i.

​

when my father and his parents come from cairo, egypt to los angeles, california in the late 1960s

it is church that becomes the through line. most orthodox christian churches are (more or less)

strictly segregated by culture — you’ll hear greek orthodox, russian orthodox, serbian orthodox,

ethiopian orthodox, so on, but the antiochian orthodox church, just up benton in LA, a cathedral

in the middle of pico-union next to a hospital, is the warm hand greeting the SWANA diaspora

in southern california. it is there that my family makes new family: lebanese, syrian, and

palestinian immigrants, gathering under one roof for much more than a pair of hours on a sunday

morning. this community is weekdays, dinners, summer camps, vacations together, presence at

births, baptisms, graduations, deaths. the population of arab christians is dwindling, so perhaps

the bond is even stronger, more desperate, but that is not the point. I am born into this warmth,

oblivious to the violence that has, for many, preceded their arrival at the church’s wooden doors.

 

​

ii.

 

I no longer regularly go to church. being queer is not very welcomed in orthodoxy. but several

weeks ago, it is the anniversary of my grandmother’s death, and I go to the sunday service with

my family in her honor. they say she was both vivacious and pious. they say I look like her, even

have the same legs. but this is not about that, either. that morning I can feel the tug towards the

domed building, because part of me needs community, to be in a spiritual place when genocide

is relentless. I listen to the familiar arabic chanting, smell the strong incense, admire the golden

robes and chalices, the choir full of voices I have known since childhood.

 

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iii.

​

during the service, the priest does a series of offerings, praying for the sick, the elderly, the poor,

so on. on this sunday he prays for those affected by violence in palestine and in israel. I wince at

the word israel coming out of his mouth, unsure of what it’s doing here, in this space, in front of

families who are not allowed to go back to their homelands, whose homelands are rubble now.

my parents mumble along, a solemn “lord have mercy,” and I realize that the priest’s words are

also not the point. not in this moment. the point is the energy—the gathering, the momentum,

the sharing of stories that will happen after, the lunch that will become an afternoon of photo

albums, the middle eastern restaurant in a strip mall where my grandfather will get a warm hug

from the staff, my sister and I sending funds through friends’ cousins in ramallah, showing up to

protests, sharing films and music and photos. trying. and trying to keep trying. because that is

our privilege.

​

​

iv.

​

the point is also this — last year, my sister spends nine months in a small spanish town near the

moroccan border, and her best friends are the palestinians. they recognize her notably arab

name — leilah — and treat her like family. when I go to visit my sister, she wants to introduce me

to her friends, and I expect a crew of other expat girlies, all too american, but it is all the wait

staff at the falafel stands, the owners of small arabic cafes. we love leilah, they tell my parents

and I, welcoming us, too. many of them are young, sending money back to their families in

palestine. and then there are the older ones who have spent decades unable to return. I know

now that many of these individuals have lost their entire families in the last nine months. they are

grieving unbelievable heartbreaks.

 

​

v.

 

the first night in spain we have dinner at a restaurant whose name I can’t remember. I think it was

jerusalem. the owner is an old palestinian man, who pulls down four plastic chairs for us to sit. it

is a dimly lit, half-unwalled space. my parents, now used to the comforts of los angeles, eye my

sister, wondering if she’s forcing us to participate in her bohemian lifestyle a little too much. jet

lagged and famished, we eye the menu and squeal over its promises. my dad — who has not

taught us arabic, and never has any use to speak it in front of us — begins to weave sentence

after sentence, smiling, tripping on his words here and there, but making the owner of the

restaurant brighten. they discuss something for a while, unknown to me. but that is not the point

either. eventually, the man goes towards the kitchen and I see him put on an apron. I see him

form and fry each falafel one by one. I see him mash the chickpeas for hummus, each serving

made on demand. he smashes pomegranate seeds in molasses and drowns the greens and fried

pita that make fattoush in the delicious glaze. we are there for hours, until the plastic chairs are

stuck on us with sweat.