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My first 6-weeks with an Arab Muslim family in Israel would be among the most memorable of the year. It’s hard to know the value of hospitality without ever being hosted by an Arab family. I lived with the Said family (not real name) in a mini-mansion. It had been run down over the years, yet it still felt regal, perhaps even palatial (in its day). However, a broken gate and antiquated security system – a relic of the glory days of Yasser Arafat, hung loosely at the front gate, fooling no one. On the other side of the gate lay an expansive courtyard. Forgotten reminders of a family’s past lay dormant, such as the old cable-pulley multigym or the regulation billiards table missing the balls.
A row of tall potted trees framed the compound’s perimeter and indicated the path to the house where an ominous lion statue sat on a pedestal at the base of the stairs. The top of the stairs leveled out onto a small outdoor sitting area underneath a canopy with a couple of small plastic chairs, a worn-out couch, and an old hookah pipe. The furniture faced the front door, where a television on a roller cart was routinely moved onto the deck. Inside, the house felt like a museum, complete with marble floors, handcrafted furniture, and dated family portraits.
