and from the inside in

I nod and then he slides the instrument, which is like an oversized board game, onto my lap. It has rows of strings
attached to tuning pegs on one end. It’s actually pretty cool-looking, like an artifact from ancient Egyptian times. He
places one of the metal clasps on my forefinger and urges me to pluck a string.
The sound is more twangy than the oud, and softer. Waleed positions my finger on a particular string and he strums
away on several at a time. We produce medium to high notes like a mother grieving over the loss of her child. It
becomes too intense for me and I abruptly stop.
“That’s cool,” I say awkwardly and slide the qanoon back to Waleed.
My mother demands they play a song about Jerusalem and I can understand most of the words:
I passed through the streets
The streets of Old Jerusalem
In front of the shops
That remained of Palestine
My mother’s face is glistening with perspiration and she clutches a tissue paper and waves it in the air at certain
intervals of the song. Waleed taps his shoe as he plays and his metal-protected fingers look like two miniature knights
riding across a field.
I watch Khalo Ziyad as he strums his banjo-looking oud, and I’m impressed how effortlessly his fingers move over the
strings. His face softens into a serene expression as though the tight fibers that make him smile or frown have gradually
collapsed. His eyes are closed and the pulpy flesh temporarily disappears.
Towards the end of a verse, he opens his eyes in the middle of the song and catches me staring. He grins and winks
like he’s just shared a secret he trusts I’ll always keep.
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