Story of the Month

My story of the month is the story of getting little Moira's birth certificate. As we left the hospital we were assured by the very official looking security guard that we did not need to get a Palestinian birth certificate but simply needed to go to the American consulate to obtain an American birth certificate.

Unfortunately, a little research on the American consulate website revealed that no American birth certificate would be given unless the official Palestinian birth certificate was present. So begins the story of the Palestinian birth certificate.

About a week after her birth, Moira, Angel, Angel's mom, and I drove back to Bethlehem with only a vague concept of where we were going. You see, the Palestinian Authority has no website with directions to guide you to where you need to go—just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to how things operate over here.

After finding a parking spot in the general area (a small miracle), I left the girls in the car and began walking down the street in the direction I thought I should be going. After about 50 yards I stopped to ask a man on the side of the road for directions. He insisted that I was in the wrong part of town and that no such building existed there. Believing he was mistaken, I continued to walk until I was out of eyesight from him and then ducked into another shop. After about five minutes of confused conversation in "Arabish" (a mixture of English and Arabic words) I learned that I was across the street from where I needed to be.

The Palestinian Authority's Ministry of Interior offices were in a concrete building set back from the main street. There were no signs in the building, so I once again did what I'm starting to get used to as the only way to figure things out: I walked into a random office and began asking if anyone speaks English. At this point I learned that the Palestinian Authority is completely opposite from the way a US government office would work: they are completely disorganized but very friendly about it.

Having been pointed in the right direction I jumped in the "Arab line" by pushing my way to the front desk and doing my best to catch the eye of the next available clerk. I successfully got a clerk to help me who told me I needed copies of multiple documents as well as some Jordanian stamps to complete the process. He said I could go outside to get this done and when I asked for more detailed directions he just pointed out the window.

Not sure if he meant outside that office or outside the building, I headed down the stairs and started asking around about where I could get copies. A very friendly guy came up to me and told me I was in the wrong place and said he would show me where to go. After learning that I was from Chicago, he threw his arm around my neck and told me he had grown up on Chicago's south side. We walked up the stairs in this embrace where he pointed me to another office and wished me luck with a handshake.

Once again I commenced the ignorant tourist persona and began searching for some help. The next man I met told me I was in the wrong place and that I needed to go outside to a little store down the street. When I arrived in this store I found that all of its business was built around their copying machine. I also found that they did not speak any English. With the help of another local I explained what I needed and the woman working at the store began making copies.

This simple process came to a halt when they looked at Angel's passport and began complimenting her beauty in Arabic. Well aware of my wife's beauty and also knowledgeable of the Arabic word for beautiful, I thanked them for their compliments. This simple comment put the whole store in a tizzy as they exclaimed, "He knows Arabic!" I insisted that I only knew a little, thanked them for their help, and headed back to the PA, but not before declining the cup of coffee that had been offered to me by one of the men at the store.

I only had to go back and forth between the PA offices and this little store two more times before I had everything I needed. It then came time to make sure that the birth certificate had been printed properly. The tradition over here is to give children their father's name as their middle name followed by their grandfather's name. I did my best to tell them that this is not the tradition in America but they insisted it was either their way or no birth certificate. Not wanted to forfeit all of my work, I temporarily gave my daughter her full Arab name - Moira Jo Nicholas Donald Conner.

We have since been to the American Consulate and our baby is officially an American citizen and her name has been returned to our original name of choice.