The Road to Peace Goes through the Bedroom

I am trying to get into the habit of quickly writing down my stories, as my memories are triggered by things I see or hear. I have come to realize that it’s damn near impossible to sit down and crank out my life story while sipping lattes at the local organic cafe. The stories come when sparked by something in my environment or conversation – just as my aunts’ and uncles’ stories came out of nowhere in the middle of dinner, when someone said something that reminded them of something else. I never understood, when I was younger, how my elders could not just spontaneously and stream-of-consciousnessly rattle off their life stories upon request. Now I know.

So here’s this story:

During the year I was involved with my Bedouin Arab boyfriend Muhammed, my Ashkenazi Jewish friend Susan was married to her Moroccan Muslim husband Mustafa (both their names changed). Susan and I were driving down the street in downtown Berkeley one day, when we hit a red light and stopped.

To our right, there was an anti-Israel rally. To our left, there was a pro-Israel rally. Each group had their respective signs and slogans, and each group was shouting their opposing chants at each other, from across the street –ie, over our heads. Susan and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. Don’t they know, we quipped as the light turned to green and we drove away from the hubaloo, that the road to peace is through building personal relationships, one at a time – especially, we added with giggles, in bed?