(no subject)
When I left my childhood home, I didn't shed a single tear. Those old walls onto which I scrawled my name and painted childish murals held no sentimental value whatsoever.
When I was in America, I felt for the first time (despite having travelled many times before, but never this far or for this long) that the land I lived on was something to be missed; I didn't care about the old villa in the sleepy little neighborhood, which became a site of very unfamiliar violence as protesters attacked their neighbors and police opened fire in my absence, all I worried about was my family still living in that house, but I also missed my country.
Now, as I sit in the bus that takes me through this new city's perilous streets, dozing off while the uneven roads rock me and I can feel the familiar weight of my books, softened by my backpack, sinking into my lap, I think that nowhere else would I feel so peaceful with the looming threat of possible car accidents as a constant companion.
I'm roused from my half-sleep, thrown against the back of the front passenger seat to the right of the driver's, while he shouts in Egyptian Arabic at the offending automobile's driver that he ought to "go out in sixty calamities." Of course, the insult is just as Egyptian as the old man tasked with driving us. No other foreigner can navigate these meaningless roads, far more dangerous and disorderly than anywhere else in the very same Kingdom, with the efficiency and artistry of Egyptians and Indians. To Egypt's eternally congested roads and India's lawless roads, these roads are a close relative who's moved a bit far from home.
I am about to doze off again, but when I shift my position while trying to get comfortable, I find myself instead looking out the tinted windows of my bus. They appear black from the outside, rendering the passengers invisible. This is common for automobiles carrying a family or female students; it provides the passengers with the freedom to take off their hijab for the long trip or sit in whatever way they're more accustomed to, like sitting in an impressive tarbee'ah (sitting with legs crossed in front of you) on the small seats. My father's car is not tinted, but we're used to sitting with our feet on the floor and never fuss with our headscarves. Many of the girls in my bus prefer it this way. It provides more freedom, comfort, and privacy... so they say, before opening the window a crack on trips home, tie their headscarves to hide everything but their eyes and poke their fingers through the cracks and waggle them, sometimes in front of their faces to make "octopus faces" while making ghostly sounds to spook other drivers. I try to warn them, telling them I'm scared they might frighten a driver with a dodgy heart and cause an accident, but I always end up laughing too much at their stunts to convince them.
Right now, it's morning, so the girls are sleeping on the trip to college, some with headscarves thrown over their faces for extra privacy or quietly texting.
I look out and see the city, tinted brown by the covered glass, which makes even the most blinding white days rusted-brown and bearable. This city is filled with litter in ludicrous amounts that I truly believe that no one will ever peel back all those layers. There's simply too much! In the neighborhood I lived before and in the cities surrounding it, the occasional plastic bag is all you see, flapping uselessly on the road, and sometimes old cassettes and Pepsi bottles and cans. Here, the amount of trash is both depressing and impressive.
What this city has in spades that my old home never had, as if trying to make up for the muck and grime, are artistic statues and other works of art, like a dome that lights up in coordinated rainbow colours. Out of the window, I can see the familiar, but confusing-as-ever, statue that resembles a long, hollowed-out rectangle with neighing horses' (or are they searhorses?) heads jutting out at odd angles while a boat sail tears out of the top. There's also a ring of birds that I usually see on my way home, but I didn't see it today.
The first thing that greeted my family and I when we stepped out of the airport and entered this city was the smell of human waste. This Kingdom's old shame and this city's... claim to fame is the fact that its infrastructure is horrifically flawed and it was cheated out of a proper sewage system years ago. This is why this city is so dangerous when it rains, why its people become paranoid of bloated, rain-laden clouds and lock themselves up in their homes, refusing to step outside. All attempts to drain this city of excess rainwater are met with failure.
These poky, uneven streets and the deathtrap buildings of the poorer districts have very stubborn tenants: it's a perfect hiding place for illegal immigrants, workers whose VISAs have long expired, and pilgrims-who-chose-to-stay-after-Hajj, because the police would prefer to avoid coming near those old buildings.
Still, through all of this, I think this city is beautiful.
The people are warm, perhaps more creatively rude than in other parts of Saudi Arabia with their insults, but also relaxed and so much more understanding than anywhere else in the world.
Asking for something while invoking God's name is sometimes all it takes to soften hearts and be granted what you ask for. They will say "rules, protocol, this is what is supposed to happen," but, more-often-than-not, they will forgive you once ("this is the last time!"), twice ("you've said it before, this time, I hope you mean it!"), even thrice...
The people here are very mixed, because we're so close to Makkah. Some like myself, born of pilgrim's leftovers, like my father's family who accepted Saudi passports and Saudi nationality back when the Kingdom was desparate for more citizens. "Who wants Saudi citizenship? Who wants Saudi citizenship?!"
Others are foreigners who come using VISAs to study.
I look at them and their varying appearances, skin and hair in so many different shades and colours, and I wonder where people get the idea of what a typical Arab looks like! Syrians look so white, some are even blonde with lightly-coloured eyes... Egyptians run the full gamut from pale-skinned and blonde to "swarthy" and black/brown-haired.
Then, there's the Ehtiopian girls, the various South-East Asian girls... so much variety!
I do not think I could possibly be happier or more at peace anywhere else in the world.
When I was in America, I felt for the first time (despite having travelled many times before, but never this far or for this long) that the land I lived on was something to be missed; I didn't care about the old villa in the sleepy little neighborhood, which became a site of very unfamiliar violence as protesters attacked their neighbors and police opened fire in my absence, all I worried about was my family still living in that house, but I also missed my country.
Now, as I sit in the bus that takes me through this new city's perilous streets, dozing off while the uneven roads rock me and I can feel the familiar weight of my books, softened by my backpack, sinking into my lap, I think that nowhere else would I feel so peaceful with the looming threat of possible car accidents as a constant companion.
I'm roused from my half-sleep, thrown against the back of the front passenger seat to the right of the driver's, while he shouts in Egyptian Arabic at the offending automobile's driver that he ought to "go out in sixty calamities." Of course, the insult is just as Egyptian as the old man tasked with driving us. No other foreigner can navigate these meaningless roads, far more dangerous and disorderly than anywhere else in the very same Kingdom, with the efficiency and artistry of Egyptians and Indians. To Egypt's eternally congested roads and India's lawless roads, these roads are a close relative who's moved a bit far from home.
I am about to doze off again, but when I shift my position while trying to get comfortable, I find myself instead looking out the tinted windows of my bus. They appear black from the outside, rendering the passengers invisible. This is common for automobiles carrying a family or female students; it provides the passengers with the freedom to take off their hijab for the long trip or sit in whatever way they're more accustomed to, like sitting in an impressive tarbee'ah (sitting with legs crossed in front of you) on the small seats. My father's car is not tinted, but we're used to sitting with our feet on the floor and never fuss with our headscarves. Many of the girls in my bus prefer it this way. It provides more freedom, comfort, and privacy... so they say, before opening the window a crack on trips home, tie their headscarves to hide everything but their eyes and poke their fingers through the cracks and waggle them, sometimes in front of their faces to make "octopus faces" while making ghostly sounds to spook other drivers. I try to warn them, telling them I'm scared they might frighten a driver with a dodgy heart and cause an accident, but I always end up laughing too much at their stunts to convince them.
Right now, it's morning, so the girls are sleeping on the trip to college, some with headscarves thrown over their faces for extra privacy or quietly texting.
I look out and see the city, tinted brown by the covered glass, which makes even the most blinding white days rusted-brown and bearable. This city is filled with litter in ludicrous amounts that I truly believe that no one will ever peel back all those layers. There's simply too much! In the neighborhood I lived before and in the cities surrounding it, the occasional plastic bag is all you see, flapping uselessly on the road, and sometimes old cassettes and Pepsi bottles and cans. Here, the amount of trash is both depressing and impressive.
What this city has in spades that my old home never had, as if trying to make up for the muck and grime, are artistic statues and other works of art, like a dome that lights up in coordinated rainbow colours. Out of the window, I can see the familiar, but confusing-as-ever, statue that resembles a long, hollowed-out rectangle with neighing horses' (or are they searhorses?) heads jutting out at odd angles while a boat sail tears out of the top. There's also a ring of birds that I usually see on my way home, but I didn't see it today.
The first thing that greeted my family and I when we stepped out of the airport and entered this city was the smell of human waste. This Kingdom's old shame and this city's... claim to fame is the fact that its infrastructure is horrifically flawed and it was cheated out of a proper sewage system years ago. This is why this city is so dangerous when it rains, why its people become paranoid of bloated, rain-laden clouds and lock themselves up in their homes, refusing to step outside. All attempts to drain this city of excess rainwater are met with failure.
These poky, uneven streets and the deathtrap buildings of the poorer districts have very stubborn tenants: it's a perfect hiding place for illegal immigrants, workers whose VISAs have long expired, and pilgrims-who-chose-to-stay-after-Hajj, because the police would prefer to avoid coming near those old buildings.
Still, through all of this, I think this city is beautiful.
The people are warm, perhaps more creatively rude than in other parts of Saudi Arabia with their insults, but also relaxed and so much more understanding than anywhere else in the world.
Asking for something while invoking God's name is sometimes all it takes to soften hearts and be granted what you ask for. They will say "rules, protocol, this is what is supposed to happen," but, more-often-than-not, they will forgive you once ("this is the last time!"), twice ("you've said it before, this time, I hope you mean it!"), even thrice...
The people here are very mixed, because we're so close to Makkah. Some like myself, born of pilgrim's leftovers, like my father's family who accepted Saudi passports and Saudi nationality back when the Kingdom was desparate for more citizens. "Who wants Saudi citizenship? Who wants Saudi citizenship?!"
Others are foreigners who come using VISAs to study.
I look at them and their varying appearances, skin and hair in so many different shades and colours, and I wonder where people get the idea of what a typical Arab looks like! Syrians look so white, some are even blonde with lightly-coloured eyes... Egyptians run the full gamut from pale-skinned and blonde to "swarthy" and black/brown-haired.
Then, there's the Ehtiopian girls, the various South-East Asian girls... so much variety!
I do not think I could possibly be happier or more at peace anywhere else in the world.