Do you know your neighbour?

I once found myself in a desperate need of a hand blender. What seemed to be a very promising soup on Jerusalem artichokes was boiling on my stove, spreading a wonderful smell that reached every corner of my tiny flat. It was time to add the finishing touch, but in my search for the hand blender I realised that I have never owned one. The thought of having to give up my soup and eat porridge or dry bread for dinner instead made me do the almost unthinkable: I knocked on my neighbour's door to ask her if she had a blender I could borrow. I had lived there for more than half a year. This was the first time we met.

Knocking on an unknown neighbour's door to borrow a silly piece of kitchen supplies wasn't easy. I remember going through an inner struggle, considering the do's and dont's that are implicit within the Danish culture. A culture in which people are used to taking the safe approach and minding their own business instead of sharing their thoughts, emotions, and needs. Instead of overtly showing that they do care for the person next door.

In Denmark, we often blame the long, dark and cold winter for our inverted and slightly cold behaviour towards each other. Maybe there is something to it. The warmth and the unlimited hospitality of the Palestinian people definately seems to be as persistent and reliable as the hot Middle Eastern summer.

Last night I went to buy some water at the local store just beside my home. I never got to buy the water, but was invited to stay and have a cold drink with the owner and his two daughters, Abiir and and Dina. We talked for at least an hour. About my stay in Palestine, about their lives and my life. When it was time to close the store, I was invited to join them for a cup of Arabic coffee at a funfair located on a hill top in Ramallah. We had almost reached the fair, when Djamila, the oldest daughter in the family, called her father on the phone and decided that she would like to meet me too. We went back to the centre to pick up her and her six months' old baby Anass and, unable to make room for more people in the car, it was time to head back to the funfair. Within a few hours I got to know my neighbour in Ramallah better than the one in Denmark.

The Arabic phrase for welcome is 'ahlen wa sahlen'. Literally, 'ahlen' means that you are considered family and 'sahlen' expresses the hope that you will find it comfortable setting foot on the land. I am met with unnummerable 'ahlen wa sahlen's every day - and I truly feel welcome. I feel gratitude simply for being here, in Palestine, recognising both the beauty and the struggle of this country and its people.