Now, I know what my mother meant when she told me many years back, “If only I had my today’s wisdom, I would have been a much happier person during my youth.”

The other thing that she also said, was, “I have gone through so much in life that, even if someone were to shoot me, I wouldn’t feel the bullet pain anymore.”  “Besides,” she added. “Now, I don’t take things, which are banal and unimportant seriously … Yes, all those things that used to hurt me before.”

Come to think of it, she was so right. It is the same with me today. Subjects that in the past used to hurt me; especially those concerning my and my husband’s relationship – now seem ridiculous to me. Today, I tend to dismiss  all our stupid disagreements easily; while during my youth it was totally the opposite. Indeed, at present time, all those old, so called, ”bullets” don’t hurt me anymore. Is it because I have become thick-skinned, having gone through certain difficulties? Or maybe the wise words in the verses of Ecclesiastes in the Bible prove the vanity of such problems?   In other words, have I figured out that “under the sun,” such difficulties are like dust in the wind?

 

 

“Mom.” Peggy’s seven-year-old son said, “Can you come down to the garden and tell Philip to leave me alone?”

“What does he do?” she asked.

“He kicks me and smacks me on the head. You know, Mom; he doesn’t let me play in peace with my friends.”

Peggy could easily go down to the communal garden – where they lived in Geneva in a range of apartment buildings – and tell Philip off. However, she decided against it. Peggy did not believe in being an overprotective mother. Although, this happened ages earlier, she still has the same belief. She thinks children have to learn to defend themselves. Then, she claims, when they grow up, they will turn into capable personalities.

So that day, Peggy told her son, “No, I won’t go down and tell Philip off.”

“Oh, Mom. Why?” he protested, “All other mothers help their children.”

“I could do the same; but, don’t you think Philip and his friends will laugh at you and call you, ‘Mommy’s boy?’”

“OK.” He said, looking convinced, and continued, “Then tell me what I should do to have Philip and his friends off my back?”

Peggy hugged him hard and answered, “Next time they hurt you, try to hit them back. You can even kick them and run away fast before they find time to figure out what you did.”

Her son immediately left the house smiling mischievously. Then, within half an hour, he returned with a red cheek and his shirt sleeve hanging.

Peggy smiled; looking at him admiringly, and said, “It seems you had a rough time with those nasty boys, am I right?”

He beamed proudly and answered, “Yes, Mom. I really kicked them all hard.”

“Oh. You did?”

“Yes. When I kicked them as hard as I could, they rubbed their legs, sat down, and almost cried with pain. Then, one of the boys in the group called, Pascal chased me. When he caught up with me, he slapped my face and tore off my sleeve.”

She said, “No wonder your cheek is red… Pascal slapped you.”

That did it. Soon, the boys accepted him in their group. Indeed, he was the only little fellow hanging out with older boys.

Peggy claim that, that specific incident boosted her son’s self- confidence. What’s more, she also believes the reason for him for having a successful career later in life is due to his childhood experiences.

True. She was the kind of mother who taught her two children to look up for themselves. However, there were also times when she stood by them. Indeed, Peggy was supportive of her son and daughter whenever necessary.

Now, concerning Peggy’s treatment of her kids; there is one more story.

In their communal garden, there was a boy, whose mother never left him alone or unsupervised. And, if any child dared to bother her son, she was there to shield him; totally the opposite of Peggy.

One afternoon, their doorbell rang. When Peggy opened the door, the boy’s mother was standing behind it, holding a stick in her hand. She waved it at Peggy and said, “Your daughter is a very naughty girl.”

“What has she done?” Peggy asked.

“She annoys my son by calling him, ‘Mommy’s boy. You have to punish her.”

“Ok,” she said, before slamming the door to the woman’s face. “Leave her to me.”

As soon as she closed the door, her eight-year-old daughter looked at her mother bashfully, feeling guilty.

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” Peggy told her. “I know what type of a boy he is. I don’t blame you for calling him, ‘Mommy’s boy; but I will appreciate it if you left him alone from now on.”

She gave Peggy a blissful smile and nodded, “Yes, Mommy. I won’t bother him anymore.”

Conclusion: Don ‘t be overprotective of your children. Meanwhile, be supportive and understand their small world if you wish to help them grow up into nice and confident characters later in life.

“Come, grab a chair and place yourself next to me,” said my daughter-in-law’s charming grandfather, as he sat by the window staring across the street.
The moment I sat down, Martiross Teshkhoyan – whom I’ll be calling Martik for short – gave out a deep sigh, and looked at me with sad eyes.
“Ah…” he interjected, “you know what day tomorrow is, don’t you?”
I nodded, thinking, which Armenian doesn’t? Naturally, being the 24th of April, it is the anniversary of the Armenian genocide.
Staring with respect at the deep lines hacked on his face, I asked, “You must be a survivor of the genocide; am I correct?”
Martik gaped out absently, as tears welled in his eyes. He swallowed, looked down and enquired, “If I tell you my story, will you promise to write it for me?”
I jumped from my chair, knelt upon the floor to face him, and uttered, “Yes; Sir, I promise. I’ll be honored to do so.”
He smiled, as a strand of wavy grey hair dangled casually on his broad forehead, and said, “Good, because I want my children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren always remember what their ancestors have gone through.”
Martik stared far out beyond the buildings across the street absently, and began, “My father, mother, elder brother, six-year-old sister, and I lived in Agen – a town in Turkey, located within the region which until 1555 belonged to Armenia.”
He took a deep breath and continued, “On a rainy day, on April 24, 1915, a Turkish Soldier knocked on our door and announced that my father and elder brother were invited to an official dinner at the mayor’s mansion that night. Later we learned that similar official dinner invitations were delivered to all prominent and intellectual Armenian men across Turkey.”
I gasped, as I was well aware of this sad and cruel historical event. As, none of the Armenian men returned to their homes from that “dinner”. They were all murdered weren’t they? I asked him.
He looked at me nodded sadly and continued: “The next day, after waiting in vain for the return of my father and brother, a group of soldiers showed up at our doorstep with their guns slung over their shoulders and forced my mother, little sister, and myself out of our house. Out in the street, we were rejoined by hundreds of other Armenian families ranging between young and old; women and men; babies, children of all ages as well as teenaged boys and girls. Soldiers shoved us all forward and forced us to walk for miles. We walked but did not know where we were going.”
He went silent for a few minutes and continued. “In some satanic way we were perhaps lucky, hundreds and hundreds of others were ordered into Armenian churches, where the soldiers bolted the doors from outside and set them on fire”
I felt a painful lump forming in my throat with distress. To me, it felt like suffocating from inhaling smoke inside a burning church together with my people, as Martik continued with his story.
“That day, after miles and miles of walking, our group reached the outskirts of the city. The soldiers ordered us to lie down on the ground and sleep. My mother, my exhausted and hungry sister, and I cuddled up with one another and tried to warm ourselves up against the chill of the night. In the morning we were kicked cruelly, awakened and forced to march again.
Martik stopped asked me for a glass of water which he drank deliberately as if to quench a big thirst, and said “We marched on and on from one day to another. We were exhausted, hungry and thirsty, and as days went by the elderly and children gradually began to die.”
“Eventually, we arrived at the border of the Syrian Desert. Turkey’s weather is cool, and in winter, freezing cold. So, naturally we were not used to the extreme heat of a Desert. It was tough; especially, with not having access to food and water, except for a meager ration we were handed at night as we collapsed onto the sand. It helped neither with hydration, nor nutrition.”
“During the day, as my mother staggered alongside me”, recounted Martik.”I had to carry my little sister. Fortunately, I was fit and strong. Then, one day, my little sister developed a high fever. Sadly, or perhaps mercifully, she did not last long and passed away in my arms the next day. When that night, we arrived to our resting station, my mother and I said the Lord’s Prayer, and buried her under deep sand with aching hearts.”
“How sad…!” I retorted, with tears blurring my vision.
“Next morning right before our march, my mother and I went to my sister’s burial site to say good-bye to her. Oh, you don’t know what we found.”
Martik held his head and began to cry, as I placed a caring hand on his shoulder.
He said, “Hungry wild dogs had dug out my baby sister’s body and eaten her flesh, while her head was still attached to her skeleton.”
I jumped to my feet and threw my arms around his shoulders.
Martik, after a while composed himself and said, “Then, a week later, my mother died. In a way, I was happy for her. She did not have to suffer any more.”
Martik took a sigh of relief and continued, “Two days later, something lucky happened to me.”
“Do tell me about it please,” I cut in.
“One morning a horse riding Kurdish man showed up and began looking into the disheveled and devastated surviving bunch of Armenians. He was hoping to find a young boy whom he could use as a servant around his household. Fortunately, he chose me.”
“When we arrived at his house in a Kurdish village,” he added, “and entered a black stoned garden with no trees nor flowers; I dumped my tired body on the stairs leading to the living quarters. Suddenly, I noticed a young Armenian girl with her traditional outfit coming out to greet me. She handed me some fresh clothing and began speaking in Armenian to me.”
I told her, “So, you are an Armenian.”
“Yes, I am.”
“What are you doing here, with your expensive hairband covered with gold coins?” I enquired.
“Well,” she said, “I am our master’s fifth wife.”
“What…?” I almost yelled at her, “What is an Armenian Christian girl doing married to a Kurd?”
“I rather be the fifth wife of a nice Muslim man than to be raped by those disgusting bandits, who have no pity on our girls,” she answered.
“She was right. What’s more, she did not have to die of starvation like the others, aside being constantly raped and maltreated.” Martik said.
He added that after taking a bath, changing into fresh clean clothing, and resting, he began working and cleaning around the house. He recounted that from that day on, the first thing he did every morning, was to light the samovar and make tea. Afterwards, he went on with the rest of the household chores.
“One morning, when I got up to prepare tea, as I entered the room to set the breakfast table, I found the Armenian girl, lying on the sofa, burning with fever. Her husband had not come home the night before. He probably had spent the night with one of his other four wives,” Martik recounted. “As the Armenian young woman lay there suffering, she had her expensive gold coin-covered hairband on.”
He sighed and asked me, “Can you guess what I did?”
“No, I can’t.”
Martik bit his lower lip, and continued, “I pulled her hairband off her head and took off.” He added, looking embarrassed. “Can you imagine? Rather than helping her, I stole her expensive jewelry just because I decided to sell it and use the money to escape to a land, where I could be a free person.”
I told him, “You had to save yourself. I understand you. Besides, I am sure her husband came that morning and helped her.”
“Maybe… However, up to this day, I can’t forget what I did to free myself. What’s more, I can’t forgive myself for giving her no hand when she needed my help.” He said that with his head bent down as if in shame. Then he raised his head, and said “You must write this”. And, so I have.

I was in my twenties when my husband, and I moved to the German village of Oberammergau for two years. For me, the big change from a busy and dynamic city such as Tehran, to a historical and picturesque village located high up at the bosom of the Alps, was quite bewildering. In other words, I could not adjust myself to the calm and inactive environment of Oberammergau. In one of my previous blogs, I do mention our move to the above village, where my husband worked for the US Army.
To make things worse, I missed my family members, relatives, and friends badly. My only consolation, aside from my husband, was our baby girl, Sophia, who also seemed to be missing my mother, sister, and three brothers. What’s more, Oberammergau, because of being located in the Alp Mountains, had freezing temperatures in the winter. Its summers were also quite cool; especially at night time, when you needed to warm yourself with a thick woolen jacket. And since I am not a lover of cold weather, you can imagine how I felt about Oberammergau.
A few months after our arrival in Germany, Sophia developed a bad sore throat and high fever. We were advised by a fellow employee of my husband at the US base to take her to the next town called Garmish to see a well-known pediatrician.
As I sat at the doctor’s office pressing my sick baby hard against my chest, a slim and tall doctor, in his immaculately clean, white medical overall, stepped out of his office. He walked straight to us, and introduced himself as Dr. Smiedt. He then grabbed Sophia from my arms and walked away with her to his office. I expected for Sophia to get upset for not having her mother accompany her. However, when she saw the doctor pulling out a lollipop from his top pocket and passing it on to her, she seemed happy and distracted.
I, in turn, sat there not knowing what was going on inside the doctor’s office, and wondered if Sophia was missing me.
As I was busy pondering those thoughts, suddenly Sophia’s ear-piercing screams filled the air. To me, it felt as if somebody had hit her hard on the head. Thus, I jumped to my feet with my heart pounding madly. “What’s happening?” “Why is my poor little girl yelling like that?” I screamed, as the people sitting across the room gave me strange glances. I am sure that if this had happened in the States, people sitting in the waiting room, would rush toward me and comfort me.
As Sophia’s shrieks continued, I heard her calling out, “Mama…Mama!”
I dashed toward the closed door and banged hard at it.
In no time, the door opened and the doctor walked out holding my crying baby in his arms. The moment Sophia set her teary eyes upon me; she threw both arms toward me and continued crying even louder.
“What happened?” I asked, while trying to comfort Sophia.
“Well,” he answered, “She had polyps, and I tore them out rapidly, going in through her nose thrills.”
As I looked at the doctor with bewilderment, he carried on, “Meanwhile this little girl was so busy enjoying her lollipop that she did not even realize what was happening to her.”
“You removed the polyps out without the use of any sedatives?” I demanded.
“In Germany, we don’t believe in the use of sedatives on children. It is not good for them.”
I shook my head and frowned. How could he have allowed himself to torture the poor baby?
Sophia suffered with pain the whole day; as I tried to distract her with toys and snacks. Yet, the following day, she felt like her normal self again; despite having gone through a tortuous surgery.
I thought, maybe after all the German doctor’s method was the right one. Nevertheless, I must stress that such a painful procedure would have never happened in Iran. The doctors in those days, were all US educated and happened to be “proper doctors,” as I liked to call them. Especially, after my terrible experience in Germany.

Oberammergau

I was in my twenties when my husband, and I moved to the German village of Oberammergau for two years. For me, the big change from a busy and dynamic city such as Tehran, to a historical and picturesque village located high up at the bosom of the Alps, was quite bewildering. In other words, I could not adjust myself to the calm and inactive environment of Oberammergau. In one of my previous blogs, I do mention our move to the above village, where my husband worked for the US Army.
To make things worse, I missed my family members, relatives, and friends badly. My only consolation, aside from my husband, was our baby girl, Sophia, who also seemed to be missing my mother, sister, and three brothers. What’s more, Oberammergau, because of being located in the Alp Mountains, had freezing temperatures in the winter. Its summers were also quite cool; especially at night time, when you needed to warm yourself with a thick woolen jacket. And since I am not a lover of cold weather, you can imagine how I felt about Oberammergau.
A few months after our arrival in Germany, Sophia developed a bad sore throat and high fever. We were advised by a fellow employee of my husband at the US base to take her to the next town called Garmish to see a well-known pediatrician.
As I sat at the doctor’s office pressing my sick baby hard against my chest, a slim and tall doctor, in his immaculately clean, white medical overall, stepped out of his office. He walked straight to us, and introduced himself as Dr. Smiedt. He then grabbed Sophia from my arms and walked away with her to his office. I expected for Sophia to get upset for not having her mother accompany her. However, when she saw the doctor pulling out a lollipop from his top pocket and passing it on to her, she seemed happy and distracted.
I, in turn, sat there not knowing what was going on inside the doctor’s office, and wondered if Sophia was missing me.
As I was busy pondering those thoughts, suddenly Sophia’s ear-piercing screams filled the air. To me, it felt as if somebody had hit her hard on the head. Thus, I jumped to my feet with my heart pounding madly. “What’s happening?” “Why is my poor little girl yelling like that?” I screamed, as the people sitting across the room gave me strange glances. I am sure that if this had happened in the States, people sitting in the waiting room, would rush toward me and comfort me.
As Sophia’s shrieks continued, I heard her calling out, “Mama…Mama!”
I dashed toward the closed door and banged hard at it.
In no time, the door opened and the doctor walked out holding my crying baby in his arms. The moment Sophia set her teary eyes upon me; she threw both arms toward me and continued crying even louder.
“What happened?” I asked, while trying to comfort Sophia.
“Well,” he answered, “She had polyps, and I tore them out rapidly, going in through her nose thrills.”
As I looked at the doctor with bewilderment, he carried on, “Meanwhile this little girl was so busy enjoying her lollipop that she did not even realize what was happening to her.”
“You removed the polyps out without the use of any sedatives?” I demanded.
“In Germany, we don’t believe in the use of sedatives on children. It is not good for them.”
I shook my head and frowned. How could he have allowed himself to torture the poor baby?
Sophia suffered with pain the whole day; as I tried to distract her with toys and snacks. Yet, the following day, she felt like her normal self again; despite having gone through a tortuous surgery.
I thought, maybe after all the German doctor’s method was the right one. Nevertheless, I must stress that such a painful procedure would have never happened in Iran. The doctors in those days, were all US educated and happened to be “proper doctors,” as I liked to call them. Especially, after my terrible experience in Germany.

Sophie, a woman, in her late twenties, together with her husband, and their two children, left Iran a few months before the start of the Islamic revolution.
Being Armenian and Christian, they were wary about living under an Islamic rule of government. It was obvious that Ayatollah Khomeini was about to overthrow the Shah’s government. So, the young couple were not sure how an Islamic system of government would treat its non-Muslim citizens.
Naturally, they were sad to leave their keens, family members and place of birth behind. However, they believed it was important for them to raise their children in a Christian land. Yes, Sophie loved Iran and the Iranians. She found them to be loving and friendly. Especially that the type of people she and her husband dealt with were highly educated, art-lovers, artists, and greatly sophisticated.
During the Shah’s reign, all in all, the non-Muslims, were treated with respect in Iran. Of course, like in any other country in the world, one did come across some bigots who mistreated the non-Muslims. The same could be said about certain fundamentalist Christians in the States or Europe, who harass and mistreat diverse religious people.

After leaving Iran, Sophie and her family lived in different European countries such as, France, Spain, and England. Her mother, who also left Iran with them, a year later immigrated to the United State to live with her eldest daughter, who was a US citizen.
Sophie had to accompany her mother to America, because she needed help to travel. This was during the time when the Iranians had taken the US embassy employees hostage in Tehran.
Like today, Americans were not so fund of Iran and the Iranians. Indeed, nothing has changed much. And, with Trump’s presidency, it is getting even worse. At the time, what aggravated the situation was the fact that Iranians had taken the US Embassy employees hostage during Khomeini’s reign. To make things worse, Sophie and her family were not US citizens yet, and held Iranian passports.
A week before Sophie reunited with her family in the UK, as she sat with her mother in an outdoor cafe in California, with her mother, a middle-aged fellow approached them. “Where are you ladies from…? What’s that language you are speaking together? ”
Before, Sophie had a chance to utter a word, her mother cut in, “We are from Iran, and the language we are speaking is Armenian.”
Sophie felt extremely uneasy. She thought it was not the right time to let people know they had any ties to Iran. In fact, she felt annoyed with her mother. Sophie herself, never used the word Iran. When somebody asked her where she was from, she said, “Persia.”
The moment that nosy character found out they were Iranians; he fretted, and asked Sophie’s mother, “Don’t tell me you miss your land!”
She sighed, smiled, and said confidently, “Yes, sir, I miss my land a lot.”
Now, Sophie really felt like she was about to have a heart attack.
Why do you have to embarrass me the way you did? She thought of telling her.
The man, in turn, laughed sarcastically and added, “Then, what are you doing here? Just go back to your beloved Iran!”
Sophie’s mother did not even bother to explain that they were Christian. She simply said, “I assure you. If I really had a chance, I would definitely go back to my birthplace, and die there.”
Presently, Sophie felt proud of her mother, rather than being upset with her, and suddenly thought that she was nothing but a loyal person.
And, come to think of it, I as the narrator of this story believe, if she were still alive, she would have made a genuine and dedicated US citizen.

About two weeks earlier, it was Martin Luther King Jr. Day. That morning, as I drove to the sports club to play tennis, I listened to the NPR Radio. The program revolved around the segregation of the blacks and whites in America. It also talked about how Martin Luther King brought change into the lives of the Africana Americans in the US.
The black people had been suffering discrimination until as late as the mid-sixties. For example, as they traveled, they were not allowed to utilize the same public facilities as the whites? Can you imagine anybody among us to travel for hours without being able to go to the bathroom? What’s more, not only, the African Americans could not use the same restrooms as the whites, but they were not allowed to dine at restaurants; neither could they buy gas nor other necessities as they wished.
Thankfully, a man called Victor Green put together a guide book for car travel for African-Americans, which specified places they could buy gas, food, use the bathroom, or sleep overnight. Before the Green guide book was available, the African-Americans, generally packed food to carry with them. They also brought along extra gasoline, and if they were worried about bathroom facilities, they brought along something to use as a portable toilet. Those who traveled for business generally arranged to stay with relatives or friends as they knew finding a motel or a friendly restaurant would not be an easy task. Thus, “The Negro Motorist Green Book” which was published in 1936 by Victor Green – a postman in the New Jersey area – was of great help to the African Americans.
It should be stressed that the maltreatment of the black people was not merely US related. Their misfortune goes to centuries back. Originally, it began in Africa itself, where greedy Europeans began their despicable business of slavery.
This reminds me of the fascinating book, which I recently read called, “Home going” by Yaa Gyasi. It is the sad and painful story of descent African families, who had to be brutally separated from their wives, husbands, and children to be sold by the money grubbing merciless slave merchants. Slavery, which in the west lasted from the 15th to mid-19th century, was one of the most lucrative enterprises in which compassion and humanity had no place. Can you, for a minute, feel the pain and misery the poor African people had to endure as they slaved away in mines and fields? Yes, can you envisage scenes where they were whipped and tortured if they did not do their utmost to satisfy their owners’ wishes? To make things worse, the slaves were not regarded as normal humans: i.e.: equal to the whites. Why? Simply because they were black. This is really disgusting and unacceptable.

Here, I have to recount an event that I experienced during one of my travels to Florida in the mid-eighties.
I went there with my two teen-aged children, to visit a beloved childhood friend of mine.
The second day during our stay there, my friend and I were sitting in her car- with its windows rolled down – waiting for her husband to come back from his grocery shopping.
As we sat there chatting away, a group of African American young girls and boys, began advancing in the direction of our parked car. The moment my friend set her eyes upon those youth, she panicked and urged, “Hurry … hurry … roll up the window on your side. It is very dangerous!”
“What are you talking about?” I demanded. “I don’t see anything to be afraid of.”
“Can’t you see those black kids walking toward us?”
I told her calmly that if she wanted to roll up the window next to her, she was welcome to do so, but I was not going to follow suit.
She looked at me with bewilderment; probably thinking I had lost my mind.
Funnily enough, as the group passed by our car, they didn’t even bother looking at us.
I stared at my friend, arching an eyebrow, as I said, “Hey; we are still alive, aren’t we?”
I had to laugh inside, thinking simply because of the color of their skin, my friend found them to be a threat! And this was as late as the eighties, where things should have been different.
Here, I would like to talk about another such incident during the time of apartheid in South Africa.
I used to travel with my husband to different corners of the world, when he ventured out on business trips.
Once, when we were visiting South Africa, we were invited to a party in Johannesburg.
As my husband and I stood by a window overlooking a lush garden and enjoyed our vodka tonics, a middle-aged man united with us. He introduced himself, recounted us about his pleasant life. He said he lived in a suburb not too far from Johannesburg, with his wife and their servants. What surprised me during his conversation was that man’s attitude in regards their black servants.
I, found it so strange to hear the fellow say that he was pleasantly surprised to see their black maid learn to set the table as fast as within a day.
I asked him what was so surprising.
He answered, “Well, you might not know, but the black people are not very smart.”
“Excuse me!” I snapped at him. “Who gave you the idea that you are more intelligent than the black people?”
The stranger, suddenly turned cherry red, and barked, “Obviously, you know nothing about these people. Do you?”
My heart began thumping with rage. I wished to take one of my high hill shoes off and bang him hard on the head. Meanwhile, my husband grabbing my arm, saying, “Come on, let’s go and talk a bit with Sue. The poor woman is standing over there all by herself.”
As soon as we began our conversation with Sue, she said, “I could see you having a heated conversation with the chief of the police.”
I became quite apprehensive, learning about the identity of the stupid man. I wondered if he might cause me any trouble at the airport the day of my departure. Luckily, that did not happen.
I will conclude with another story about South Africa.
My husband, had a very capable South African black lawyer at their branch in Johannesburg. At the time of our visit, she had to go on a business trip to another city. One night, we invited her husband for dinner in the restaurant at our hotel.
His name was John, and also happened to be a lawyer and a very interesting person. Thus, we had a great time and conversation during our dinner.
Around eight-thirty, we noticed John constantly checking his watch. At about nine o’clock, he turned real nervous; to the point that he became jittery. My husband, noticing John’s strange mood, asked him, “You seem tired of our companion. Are you willing to leave already?”
He took a deep breath to compose himself and answered, “No, no. Not at all! On the contrary, I am totally enjoying my time with you.”
“No, you don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.” My husband stressed.
“I leave at the shantytown, like any black person in Johannesburg, and am supposed to be out of the city by nine.”
He sighed and carried on, “There is a special bus leaving ten minutes to nine, and I should have been on it ten minutes ago. As you can see, it is already nine o’clock.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll put you on a cab,” my husband stressed.
I, who had always been a rebellious person since my teenage days, felt like getting up and slapping every white South African person in the restaurant. Especially that I noticed their hateful glares all during our dinner. I guess simply because, we were having dinner with a black person.
My husband reassured our guest that he would hire a private car from the hotel, and take him to his house in person. And, that was exactly what he did.
When this incident Happened, Mandela had not become the president yet. Come to think of it, he too, like Martin Luther King Jr. was an important figure in bringing change and dignity into black people’s life. The names of these heroes will and cannot ever be erased from the history of mankind. Indeed, they will both live on forever.

In 1976, for the second time within less than two years, Valerie accompanied her husband, Alain, to Tel Aviv on one of his business trips.
Valerie liked Tel Aviv’s vibrant atmosphere with hordes of people walking through its streets harboring modern and old buildings, restaurants, and shops.
The restaurants in that city, were a combination of western and Middle Eastern eateries. They even had a diner called McDavid’s. Every time Valerie passed by McDavid’s, she laughed within, thinking the name must be the Jewish version of McDonald’s.
Something that surprised Valerie during her strolls through the streets of Tel Aviv, was the fact that people mostly yelled at each other. Valerie wondered if they were fighting, or simply that was how they conversed.
One Saturday morning, Valerie and Alain set out to discover different districts in Tel Aviv as well as the near-by surrounding small towns and villages.
After a few hours of driving around and exploring the neighboring hamlets, Alain and Valerie arrived to the ancient city of Jericho; which used to be a marvel before its destruction in the Babylonian conquest of 1400 BC.
As Valerie strolled through the rugged areas of Jericho, exhibiting different interesting monuments, her heart skipped a bit with excitement thinking Jesus must have stepped upon the same ground as she was walking on that day.
Then, after all their sightseeing, Alain and Valerie left the town of Jericho and drove further, hoping to see more interesting sites.
As they advanced, the environs took on a more tired and humbler look than what they had seen before arriving to Jericho. Presently, dilapidated huts and occasional tatty tents here and there tinted the dry landscape. Soon the couple arrived at a location where two armed Israeli soldiers, stood guard. One soldier, approached the car and said in English, “We don’t recommend you to drive further than this line.”
“Why?” Alain asked.
“Well, from this point on you will be entering Palestinian territory, and we won’t be responsible for your safety.”
“Never mind,” Alain answered, as Valerie looked on anxiously.
Having uttered those words, Alain pressed on the pedal fearlessly and drove through the unmanned Palestine border.
For Alain and Valerie, it was very interesting to compare the Israeli landscape with that of the Palestinian setting; which looked really poor and rough. So did the little town in Palestine, which they now had entered. It was derelict all over, with its unkempt huts and stores. To add to the bizarre atmosphere, Alain and Valerie could not see too many people walking through the streets. There were not even any chicken, roosters, stray dogs and cats roaming the narrow walkways.
As they advanced slowly and cautiously, they suddenly heard a boy running behind their car and calling out, “Panchar…panchar!”
You might have guessed what “panchar” in Arabic means. Doesn’t it sound like “puncture?”
Indeed, the car had a flat tire. So, upon hearing the boy calling “Panchar”, they stopped the car and walked out.
As soon as Alain, saw the punctured tire, he slapped his forehead, and said, “Why did it have to happen here?”
The Palestinian boy made them understand that they should wait for him; as he ran to the near-by grocery store.
In no time, he walked out with a middle aged bearded man wearing a beige skull cap. The man approached them and uttered in English, “You don’t have to worry at all.”
Alain and Valerie looked at him with dubious eyes. “Can we really trust a Palestinian?” They asked themselves. Like any westerner, they believed that the Palestinians were all nothing but terrorists, who wanted to blow up any non-Arab person that they came across.
The grocer guided Alain and Valerie toward his store, while giving some instructions to the boy in Arabic, who in turn, ran at the speed of light away from where the couple were standing.
Then, their host walked them into an aromatic grocery store with piles of melons, watermelons, apples, grapes, and oranges. Besides fruits and vegetables, he also carried different other household goods and food.
As the two stood in the store, not knowing what to expect, the grocer pulled out two tall stools and asked them to sit on them. He then disappeared behind a curtain in the back of the store. In no time, the grocer appeared with a tray containing two cups of Turkish coffees and some cookies. The husband and wife each took a cup of coffee and a cookie. Soon, a head geared young woman appeared, said hello to them, and offered them some grapes. The owner, meanwhile, said smilingly, “Don’t worry, everything is going to be all right.”
As they sat there, enjoying their coffees, while chatting with the grocer, another man walked in, shook hands with Alain and said, “Sir, your tire is repaired.”
“Thank you, thank you so much. How much do I owe you?” Alain asked.
“Nothing sir, you are a guest here. All we wish you is to enjoy your visit.”
Alain and Valerie looked at one another with surprise.
They were so touched with Palestinian hospitality. Husband and wife, who had traveled almost all over the world, later admitted that nowhere had they experienced such warmth and kindness.
That day at the grocery store, Valerie smiled and asked herself, “Aren’t these same nice people supposed to be the so called, terrifying terrorists?”