A Discotheque, a Church, and a Traveling Necklace

“Badek Tas7aree?”

He was leaning against the wall of his barbershop, neatly creating an obstacle between the U-Bahn and my apartment.

We had met yesterday. Well, met is a strong word. We had an embarrassing and awkward encounter at the phone store we were now firmly planted in front of.

During my first week in Vienna, I had learned that the owner of said phone store, the place I would be able to recharge my much-needed SIM card, did not speak a word of English. After twenty minutes of a game of charades no one was winning, we came to the conclusion that my broken and elementary Arabic would have to suffice – German was out of the question. Weeks later, I had returned to the phone store to find a line of four people. The barber, now in front of me, was sitting on top of the counter urging his friend to leave work early and ignore the line; none of the other customers even noticed his presence. If they did, they sneered in his direction for his blatant use of a language other than German, something I came to notice frequently. As I got to the front of the line, the standard mar7aba fell from my lips. The barber jumped off the counter apologized and ran back to the barbershop, embarrassed that anyone could understand him.

So, I guess I can say, we had “met” yesterday.

“I’m Muhammad” he reached out his hand to shake mine. It’s a common name, I know. Muhammad the Barber, I would repeat in my head, neatly keeping him separate from my friend at the marketplace.

“You don’t know what tas7haree means do you?” He asked me again after moments of silence and a brief introduction “I’m Elysa.” 

I shook my head no. My command of the Arabic language was limited, and I was beyond impressed I was even able to get my SIM card up and working using my “second” language.

“Discotheque.”

He said, bobbing his head back and forth like he was at a night club. The tattoos shining off his arms, spiky hair, and potentially predatory smile took me aback. My initial inclination to walk away halted when his face softened.

“You don’t like to party? That’s okay. A bunch of friends are going downtown to sit in the garden today; let us show you around the city.”

How had I managed to understand that much? My brain seemed to be working of its own accord, the Google Translate app had somehow uploaded itself and updated in my operating system.  

Throwing all caution to the wind, I decided to meet him after his shift and head back into the city with him. My friends stared hesitantly at me. I rationalized my decision: we’d be in a public place. 

Two hours later, we met again.

What started as friends gathered in a garden turned into a blossoming friendship. He was a former writer and journalist from Syria who had moved to Vienna as a refugee, taking up work in a barbershop to make ends meet. He loved to write and tell stories. And he loved to have fun, even if his discotheque and marijuana habits were merely masks for his deep fear of the world and his future as a refugee. A Palestinian refugee in Syria, turned Syrian refugee in Vienna. But I saw a different side of him, and his friends. From our daily gelato walks to sitting on the canals and telling stories of our lives, we learned a lot about each other. Even if the real Google Translate had to intervene on more than one occasion.

But there was one thing I hadn’t told him. He, like many others, assumed my Arab background based on my Arabic knowledge, my blatantly Semitic nose, and perhaps my willingness to talk to Arab strangers in a country where they are avoided.

 In fact, he told me once with tears in his eyes, “when I moved into my apartment there were Austrians as neighbors. The minute we came, they left. They don’t want to be around us.” While I tried to reassure him that people are welcoming, I saw everyday that us speaking Arabic would warrant “dirty looks” almost everywhere we went. I always seemed prepared to scream in English to draw attention away from my new friends; being annoying American tourists felt safer than being quiet and loving refugees.

I digress.

Despite our friendship, there was one thing I hadn’t told him. Maybe it just hadn’t come up, but it’s more likely that I was intentionally avoiding a difficult and potentially destructive conversation. And then, it burst into our friendship unexpectedly. As we toured a famous church, and he asked me what each religious symbol meant, I blurted out the truth: I’m Jewish. Jaw fell open; a widening gap of silence. Then, much like my last encounter, a smile. “I’ve never met a Jewish person before. You’re my first!” He exclaimed with what seemed like excitement. I had been preconditioned to expect anger, maybe even hate. But here, I found…curiosity? Hours blended into days and multitudes of questions had been lovingly shot my way; he genuinely wanted to learn more about the world, about the way I saw the world, about the way my religion taught me to see the world. Our friendship only grew deeper.

A month later, it was time for me to leave. By then, it seemed I had known him for more than just four short weeks, but I hadn’t. He offered to help me move my bags from my apartment to the hotel in the pouring rain; he wanted a chance to meet my mom even though the language barrier would prevent them from the simplest of conversations. While standing on the tram between them, foot on my duffel bag, he turned to me.

“Does your mom hate me?”

I laughed. “Why?”

“Because I’m Palestinian.”

My laugh melted away.

“Of course not. She loves that you’re my friend.”

Both smiles returned and the tension dissipated as quickly as it had come. Our friendship was restored to equilibrium, a friendship which I felt blessed to have built and cultivated and nurtured over weeks of chocolate gelato and laughter.

The last time I saw him, he handed me his necklace, the one he wore every day.  

“Remember me.”

Little did he know that he, and our serendipitous, unlikely, and “against all odds” friendship, would be impossible to forget.