Don't Hurry Through This One

~ by Samir Selmanovic

I am at an airport right now. 

If you travel a lot, I am pretty sure you cannot escape the magic of watching people every once in a while, imagining their journeys, their stories, studying their body language, their faces, thinking about what they are really like. What is her life like? Where is she coming from? Where is she going? If you look at a person long enough you are bound to realize that, without exception, they are your very own flesh and blood. You realize we are all coming from the same origin, the same womb, we are all living under the same sky, going into the same dirt. 

Here is a poem by a contemporary poet I discovered recently. Her name is Naomi Shihab Nye. Naomi was born to a Palestinian father and an American mother and grew up in Jerusalem and San Antonio. Her books of poetry include 19 Varieties of Gazelle: Poems of the Middle East, A Maze Me: Poems for Girls, Red Suitcase, Words Under the Words, and You and Yours.

I suggest, don't hurry through this poem. Let yourself be there.

WANDERING AROUND AN ALBUQUERQUE AIRPORT TERMINAL 
(by Naomi Shihab Nye)

After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.

Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? We told her the flight was going to be 4 hours late and she
Did this.

I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu-beduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?

The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late.

Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.

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 just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. 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 traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookies.

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 this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has 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.

 

Comments

[melvin bray]

God, how beautiful.

[Sean Evans]

This post really touched my soul today. I needed it. After reading it, I listened to one of my favorite Coldplay songs, "Everything's Not Lost," which to me is a song of introspection, reaching out, and hope. Indeed, the place described in that poem is the kind of world I want to live in. One that is filled with connectedness, love, laugher, smiling, sharing. And of course, cookies. Thanks for that Samir (and Naomi).

[Shirley Ann Goerlitz]

What a lovely story. The children of this woman must be very thankful for Naomi who reached out and helped their mother.
God bless.

[Garret Akerson]

That is indeed a beautiful poem. Meaningful moments in life always consist of the times when you feel most connected to another human being, whether that is your spouse or the stranger at the terminal. If only we could love our neighbor better as an individual and as a country what might this world be like.