commented on how quaint the homes were in this high-end district of Metro DC. Of course, his homes were all palatial by comparison. I asked myself, “Does he even have a clue?”
Then it dawned on me. He didn’t have a clue about the people, the economy, world politics or anything else. He was merely a child a man’s body. He had never been allowed to grow up! Was I actually feeling sorry for him? How was that possible? He was a man, and a powerful one. He had cost thousands their lives and thousands of others their livelihood. He was a lousy leader and an embarrassing example of American authority. Why was I softening toward him then?
The cynic inside reader her critical-thinking head. “Don’t believe him. He wants to convince you he’s not the evil BLEEP you and everyone else knows him to be. He’s merely courting favor.”
“But why?” I ask. “It can’t be for the want of re-election. He’s filled his quota of terms. Could it be…? Did they actually nix the 22nd Amendment then without us knowing? Oh, my God! WE ARE DOOMED!”
Mr. Bush took his leave and left me and my friends to inhale the fumes of his totalitarian presence. My friends turned on me, grilled me, wanting to know how I could ever entertain the notion that GW wasn’t such a bad dude after all. I tried to reason with them that he simply didn’t know better, but they wouldn’t buy it.
The next thing I know, I’m back in Maine on my way to work when I get a mysterious phone call on my cell. A man with a deep, alluring voice asks me how my encounter with the President went. I told him fine. Then he starts asking my about a certain friend who had been in Maryland when I was there. He wanted to know where he was. Odd – one of the last things my friend told me was that he was going underground for a while. It didn’t quite click what that meant. Now, I knew. I asked the voice why he wanted to know. Voice told me that my friend was in grave danger to which I probed, “Are you the FBI or CIA or something equally nefarious?” The phone went dead.
Let me remind you (and myself) that this was all a very vivid dream that I had early in the morning of Nov. 15, 2007. The last disturbing dream I had like this was election night 2004. I saw the world explode in a white inferno. I didn’t realize until 11:30 a.m. the next day that hopeful November that Bush had won his second term.
Since then, I’ve had more than one dream about GW (and even Laura) and what a great guy he is. I have never in my life dreamed about a president. Why now, during this administration do I suffer these delusions? Has the CIA surreptitiously planted a chip in my brain? It’s bad enough Bush has taken over my country and my politic, but must he invade my head too? Is he trying to liberate me from the truth? Something’s going on here that rubs entirely contrary to my natural grain! Am I the only one? I’m sure I’ll never know, but I will always harbor my suspicions.
