Blood Brothers by Elias Chacour & with David Hazard

Author:Elias Chacour & with David Hazard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: BIO018000, BIO006000
ISBN: 9781441242761
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2013-03-22T00:00:00+00:00

9

Grafted In

A thin wisp of smoke curled toward the high-vaulted ceiling of St. Joseph’s Church—the white, sweet smoke of frankincense. Our ordination ceremony had begun. I glanced at Faraj, who sat beside me at the front of the church. Was he as jittery as I? He looked as calm as ever, though I noticed that perspiration dampened his forehead.

From where we sat, I could see that the church was filled. Outside, the Mediterranean sun was white-hot. We had been back for a month and spring had turned to scorching summer. But it was the faces—the rows and rows of faces—that seemed to make us warm and moist beneath the collar, for the expansive stone church was quite cool. Almost every relative and friend I could name—those who were still in the country—had come to Nazareth for the ceremony. There were Mother and Father, seated near the front. The brothers and students of St. Joseph’s school had packed the church to the doors. Though the Melkite ordination is quite unelaborate, it was a grand moment for us, culminating more than ten years of preparation. Father Longère had even traveled from Paris to celebrate with us.

Though I trembled nervously, I felt something else. What was it? Certainly I had worked hard for this moment, had earned top grades, and along the way, learned to speak eight languages. Now the rigorous training was over. And instead of the settled feeling you find upon reaching a goal, a nagging inner voice told me that I had not yet found my true life’s work.

What was more distracting were the images that kept flashing through my head while I was supposed to be concentrating on the ceremony. Two experiences since my return played through my head. . . .

I was standing at the customs line at the port in Haifa. I had just arrived from Europe, anxious to see my family. The doors to the outer waiting area opened for just a moment and in the throng I caught a glimpse of Mother and Father looking, though they were now in their early sixties, much grayer than I expected. In that moment, they smiled and pointed to the accompanying mob of family members, including Wardi, my brothers and the families that had grown around them. Then the door slammed shut.

When my turn came, I slid my passport across the counter to the customs agent. He glanced at it then looked at me without expression. “You must go to that room over there,” he said, pointing to a windowless door.

“Excuse me,” I fumbled, “but why? My passport is current—”

“You are Palestinian?”

“Yes. But my family is waiting. Can’t you—”

“You must go to that room. I can’t stamp your passport for entry.”

In the small room, I sat nervously as a brusque young man questioned me at length. For half an hour he demanded to know the names of all the places I’d been to in Europe and the names of all my “contacts.” He was obviously not satisfied that I was a returning seminary student.

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