I have begun to have this unhealthy fascination with Arabic culture. It's been slowly cultivating within my soul for the past three and a half years, carefully gathering up the strength to consume my every being. Every decision that I make has me living in the Middle East as its end goal. Every dream, every hope, every thought I mull over in my mind and heart leads to the gate of this dazzling culture. Some people love Paris, some people love London. Some people even love the very place at which they lay their heads to rest at night.
Me, I love Ramallah. I love Jeddah, Mecca, and Abu Dhabi. I love Beirut, Matai, Baghdad, Tehran, and Kabul. I want to go to all these places, touch and smell the spaces that make up these cities. They are my escape. There were moments when I found myself choosing to eat pita and hummus over hamburgers, even when I was craving meat. My subconscious was taking over even my stomach.
There really is no reason for this cult-like adoration. I had a small part in a play that dealt with the situation in Palestine, and love's ambassador took this as a sign to come bitch-slapped me in the face. Thanks.
I'm sorry. There's a reason behind this.
You see, I'm reading THE POET OF BAGHDAD. It's a biography of Nabeel Yasin, a famous Iraqi poet. He was blacklisted by Saddam Hussein for poems he had written, and he barely escaped the country with his life. I'm only eighty-eight pages into it, but I am completely in love with the story. I can almost see myself living in Baghdad, living among these people. These people, who know nothing more than the tyrannical hate that human beings are willing to impose on those who speak out against them.
At one point, Nabeel's mother takes him on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Sayyed Muhammad, something that she does religiously [pun most definitely intended]. While there, Nabeel disrespects an old man for not following the scribes as they are written. She tells him, "Whatever you may think of the world, little Nabeel, you cannot spend your life at odds with it. And before you do, ask yourself if the result is worth it." So true, Nabeel's mother, so true.
Mothers know how to bitch-slap, too, even if it's just with their words. Which is funny, because later, she tells her son, "The wounds we make with words are greater than those made with swords. Remember that."
This just brings up a whole storm of memories of my own family. I love them, and yet, I can't stand them. Every human being has this kind of feeling, with different varieties. Which makes me wonder if the need I have to go to the Middle East is more for myself, or if it's something God is calling me to. I love my family, I do. But this...feeling... of discontent of where I am has nothing to do with them and all to do with me. It's like gazing at pictures or reading stories of these people's struggles is an elixir to my own troubles.
I mean, we are just one huge family, humanity. We all breath the same air, live on the same earth. I just want to live on the patch of earth over there, breath that particular space of air.
This is something that I continously struggle with. Any person who has placed hopes in the future knows this sensation and understands. It's a human quality, after all.
Ghaa! So many thoughts along this vein are kicking and screaming in my head. This is the only part I was able to clamp upon.
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