This piece is part of our Wit­ness­ing series, which shares pieces from Israeli authors and authors in Israel, as well as the expe­ri­ences of Jew­ish writ­ers around the globe in the after­math of Octo­ber 7th.

It is crit­i­cal to under­stand his­to­ry not just through the books that will be writ­ten lat­er, but also through the first-hand tes­ti­monies and real-time account­ing of events as they occur. At Jew­ish Book Coun­cil, we under­stand the val­ue of these writ­ten tes­ti­mo­ni­als and of shar­ing these indi­vid­ual expe­ri­ences. It’s more impor­tant now than ever to give space to these voic­es and narratives.

At the Jerusalem Café

in the dias­po­ra of Asheville, North Carolina, 

a man sit­ting out­doors two tables over 

stares at me with a small smile. 

All the oth­er din­ers have disappeared

inside to escape the heavy humid heat.

My water glass sweats in front of me.

My damp curls stick to my cheek.

The man con­tin­ues to stare.

“Do you speak Ara­bic?” he final­ly calls.

I squint into his unblink­ing eyes.

No one has ever asked me this before.

Do you speak Span­ish? Do you speak Ital­ian? 

I have heard many times 

but nev­er Do you speak Arabic?

His face is so open with hope, 

I am almost sor­ry to dis­ap­point him.

“No,” I reply but the man does not care

for my answer. ​“No?” He tilts his head

and stud­ies me, a puz­zle to fig­ure out. 

“You are not Ara­bic?” He gives me a chance

to change my mind. ​“No,” I repeat, my hand

fly­ing to the six-point­ed star hang­ing by a thread

around my neck. ​“I am Jew­ish.” I say, my face

heat­ing up from the sun which has turned the corner

and is now beat­ing down on us both.

“Ah!” His smile broad­ens. ​“I am from Bethlehem.”

“Ah!” I smile as well. ​“I have been there. 

It is beau­ti­ful.” We beam at each other

until our food arrives and we both lift triangles

of pita bread to dig in, he scoop­ing up hummus,

me dip­ping into baba ghanoush.

I fin­ish first, pay my bill, stand, and stop

at his table. ​“I speak one word of Arabic,”

I tell him. ​“Salaam.” I offer my hand which he takes,

his dark eyes grow­ing moist. ​“Shalom,” he says

and my dark eyes fill, too. ​“Peace,” we break 

out in uni­son. ​“Peace, peace, peace.” He stands, 

squeezes my hand and togeth­er we bow our heads

in prayer, a gen­tle breeze out of nowhere bless­ing us both.

The views and opin­ions expressed above are those of the author, based on their obser­va­tions and experiences.

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