Opinion: My enemy, my friend

A clammy hand cut through the mist to grasp the flesh of my palm. Unable to see, I knew where to look only by focusing on the glowing embers of the faint light directly before me. "I am Zohar," said the faceless voice in a very pronounced accent, "Salaam Aleikem!" As it turned out, Zohar would be my chain-smoking Arab roommate for the duration of my time in Room 301-Gimel of Haifa University's dormitory. He was gruff, shorter in stature than myself, with a thick five o'clock shadow and deliberately spiky hair. "You speak to me in English, I speak to you in Hebrew and Arabic. We be good friends." He finally let go of my hand, and my arm recoiled as if it had touched a flame. He was a strong one, he was, and I nervously muttered the first reply I could think of, "Sh-Shalom?." Initially, I should have had reservations about living in a suite of five Arab students. Growing up in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood, I was all but conditioned to fear Arabs. I was brought up to believe that they were all terrorists, with a taste for killing in the name of Allah. Such views were only strengthened by images and stereotypes of Arabs to which I had been exposed all of my life, in Hollywood and in the media. I did not tell my roommate right away that I was Jewish. Over the duration of the semester, Zohar and I slowly became very good friends. Although he was an Arab citizen of Israel, he was in the elite-fighting unit of Tzahal, the Israeli Defense Force. On his bookshelf, next to the Koran, sat a large coffee table-like book with long descriptions of Israel's greatest military victories. On his desk, pictures said it all: an image of Zohar smoking a cigarette was flanked on the right by Zohar wearing military gear, and on the left by Zohar standing next to his nine brothers in his small Arab village. Zohar had explained to me almost all the sides of the Arab-Israeli conflict, and I was beginning to understand -- beginning to understand how sheltered and biased my upbringing was. And then it happened. Just when I thought I had some sort of grasp on the Arab-Israeli conflict, I heard a friend scream, "Ow!" I could not believe it, and I would not have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. We were walking in the predominantly Arab East Jerusalem. It was a Friday night, and we were on the way to the Western Wall. Out of nowhere, a child no older than five picked up a rock and pelted it at the back of my friend, who was dressed in traditional Jewish Sabbath garb. Not knowing whether to scream or run, we chose to freeze in our tracks. Needless to say, I was shocked. That initial shock did eventually die down. My suitemates explained that relations between Arabs and Jews were much more strained in Jerusalem than in Northern Israel. And I slowly came to realize that the child was not much different than me at that age: instilled with a rage directed at another people, by people who are older but not necessarily wiser. I was disappointed. I thought I had learned it all. My optimistic hopes of Arabs and Jews living together in harmony were put on hold for the moment. Long after the end of the semester, I found myself hiking in the ancient city of Petra (made famous by Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade) in Jordan. I had finally reached the top of the last climbable mountain, called the High Place of Sacrifice. "So sorry," the guard said in his best broken English. "Everyone must leave now." I was still following the magnificence of the sun as it fell behind mountains in the distance, and I pleaded for another moment. The guard sat down next to me and offered me a cigarette. We chatted for a while and I explained that I had come into Jordan from Israel. He replied, "Yes, Israel. It is beautiful country. The Jewishes, they are cousins of Islam. Peace -- yes, is good. Now I have new friend." I smiled at him, took a drag and basked for one last moment in the beauty before me. Here on this mountain, at that moment, there was no conflict, no rage, no Jews and no Arabs. Under the dimming rays of a shared sunset sat two human beings, cherishing the sweet simplicity of a true peace.

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