On Hospitality

The experience of spending a few weeks abroad in the Global South—whether in the Middle East, Africa, Latin America, or Asia—very often elicits from Westerners like me a sense of astonishment at how individuals who live on very little, with per capita incomes a tiny fraction of our own, are so generous toward relative strangers. That reaction—“they have so little, but they’re so happy, and so willing to share”—has become almost a cliché, the customary tribute to the hospitality that is so engrained in the culture of most of the world but not (at least not to the same extent) in the United States.

Having recently returned from three weeks in the Middle East, I find myself reflecting again on the theme of hospitality. I’d often be asked where I was from; given my country’s reputation in the region, I considered lying, but when I responded honestly that I was from the United States, I was almost invariably greeted with a “you are welcome.” That phrase was more than empty words: despite the fact that I could barely mumble “hello” in Arabic, individuals previously unknown to me went out of their way over and over again to make me feel welcome. I’ve never been offered so many cups of mint-infused tea and cardamom-laced coffee as in the three weeks I spent in Jordan, Egypt, and Palestine. Food, likewise, was placed in front of me in such abundant supply that more than once I stuffed myself with the appetizers, unaware that there were plates full of meat on the way.

The Bedouin—the nomadic indigenous people of the region, many of whom continue to live in simple tents in the desert, with fewer material trappings than anyone I have ever encountered in all my globetrotting—perhaps exemplify this hospitality best. Their tradition, we were told, was to provide food and lodging to any stranger for three days without even asking the person’s name. While I did not test out the three day rule, my brief visits to Bedouin camps in both the Sinai Peninsula and in southern Jordan inspired my admiration for these strong, quintessentially hospitable people.

Back in the United States, hospitality means something very different. We call our friends hospitable when they serve us a nice meal or allow us to stay overnight in their guest bedroom. Real hospitality, though, if we trace its etymology, means not just kindness toward our friends, but “loving the stranger.” Many faith traditions uphold this idea—my own faith teaches that, by welcoming in a stranger, I might unknowingly be entertaining angels, or even Christ himself. If we’re honest, though, many of us would not even answer the door if a stranger came knocking, and we’re more likely to call the police than to offer a total stranger a bed to sleep on and a hot meal. We have a lot to learn from the Arab culture and its focus on hospitality.

I’ve encountered this sort of hospitality in other parts of the world—in the Philippines, in Nicaragua, in Cuba—but what really struck me in Jordan, and captured my imagination, was the way that hospitality there goes beyond the interpersonal level and is practiced at the societal and governmental levels. In the wake of the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948, which many Arabs consider “the catastrophe,” Jordan began receiving into its borders thousands upon thousands of displaced Palestinian refugees. Three score later, these Palestinian refugees and their children have actually become more numerous in Jordan than “native” Jordanians. Jordan granted most of these refugees citizenship, and, while holding out hope that they will one day return to their homeland, the Palestinian people have gradually integrated into Jordanian society, enriching it in many ways but also placing further stress on limited water and food resources. While not entirely without tension—a small percentage of the Palestinians, those who fled Gaza in 1967, are still not citizens, and Palestinians are actually under-represented in Jordanian democracy due to their concentration in the capital city—the kingdom of Jordan has, for the most part, received the Palestinian people as brothers and sisters.

It is almost incomprehensible to imagine the United States—or any Western country—responding to a parallel situation in similar fashion. Suppose that, nearly overnight, the First Nations people of Canada, upset that their land was taken from them centuries ago by European colonists, successfully lobbied for and received a mandate from the United Nations to expel all Canadians of European descent, such that most of Canada’s 34 million citizens poured over their southern border into the United States. While most Americans do not have a particular antipathy toward the Canadian people—we share many cultural similarities and a common language, just as the Palestinians do with the Jordanians—Americans would not possibly tolerate such a huge number of new refugees. We think ourselves generous to accept 80,000 refugees per year, and even that is not without grumblings from certain circles that refugees are stealing jobs from Americans.

The Jordanian society presumed (and hoped) that their reception of Palestinian refugees would be temporary—and continue to hold on to that hope—but, in the meantime, they have folded most Palestinians into their political system. Imagine the potential effect—and the outcry—if the U.S. were to naturalize almost all Canadians into American citizens and voters, skewing electoral politics in favor programs like the government-run healthcare system that is popular in Canada but, as the recent healthcare debate in the United States has demonstrated, would not presently please a majority of Americans.

While Americans may think of themselves as generous, we could learn a lot from a society like Jordan. Those of us who recognize hospitality as a virtue would do well to strive to live it—both on a personal level and as a society.