2002-11-18 - 9:31 p.m.
Kat is stepping in again today. This entry is from her.
A VERY STRANGE FEELING
I had a very strange feeling today.
It began in my fifth hour class, World Religions. Everyone was reviewing for our test on Christianity. I was helping the Muslim boy who simply can�t seem to understand anyone else�s religion. As I am a Jew, I�ll admit I�m not the best person to help him understand Christianity, but he came to me for help and I wasn�t about to turn him away.
So I went down the list of the Roman Catholic sacraments and explained them to him. Baptism he understood, but Communion stymied him.
�You mean they drink alcohol?� he asked in dismay. �They get drunk? During the service?�
�No, not enough to get drunk,� I assured him. �Just a token amount. Some Jewish services involve wine also, but never enough to get drunk. At least they aren�t supposed to.�
�In Islam, you�re never supposed to drink alcohol with the service. How would you know whether you�re really praying correctly if you were drunk?� he persisted.
He had a valid point. �I never thought of that before,� I said. �Then again, I�ve never gotten drunk at a service.�
He laughed, and we continued struggling through the sacraments. By the end, it was evident that he desperately needed a break to sort everything out in his mind. I took this opportunity to talk about stage crew to lighten the tone. The boy looked at me dejectedly.
�I don�t have time for extracurriculars,� he said glumly. �I have to tutor my little sister after school. Then my homework takes me until break fast...� It took me a moment to remember that it was the Islamic fast month of Ramadan. �...then I go to the mosque to pray.�
�You tutor your sister?� I asked, unsure of what to say. He nodded. I continued, �I tutor my sister, in a way, too. Now that she�s begun training for her Bat Mitzvah, I help her practice. I teach Hebrew at my synagogue, after all.�
�You teach Hebrew?� he inquired, and I was amazed to see a glimmer of real interest.
�Yes,� I replied. �I can read and write Hebrew, and I can chant with cantillation marks.�
�I can write some Arabic,� he said. He began to write out the Arabic alphabet in a notebook, but stopped. �It looks different when you write words. Like this,� he said, scrawling a flowing word like cursive across the page. �It�s my name,� he grinned proudly.
�This is my name in Hebrew,� I said as I printed my Hebrew name in block Hebrew beneath his graceful Arabic. It looked almost choppy next to his elegant script. But he smiled.
�How do you write my name in Hebrew?� he asked.
�Like this,� I stated, penning it out simply beside his Arabic version. Together we compared the two. The first letter of each looked almost identical.
�What is that letter called?� I queried, pointing to the first letter of his Arabic signature.
�Sin,� he answered. �What�s that one called?� He indicated the first letter of my Hebrew reproduction.
�Sin,� I responded. We looked at each other and marveled.
There we stood, a dark skinned, black haired Muslim boy and a light skinned, blond haired Jewish girl. We had two different views, two different backgrounds. Oceans away, people just like us were at war. Yet there we were, teaching each other the respective language of our heritage, and discovering it wasn�t so different after all. And that was when I felt it:
I could have sworn, in that moment, that God smiled.
LAST YEAR: Under Construction
LAST FIVE ENTRIES:
Whole Word
Secrets
The Art of the Possible
Not a Tragedy
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Copyright 2006 by Ellen |
