I dreamt of home, it’s becoming a memory for me. There was a time when I lived a ‘normal’ life. Things were clean, things were organized; and I did not have to worry about explaining my past, nationality or reasons for doing things to others. There was an unspoken history between myself and my family and friends. There were no culture clashes, homesickness or thoughts of when I would return ‘home’.
Once upon a time I lived in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, USA. Friday nights involved making plans for a Southside Crawl and wondering if I could hold strong and make it to Bar 11 for the obligatory Long Island Iced Tea. Even a weathered Irish man would be astonished by the amount of alcohol I consumed. O Fries and Primanti Brothers sandwiches were a treat. Visiting my grandmother was a weekly tradition and fighting with my mother seemed to be a mandatory daily occurrence. Having to drive a car to work from 9-5 was the norm; paying $20 for a good meal was not such a bad deal. I supported the goal of my best friend getting married and promised I would be there for the wedding day. I spoke with a Pittsburgh accent and dreamed of the day I would finally leave the ‘City of Bridges’. The Middle East was a location on the map, a place of violence, wars and hatred towards the West.
I now live in the Middle East, and know that it’s not just a location on a map; rather it’s an intricate mix of people, cultures and languages brought together in the same geographic location. I see the violence and wars just I saw them in the United States, on television. My image of hatred has been replaced by experiences of relentless hospitality and curiosity of who I am and where I am from. Being American is identified by a passport, and explaining why I think a certain way is lost in translation.
I have left the City of Bridges; I now live in the ‘Pearl of Arabia’…otherwise known as Yemen. Fridays involve hearing the local Imam at the mosque with the call for prayer and there is no Southside, let alone alcohol. Beer drinking and Long Island Iced Teas have been replaced with sheesha smoking and qat. Friday has become the Sunday in that the work week begins the next day on Saturday.
Visits with my grandmother live now only in my memory along the rosary beads I took from here funeral. If I have the chance to fight with my mother it happens at the most once a week and involves dialing international. Planning for my best friend’s wedding is done through emails and phone calls with bad connections and cut short by too little phone credit. I have no car, and I would have a suicide wish or masochistic desire if I were to drive here. I would seriously flip if I were to pay more than $5 for a decent meal. I have some crazy pseudo-British accent from time spent with foreigners and not speaking English.
I used to worry about my clothes, what I looked like in public. Now, I wake in the morning and conceal my pajamas with my abeya when I leave the comfort of my air conditioned home. It doesn’t matter if my hair is clean or dirty; styled or unbrushed; long or short; because it is wrapped in a headscarf, hiding it from the public eye. Women’s legs, arms and faces are concealed in sheer flowing cloth, even on the most blistering of heat days. Men wear skirts and no one blinks an eye, nevertheless if one were to wear shorts a line of curious spectators would form wondering why they would choose to wear that.
CNN has been replaced by Al Jazeera. Fruits and vegetables are bought by the kilo at a corner produce stand, sometimes at 2 am; no more Farmer’s Market waxed apples bought with a two for one special at Giant Eagle. A caffeine fix is a complimentary Turkish coffee served in a porcelain cup, so much richer, yet so much more basic than the double soy grande skim latte that cost $5 and is served ‘to go’ in a foam cup. Regardless of fixed price tags, the price can always be negotiated.
Church bells do not ring, even if they did they would be drowned out by the five daily calls to prayer reminding everyone that Allah is greatest and the Prophet Mohammed, his messenger, has written this for us in a sacred book. Praying does not occur privately or just on Saturdays or Sundays, praying here happens everywhere whether it be in a mosque, in a home or on a prayer rug in the corner of a grocery store.
So I ask myself, when does all this become normal? When do I stop comparing myself to others and realize that I am one of them? When does a language so unfamiliar and cryptic become easy to understand? I love it. I’ve changed. If I compared myself to myself ten years ago, I would not know her. I have come a long way since that time not so long ago when I was a curious teenager living in the Northeastern United States. The experiences, people and places I have had the opportunity to encounter can not be expressed in words nor replicated on film. They exist only in a continuous movie played only in my memory.
As I gain more of these experiences I am beginning to realize that life is a series of events meshed together in a bittersweet symphony that no one will ever be able to capture in shape or form.
And so I continue to live and absorb these experiences, for what purpose I am still attempting, if ever, to comprehend…
