Glimpse - Your Stories from Abroad

One day I found the following note in my university mailbox:

Notice: New resident, Room 608. Starting 1 May 2004.

As I read further, I discovered that my new roommate was a 32-year-old married man from the Palestinian Territories. His name was Jihad.

Jihad? The Palestinian Territories? Headlines about clashes between Israelis and Palestinians flashed through my head as I climbed the long flight of stairs to my room and opened the door.

Jihad turned to greet me. He shook my hand and introduced himself as a Ph.D. biology student. His research involved seed growth and nutrition. Over the next couple of days, I noted that he liked cooking and that his collared shirts were always ironed. He worked diligently in the lab during the day and called his wife, who was still in the Palestinian Territories, every night, no matter how tired he felt. Although he wasn't adverse to entering heated debates about foreign policy and the Middle East, Jihad always fell back on one view: Israelis and Palestinians could find peace, but it would take time.

“We're all people,” Jihad said repeatedly.

Was Jihad a “typical Palestinian?” I couldn’t say. Apparently, I didn’t strike most Germans as a “typical American.” Patrick was the first German to tell me this, at an Irish pub that was full of a raucous mix of Germans, Brits, and naturally, the Irish. Unfortunately, Patrick's words were muffled by Christina Aguilera's voice, and having been in Germany for only four days, I was having enough trouble understanding the language, even without the background noise.

“Sorry, music's too loud!” I shouted. “What was that?”

With the hint of a smile, he repeated himself: “You're not a typical American.”

“A typical American?” I echoed. It was the first time I had heard the phrase used, and I wasn't sure what it meant. What exactly was a typical American? Was it a compliment that I didn't adhere to his expectations? Or a disappointment?

Over time, I came to see it as compliment more often than not. In a conversation with some hall mates, one remarked, “An American girl who speaks German and knows something about soccer? You’re not a typical American.”

I, like my German friends, often had to reconfigure my own expectations. In the month I had been in studying in Kiel, Germany, I had met an interesting assortment of people, including many who had refused to conform to national stereotypes. I had met vegetarian Germans who refused to eat sausage and Russians who abhorred vodka. I learned that not all the French like Paris, and that some Brits prefer coffee to tea. I learned that Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania are quite separate countries with their own rich cultures. From my Chinese hall mates, I learned, sadly, that no one eats fortune cookies in China. I could not think of one person who had failed to surprise me in some way.

One night, as I was cooking pasta in the floor's common kitchen, I struck up a conversation with a medical student named Mahmoud. His round face appeared older than his 28 years, showing evidence of a difficult life, and his dark eyes shone soft but determined. He was from Israel and had come to study in Germany. When he saw my politely puzzled expression, he smiled warmly.

“No, it doesn't seem to make sense, does it?” Mahmoud said, answering my unspoken question. “The history with Germany and Israel is old, yes, very old, but I am Arab-Israeli. There are all sorts of histories.”

Mahmoud's face grew solemn as he explained why he was in Germany. He had lived in an area devastated by firefights between Israelis and Palestinians. As the fighting grew worse, a close friend of his had joined the Israeli soldiers. Then, during one skirmish, his friend shot an unarmed Palestinian teenager.

“Something happened to him after that,” Mahmoud said quietly. “My friend said to me, 'Mahmoud, I admire you because you never picked up a weapon. You want to help people.' ” That, Mahmoud explained, was what brought him to Germany. He planned to become a doctor and return to Israel to protect those hurt by war.

Jihad was washing his dishes when Mahmoud stopped by later that week. Mahmoud paused in the doorway; Jihad put down the sponge. Face to face, the two men stood as I tentatively introduced them to each other. I held my breath worriedly. How would they react to each other? Could I stand between two grown men if anything happened? I felt like we were convening a mini Oslo Accords, with representatives from the United States, Israel, and the Palestinian Territories sitting down in the same room.

Jihad and Mahmoud shook hands firmly, if not cordially. Jihad asked our guest to join him in his room. They closed the door, and I sat down outside, listening. Then moments later, what I heard was—laughter. Easy chattering in Arabic, and a chuckle from Mahmoud. The sounds made me sigh with relief. When the door opened a half-hour later, both men looked as though they had found an old friend.

“Do you see?” Jihad asked me, switching back to German. “He lives close to my home in Jenin. We have a few friends in common, yet he is Israeli and I am Palestinian. It is as I said, Jaz, it is what the world needs to realize. We’re all people.”