Prodigies & Prophecies

Dbayeh Camp

Previously:

April's journey in Lebanon with Joseph has been a whirlwind of discovery and tension. After arriving at Rafik and Isabelle's home, she awoke to another adventure on the horizon, but the memories of the tense checkpoint encounter still haunted her. Joseph, who seemed to harbor secrets as deep as the history of the land they were in, remained vague about his mysterious activities the previous night. Despite her lingering unease, April was eager to explore the Cedars of God, an ancient forest symbolizing resilience in the face of time. As they traveled, she grappled with her rising anxiety and the stark contrasts between her sheltered upbringing and Joseph's life, marked by survival and profound experiences. The journey through the mountains brought them closer to the ancient cedars, yet further deepened the mysteries surrounding Joseph's past and his connection to Lebanon’s tumultuous history.

I had my feet propped up on the low cement wall that served as a makeshift balcony, separating the tiny patio from the bustling life of the camp. I was outside my room at Rafik and Isabella’s, perched comfortably with my UGG boots dangling over the edge. The familiarity of this place had started to feel like a second skin, a far cry from the strangeness I felt when I first arrived. 

"Hey, April!" A little kid called out, waving as he ran by, kicking a worn-out soccer ball back and forth with another boy. His face lit up with a wide grin, and I couldn’t help but smile back, giving him a quick wave in return. His joy was contagious, a little spark of light in the midst of the concrete and chaos that defined this place.

An older woman sat a few feet away, hunched over on a plastic chair, her hands trembling slightly as she took a drag from her cigarette. Her eyes met mine for a brief second, hesitant and wary, but she gave me a reluctant nod. I raised my hand and smiled softly, "Marhaba." She nodded again, the lines of her face softening just a touch, but her expression remained cautious.

A young man approached, holding a handful of pomegranate seeds, the juice staining his fingers a deep crimson. "Here, for you." he said, offering them with a gentle smile. "Have a nice day." He said as if he had rehearsed each letter all morning. I took the seeds with gratitude, the sweet, tart flavor bursting on my tongue—a small gift that felt much bigger in this moment of shared simplicity. 

It brought me back to the first and only time I had pomegranate seeds—in sixth grade, during my first days at a new school where I didn’t know a soul and felt completely out of place. I remembered sitting alone on a hill at the edge of the playground, lost in Lois Duncan’s Down a Dark Hall. Erika walked up with her unique gait and easy confidence. “Oh, you’re in for a treat,” she said, noticing my book. “That’s one of my favorites!” Then she held out a handful of pomegranate seeds and said, “Here, have some.” It was such a simple gesture, but it was the first time anyone had made me feel welcome. We became the closest of friends after that.

The young man pulled me back to the present with a chuckle, glancing down at my feet. “Aren’t those boots hot?”

I laughed, shaking my head. “No, not at all. They look really warm, but they’re actually perfect for this weather.” I wiggled my toes inside the soft sheepskin lining, thinking about how these boots had become a staple in the sun-drenched streets of Southern California. But here, in the crisp, cool air of Beirut in the middle of December, they felt just as perfect—cozy and right for the weather, much like that small handful of seeds was for this moment.

As he walked away, I took a deep breath and let my gaze drift over the camp. The rhythm of life pulsed around me—snatches of laughter from the barber shop, snippets of conversation, and the occasional shouts from the guys working on their cars, all melded together, creating a symphony that was both chaotic and comforting. Despite the harshness of the concrete walls and the makeshift homes, there was a warmth here that had begun to seep into my bones. The camp, with all its rough edges and unexpected kindnesses, was starting to feel like home.

By now, everyone in the camp had either heard of me or made a point to come up and talk. I felt almost like a celebrity, my presence stirring more curiosity than I had anticipated. It hadn’t fully dawned on me just how rare my being here was—how out of place I must have seemed, an American woman staying in a Palestinian refugee camp. I felt so welcomed and taken care of that it never occurred to me I might also be seen as an outsider, or even a threat. 

I was naive to the fact that, to some, my presence might be unsettling—or even threatening. I was a stranger from a country complicit in their suffering, a representative of a world that had largely turned its back on them. My country had even supplied the weapons that harmed those living here and in other Palestinian camps. I didn’t fully grasp that to some, I wasn’t just a curiosity, but someone to be distrusted, maybe even despised—a foreigner who didn’t belong, a symbol of broken promises and betrayal. That naivety vanished quickly later in the journey when I almost got kidnapped.

I was waiting for Joseph, my mind wandering to where we might go next. Secretly, I hoped we weren’t going anywhere at all. I craved a down day, a chance to let everything I’d seen and felt sink in—a day to simply breathe and be.

The most beautiful piano music pulled me out of my daydreams. Where could a piano be playing in the camp? I was genuinely surprised to hear such music here, of all places. It seemed to be moving, getting closer, each note more distinct. Was it Chopin or Beethoven? I couldn't quite tell, but I loved classical music—it was in my blood.

I was raised on classical music; my grammy and mom played nothing else, and with all the rigorous, disciplined training at Pacific Northwest Ballet, classical music was pretty much all I knew. I breathed it, danced to it, sweated to it, and dreamed of it. The only time I heard anything different was in my dad’s old VW bug, with the radio dial blasting the Boss’s “Born in the USA” or Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” on KUBE 93 FM. I loved that music too—I devoured it like Pop Rocks exploding in my mouth.

All of a sudden, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see a small boy, no older than ten, smiling up at me while deftly playing a portable keyboard with his other hand. 

“Do you like music?” he asked.

I was stunned. This little boy was the one playing the music I had just heard, and I was so taken aback that I couldn’t find my tongue. I simply nodded.

“Okay, well, can I play you my new song?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes, of course!” I replied. Part of me assumed he must have one of those keyboards pre-programmed to play classical pieces or orchestral music. I half expected him to plunk out a few notes of “Chopsticks” or something similar. I mean, I grew up playing the piano, and by his age, the best I could manage was a rough version of “Für Elise.” I became obsessed with The Phantom of the Opera and loved playing its haunting melodies, but I didn’t come close to mastering those until junior high, at the earliest.

I braced myself for him to start his song. 

What he played next completely knocked my socks off. This wasn’t the hesitant, simple tune of a child; this was something else entirely. His fingers danced across the keys with such speed and precision it was as if the music flowed directly from his soul. I realized with awe that this must be what it felt like to listen to Mozart play as a child—pure, unfiltered genius. This kid was a prodigy. 

I stared at him, utterly captivated, tears welling in my eyes as the beauty of his music washed over me. Each note resonated with a depth and emotion far beyond his years. It was as if the keyboard itself had transformed into a grand piano under his touch. I was moved to my core, completely overwhelmed by the brilliance and grace of this young boy’s talent.

Joseph approached with his usual easy stride, a smile playing on his lips. “I see you’ve met Robat!” he said casually, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to find a child prodigy playing a keyboard in the middle of the camp. “I like this new piece, Robat! Hello, my friend,” he added, giving the boy a hand shake.

It was clear that Joseph wasn’t fazed by Robat’s extraordinary talent; to him, this was just another gifted kid from the camp, another incredible story in a place full of them. He had known Robat since he was born and had seen him grow up surrounded by the camp’s resilience and creativity. This place was teeming with talent—music, art, storytelling—and to Joseph, Robat was simply a part of that vibrant tapestry. Robat is now an international star, immensely famous and celebrated region-wide. It’s wild to think that I knew him when he was barely in double digits. But because his talent was in the arts, he was one of the fortunate ones who was able to make a good living doing what he wanted and loved. 

Joseph turned to me with a gentle smile. “Come on, April, want to go to the grocery store? I need to pick up some things for my mom to make us dinner. If it’s okay with you, we’ll just lay low and stay in the camp today.”

I nodded, feeling a wave of relief. “Yes, that sounds great.” I slipped off my UGG boots and swapped them for flip-flops, grabbed my bag, and prepared to get into the car. 

But Joseph stopped me with a chuckle. “We’ll just walk,” he said.

I was surprised. The camp sat on a hill, perched above the highway like a hidden world next to a five-star hotel. All the stores and boutiques were at the bottom of the hill, a long trek away. I hesitated, thinking about the distance, but Joseph didn’t blink an eye. So, we began our walk through the camp, winding our way through narrow paths and makeshift streets.

Joseph couldn’t go two feet without being stopped, greeted, congratulated, or adored. People of all ages approached him with smiles and warm embraces, their eyes lighting up as they saw him. It was clear that he was revered here, treated like a prodigal son who had returned from another universe with stories no one else could tell. There was a sense of awe and admiration in the way they spoke to him, a respect that went beyond mere friendship.

I was struck by how effortlessly he navigated these interactions, so comfortable in this space that felt so foreign to me. As I walked beside him, I couldn’t help but feel a bit shy, almost self-conscious about being the American at his side. I was acutely aware of how different I must seem to everyone here, but Joseph made me feel like I belonged, like I was a part of his world. His presence was like a warm blanket that wrapped around me, making me feel safe and at ease, even in the most unfamiliar of places. 

With each step, I found myself falling deeper into the rhythm of the camp, guided by Joseph’s confidence and the gentle tug of his hand as he led me through the maze of his life.

Joseph took a sharp turn into a narrow alley and swung open a small wooden door. I was caught off guard, unsure of what was happening until we stepped inside. The place didn’t look like any grocery store I’d ever seen. It was more like the local camp market, packed with everything imaginable: cigarettes, juice, feminine products, sauces, spices, toilet paper, vegetables, fruits, candy, chips, batteries—you name it, it was crammed in there. The only thing missing was meat, which I’d later learn you got from the butcher just down another alley.

“Hey, Joseph!” the shopkeeper called out, launching into a flurry of Arabic that I couldn’t understand, I only picked up certain tidbits. Something about Joseph’s travels to America, the TV show On the Road to America, and how he liked living in Hollywood. He even asked if Joseph had hung out with Arnold Schwarzenegger and Brad Pitt in the Hollywood Hills. I caught that part and couldn’t help but laugh. 

“No,” Joseph replied with a grin, “just Johnny Depp.” I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or just joking around, and that only added to the mystery of him.

The shopkeeper handed Joseph the spices his mom needed for dinner and wished him well, asking if she could save him a slice of the pie she was making. “Yes, of course,” Joseph replied with a smile. As we were heading out of the store, Joseph bumped into a very old woman with sheer white hair and ice blue eyes like a wolf. She gave off a vibe like something straight out of a Grimm’s fairy tale—a bruja with an air of mystery and ancient wisdom. 

Joseph greeted her respectfully, and I noticed his whole demeanor shift in a way I hadn’t seen before. There was a wild, almost reverent respect in the way he bowed his head and spoke to her, a quiet acknowledgment of her presence and power. It reminded me of how the Lakota back in South Dakota treated the Medicine Men during their ceremonies. I had been fortunate enough to witness some incredibly powerful ceremonies out on the Rosebud Reservation. 

I had the privilege of helping bring a herd of wild bison back from Catalina Island to their homeland on the reservation—a sacred act that held profound meaning for the Lakota people. The return of the bison wasn’t just a physical journey; it was spiritual, a reconnection to their heritage and a renewal of ancient traditions. During this incredible experience, I had the honor of meeting Leonard Crow Dog, the renowned medicine man and symbol of resistance during the Lakota takeover of Wounded Knee in ‘73.

They had brought sacred red dirt from the Black Hills for the bison to step on as they returned to their rightful land. While filming, I found myself kneeling on the ground, and by the time I stood up, my knees and pants were covered in that sacred ochre dust. Crow Dog noticed me right away—whether it was the red-streaked knees or the universe's sense of humor, painting me in their sacred earth, I’ll never know. But he seemed to take it as a sign, and before I knew it, I was being invited to join the ceremony to welcome the bison back.

The ceremony was intense and profound, filled with the rhythmic beating of drums, the scent of burning sage, and the low, melodic chants of the elders. The Medicine Men, dressed in simple jeans and ribbon shirts with a few sacred feathers, moved with a grace and authority that seemed to bridge the gap between the physical and spiritual worlds. I remember the soft touch of feathers being brushed along my face and back, and then the room seemed to dissolve into darkness, transforming into a sky full of stars. As the chanting continued, I began to see visions, each more vivid than the last. There was an electric energy in the air, a palpable sense of history and tradition flowing through every word and gesture. The elders and Medicine Men were treated with the utmost respect, seen as living vessels of wisdom and tradition. It was clear that their roles were not just ceremonial but integral to the spiritual and cultural fabric of the community.

Watching Joseph interact with this old woman took me back to that incredible moment I was so fortunate to have witnessed as an outsider. 

There was the same reverence in his voice, the same recognition of a living connection to the past. Here, too, was an elder whose presence commanded respect, whose life held stories and wisdom essential to the community. In that brief exchange, I glimpsed the depth and complexity of Joseph’s world—a place where the past and present, the sacred and the everyday, were always intertwined.

We stepped back into the alley, the cool air hitting my skin, and I felt the hair on my arms stand on end. Something about that encounter had left me unsettled. “Who was that?” I whispered, almost afraid to ask.

“Oh, that’s Al Raji,” Joseph said casually, as if her presence was as normal as a shopkeeper or neighbor. “She’s the fortune storyteller here.”

“The what?!” I asked, more than a little curious.

“She reads your future,” he said with a slight smile, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking.

“Oh.” I tried to play it cool, but my mind was racing. A fortune teller? Here in the camp? The thought sent a shiver down my spine. 

“You want to get your future read?” Joseph asked, a playful glint in his eye.

I felt a strange mix of fear and excitement bubbling up inside me. There was something about being in this place, so far from everything I knew, that made me feel like I should embrace the unknown. 

“I guess now’s as good a time as any,” I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. “Sure, why the heck not!” My curiosity was getting the better of me, and I couldn’t help but wonder what Al Raji might see in my future—or if I was ready to hear it.