FIRST PERSON | What I learned hosting a Jordanian exchange student in my home

Here in the United States, politics are fraying the bonds between families and among friends. How then can strangers of profoundly different backgrounds stand a chance of getting along?

This wasn’t an abstract question for me. It was a concrete concern as I readied our house for a homestay visit of a college exchange student from Jordan.

From the brief biography we received, I knew Abdel observed halal dietary restrictions and did not drink alcohol. In the days before his arrival, my husband and I excitedly planned menus and outings. I imagined topics to discuss — family, customs and life in Jordan.

Then, it occurred to me: We’d eventually talk about the fighting in the Middle East. How would we navigate that topic, coming at it from such wildly different backgrounds?

Then, a second thought: I knew our guest was Muslim, but did he know I was Jewish?

My concern was mostly for him, a 20-year-old, religiously observant, first-time visitor to the U.S. How would he feel staying with Jews? We were fine. We were adults, who had willingly opened our home, but how about him?

Would he, who had merely been assigned a random housing slot, feel blindsided, uncomfortable, overwhelmed or, God forbid, hostile? If he was hostile, would we really be “fine”? Would we all be able to manage his time at our house, or would his stay with us end before the allotted time? What if he refused to stay?

At first excited, I now felt nervous and unsure.

I contacted the exchange program director, who reaffirmed that the whole point of a cultural exchange program was dialogue and education. More specifically, he affirmed that Abdel was “cool” and could handle the religious issue.

So, it was all systems go.

The night before Abdel’s arrival, I stepped into the guest room to do a final balaboosta dusting and pillow fluffing when I saw it — or more precisely — didn’t see it.

Where once behind the bed hung three rows of my beloved record album covers, framed in a perfect grid, now hung only two rows. An entire row was missing and the five holes in the wall patched.

“What the …?” I gasped, bewildered.

Without discussion and for reasons unclear, my husband had “destroyed” my prized record collection display. This was decorating blasphemy!

I stomped/clomped down the hall, heart pounding in a roaring rage, to demand an explanation.

Glancing up from the TV, Jon laughed gently and said, “Oh, sorry. I forgot to tell you. One of your albums struck me as a bridge too far for our guest. You know the Jewish comedy record with the scantily clad woman on the cover? It just seemed so culturally insensitive. So I took it down, but that messed up the design. So, finally, I took down the whole row. I promise I’ll put them up right away when Abdel leaves.”

The “offending” album was “Jewish Comedy Songs” by the Barton Brothers, a postwar Yinglish comedy duo. The record had belonged to my parents. Putting aside the title, the image of the nearly naked babe had, in fact, mortified me as a child. So I can just imagine what our five-times-a-day praying guest would have thought!

I apologized to my husband and praised him for spotting the questionable “art.”

As for the visit with our young Jordanian guest? We had a lot of fun showing him around our community, discovering similarities between our cultures and cuisines, talking about family life, work, culture and religion. I even had a giggly conversation with Abdel’s mother in Amman via FaceTime — although she darted offscreen when my husband walked over to say hello since she wasn’t wearing her hijab.

On Adel’s last morning with us, we finally talked about the Middle East. “Are you sure we should?” Abdel asked, raising a worried eyebrow.

Our views were, not unexpectedly, wildly divergent. Abdel told me Hamas was not “as bad” as we in the West are being told, and that he believes Israelis do not want a two-state solution.

We listened to each other’s views respectfully, holding our tempers and tongues when necessary. Obviously, this 70-year-old Jew and the 20-year-old son of a Palestinian refugee father were not going to alter each other’s opinions over one breakfast of scrambled eggs, turkey bacon and toast.

But at least we proved calm debate could occur. We also proved that two families — even via FaceTime and translation — could find common ground over shared recipes, love of children and belief in the value of education and hard work.

Our young friend has since returned home. We have exchanged emails. Abdel wants to return here for work next summer. And my record album wall grid has been restored … at least until then.

There is no grand moral to this story. All that can be said is that a friendship was formed. Domestic life goes on for two families — one Muslim in Jordan and one Jewish in America. Meanwhile, war wages on in the Middle East.