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I've met Muhannad three times now. Since seeing him today at my local bookstore, I've wondered if our meetings were Fate, for all three meetings were accidents. He is an exchange student from Palestine.

It's easy for us to be friendly, for some reason. Maybe we just "click," as they say. He is the only Arab that I know.

Though we've only met three times, those three times have produced long conversations. While Muhannad came here to study and to better understand the West, he isn't a big fan of it. He sees the West as an extraordinarily vain and materialistic society that worships power, money and celebrities.

I have to admit that he has a point.

He doesn't support Osama Bin Laden, for he believes that the true Muslim seeks peace. Yet he is wary of Christians.

If it came as a relief for Muhannad to discover that I'm not Christian, he doesn't show it. He might be more wary of me, for I don't believe in any kind of deity. I'm not sure.

My uncertainty, I think, is understandable. I come from America, and I speak with the slow drawl of the American South. I've never had direct contact with an Arab before, so I can't read him. His tone of voice, mannerisms and facial expressions are almost alien to me.

Yet, so are mine to him.

It's always seemed that those from up north ridicule those of us below the Mason-Dixon Line. Apparently, we're supposed to be dumb hicks. At least I don't have to deal with that from Muhannad. To him, north and south mean completely different things.

Can we be true friends? I don't know. Our talks haven't determined that yet.

I can see why Arabs would be wary of Christians, though, given their history. After all, the Crusades built a lasting memory. My Christian ancestors raped, tortured and killed his Muslim ancestors. Yet my Christian ancestors did the same to my Native American ancestors, so I can understand to a point.

The memories of an individual fade over time. But the memories of a culture never fade; they pass through the very genes that build us.

But I see now, more clearly than before, that Muhannad and I aren't that different. He can look to the west and see the Atlantic. I can see the Atlantic, too, only that I look from a different direction.

I am from the woodlands, and he is from the desert. But the earth we stand on is of the same mold. The air we breathe is the same, only slightly altered because of different environs and diverse human activity. We drink the same water. My blood is red; so is his.

In the end, Muhannad and I are simply

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