thankful

On my way to Tel Aviv, I'm voluntarily bumped out of my aisle seat in favor of an Israeli Dad with a youngster. About to park in the middle seat, I notice an empty aisle seat next to a silver-haired gentleman with a cane. With a smile and a gracious gesture he invites me to sit, and so it is that I make my first Palestinian friend of the trip before I'm off the tarmac in Philly.
Hamed means "thankful" in Arabic. The cane is not for him but for his Mother, the surprise return of a favorite cane left at his house in Virginia during her last visit. He is a dutiful son, a pious Muslim, a thoughtful passenger, a kind and generous human being. I learn a lot of the true nature of Islam just listening to him and observing his behavior.
Hours later, as we fly over the Mediterranean islands, he trades seats with me so that I can look out the window. He shares my excitement as we cross the coast and set down in Tel Aviv. "It always feels special to return to the Holy Land," he says as we taxi to the terminal, but I can see the tension growing in him. He tells me of the difficulties for a Palestinian Arab even getting around in the West Bank these days. Because of the wall, it can take close to an hour by car to get to the next village, not the customary 20 minte walk. "Probably the Israeli in customs who will pass judgment on my ability to return, wasn't even born here himself. I want peace. We all want peace. The way to peace starts with the offer of a little justice."
You get the feeling that he would be truly thankful for that.