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7/7/08
Samara

Rami Esam Samara. Born in Kuwait, Parents, Palestinian refugees. Sunni.
36 years old. Tall, at least 6’1”. A brother, 2 years older. A sister, 10 years younger. Flying to London for his engagement in three days—to a Shiite girl!
Her love: Mathematics. His love: A new family.

He asks who I am as he stands behind me at the airport in Amman, Jordan.
“You are so elegant, a celebration.” He was enormously quick witted, bright, respectful, apologetic. I touched his cheek, “Never apologize . . . just be.”
He is quite magnificent. “I am a lowly computer guy,” he says, apologizing again.

He has made a film on his cell phone, which he now shows me on the big PC he carries in his backpack. His brother was misdiagnosed in Britain for colon cancer (it was actually cancer of the appendix), but was saved by a French doctor in Lyon. Both brothers were overjoyed. There had been stress between them. His father was a very successful engineer. Excitedly he tells me about this overriding development with his brother, his thoughts on life and death, stories about his father’s expulsion from Jerusalem in 1948.

“Sit next to me on the plane,” I say. We are both going to London. He smiles and nods, then disappears into the crowd.

My friend Maile helped me through customs. At the “Ladies Cubicle” a gorgeous Arab woman in high heels, hair tightly covered, garbed totally in black, pats me sweetly in two places, then steps back, allowing me to pass. “Shukran”, I thank her, for some reason, delighted to have learned at least one useful Arab word.

I guess he’s taking another plane. I look for him, my imagination running wild. I’d been bored on this trip. And he said he would be here. Arab people are very respectful, no foolishness. Families, especially, are treated with devotion. There are premarital arrangements, not about who gets what in a break-up, but what they will do for each other in furthering the other’s life. The voice of the Muzzein gently reminds them of their devotion to higher principles every five hours or so in tones so very haunting that I look forward to even the pre-dawn call to prayer. It is the same Cante Hondo that I remember hearing in the caves and dance halls in Seville when I was fifteen. Sung with the eyes closed, a cry searching down, down to the belly for some sacred cataclysm of satisfaction, each half tone twisting and turning through a new anguish, grasping, descending further, holding and re-holding a desired pitch, while the callused finger of a guitarist chases after, tumbling, ripping, faltering with the singer on their mutual descent into hell. It puzzles the soul. It grabs you and takes you to the bottom. It is revelatory.

I see him walking toward me on the plane, his face shining, open, animated, so happy to see me. He sits next to me and we talk about Palestine, his future, the world.

I ask him why he thinks this conflagration is going on in the Middle East. I want to hear the big ideas. He quotes this and that, history, the past. I try to focus on the overall picture, the need for change, maybe a wondrous awakening for his people. I prod him, “See the story, these developments, as your Maker would view them, neither bad nor good, but as a wake-up call.”

I ask him what was the greatest gift the Jews gave the world. He answers, “The Maccabees on the . . .? Moses in the . . . ?“ More history lessons. “No, you are not even close,” I say. He genuinely admires the Jews. He is very quick and open minded. English educated, he is a citizen of the world. He met his fiancé on the internet. I ask him again and again, pressing him to think. He likes my challenges, has many answers but not the one I am hoping for, the big answer . . .It is Christ. “The Jews gave us Jesus.” And the magnificent civilization that developed in the 2000 years that followed, rivaling any on earth. “Think of Europe before and after the Reformation, the music, great orchestras, museums, art, Paris, London, the forgiveness Christ offered that launched so much spiritual and human development.”

He is fascinated with numerology. The energy of numbers. The power that numbers hold for names, titles, and addresses. “What would be the best name for the fund my father had started?” he asks. His father, once a penniless refugee, was awarded an education by the British for being one of the smartest in a group of Palestinian boys. He, in turn, is determined to set up . . . “Samara Fund” (as we decided to call it) to educate the new refugees. The idea of rewarding these children through the fund greatly excites Rami Esam Samara. He loves the idea of these new boys growing strong and confident, as his father had.

After lunch he fell easily to sleep for an hour, but wakes up slashing at the air, horror on his face. He says he has the same nightmare over and over again. “I am decapitated, my limbs are being cut off.” “What has happened to cause this?” I ask. “I can’t get this project up and going. I love it, but I can’t get started.”Quite forcefully, I tell him he must stop avoiding the fear, get himself ready, grasp the opportunity, then go straight into this fear, go right to the center of it, and when he gets there the fear will disintegrate into a thousand tiny “lights” and he will behold the answer.

I tell him the method I use of writing to solve any questions, reminding him that in the question is the answer. He does not need an outside source. He is the source, the source from within. I teach him about Intention. How to Focus. To set up an hour in the morning for deep focus, to question his progress, to determine what he can do better. It is a pleasure to have such a young, beautiful man be so eager to know himself more and for me to know I can touch the light within him. For me, this is the gift. For him, many new trees will grow in Palestine.


Julie Newmar Writes

 
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