Manners meant a lot to Mr. Kuffiyeh. He had always had his standards to which he aspires. He had his high standards he’s always been doing his utmost to live by. Although he realizes that there’s nothing that can be perfect for reasons he’d never discussed or had spoken about to anyone on this planet. He was an optimistic pessimist or rather, a pessimistic optimist
Mr. Kuffiyeh has had his own theory which states that one should stay optimistically pessimist as for the world has and always will be nothing but a complicated mixture of both, besides many other things. In other words, he’d believed that one should look at and/or think about matters in life half full half empty. Not to hang your hopes high up in the stars nor dig deep down to the center of the earth and burry them. If it happens so be it. If not, so be it. Life goes on and ones gotta make the most out of it. Life is too short to look back. Look up to things and work hard to achieve your goal. But more importantly, enjoy every moment you live because the moment that passes by never comes back.
To him, life has always been very difficult to understand. So instead, he’d just enjoys life however possible taking into account the extraordinary limitations that has controlled his life, and others’, under this brutal, unmerciful occupation raping everything that moves on the land. The holy land.
Apart from politics, which Mr. Kuffiyeh had always hated and had found very complicated, very horribly mind and soul corrupting, he’d look at it from a humanitarian perspective. Reading the newspaper every morning at the university’s cafeteria. Eyes staring at photos of dirty politicians sitting together for a meeting for a reason or another, photos of old women crying after having the inhuman Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) demolishing their house in which she and her family had lived through thick and thin. His mind absorbs the ugly prints on each and every page of the newspaper struggling to resist getting brainwashed. Blood boiling. Tomato red face. Big red eyes. Shaking hands. This is what happens to him whenever he’d read the newspaper. Angrily folding the newspaper and throwing it away swearing and cursing at the brutal acts of IDF wishing he could do something about it.
Minutes later, he forgets what had had him very angry. Folds his legs. Grabs his cold hot Turkish coffee cup he’d forgotten to touch during the time his eyes would almost bleed from what he’d see daily in a newspaper, TV or Internet. Grabs his antique lighter, and a cigarette he’d put between his reddish lips. ‘click-click .. Inhale .. Exhale in utmost boredom’. ‘O’ dear God what has happened people in this world. They’d stepped over their souls. Committing massacres. Killing innocent people. My people. O’ dear God is there going to be an end to this? Is it when the final judgment day comes?’
Many people call him Mr. Kuffiyeh. Even more people, know him by that name. Only friends and relatives had called him with his real name, Nader. His name means rare or unusual in English. Something everybody had seen from him by far. He’d always amaze those around by the way he talks and acts. Do things that had never crossed the mind of none of them. Seeing Nader for the first time, one could swear he has nothing to do with life. Calm and quiet unlike the rest.
The only time you could see Nader up to something that has to do with learning would be during lectures. He’d go straight ahead to class right on time and leaves the class when it’s over. Spending most of the time in the cafe surrounded by tens of students from all faculties, Nader had made good use of his ears by listening to ten conversations at the same time. Cracking up at the stupid things he hears from those surrounding. Looking at them analyzing their moves trying to figure out whether they’re lying, making up stories, or spicing ones up.
He would look and think about how very contrastingly interesting each and everyone’s style in clothes and colors. Their body language and eye contact. Even the smallest of details he’d pay attention to. Not believing in manly perfection, he never tries being a perfectionist. For the reason why he never believes in neither, man was created imperfect which means that trying to be or being a perfectionist can be and is a very exhausting way of living given that life is too short for these things.
His small head -compared to others’ in the cafeteria- had countless of thoughts regarding many different things in a variety of aspects. Digging deep into his memory, he could barely remember scenes of happy moments. He’d always stop and think of why did such happy moments stored in his memory are barely clear anymore. What had happened to the people to act in such a way. No manners, no guidance, no rules. His memory was more like a jungle and people were the animals inhabiting.