The Unknown

Due to some of my own personal circumstances as well as a few (frankly terrifying) hints my dad has dropped regarding prolonged stay in the West –the possibility of living in an Arabic country looks like it’s quickly becoming a reality.

I remember the first time my dad casually wondered if the time had come to move on, if we’d taken all possible benefit and it was time to move to another, more conservative, developing Islamic country.

“If I became the richest man on the planet – and lost my daughters, what would I have gained?”

 - my baba -

My dad carries a large amount of guilt with him. He was the first of his brothers to leave Lebanon and find work here, encouraged them to leave and follow him, them and their families. I see him looking at other girls, daughters that could have so easily been his, his nieces who falter, his daughters swayed by any strong gust of wind, and he wonders, “Is it my fault? Would they have turned out better if we stayed there?”

Like all guilt, it’s flawed, but the bearer of it doesn’t see it. I see him pleading with his brothers to consider other countries with him, wondering if he once again needs to take the first step, or if it’s too late to undo any wrong.

I remember – when was it? Year 10? 11? – when he shook my very foundations and mentioned it. I remember crying to you Noor, insisting, that if the heavens themselves moved I wouldn’t, nay couldn’t, leave London. Leave London? My home? The only home I know? The streets I love? The weather that cloaks me perfectly, the temperament, the clouds, the rapidly changing seasons, the hustle and bustle, the safety and security in the known. Leave it? Never.

But then Noor left.

The irony, I never fail to miss. A few days, weeks, maybe months, after my dad’s confession, my instant refusal, my childish threats, the one and only person I had gone to, she was leaving. I thought it was a cruel joke at the time, nothing seemed to make sense to me, her, of all people, to go?

Everything had your touch on it Noor; I rode by your house every day twice a day as I went on bus 226 to Golders Green. We had boxes from your house, cornflakes, random items, little bits and bobs I refused to throw out, a mirror, an old perfume, little decorative glasses, your letters, and the spices your mum had used and left.

You know since you’ve gone my mum hasn’t cooked 2oozie a single time? I don’t know why, I don’t know if you see the relevance, but I miss 2oozie. I miss your mums carefully folded plastic bags, her chicken drumsticks wrapped with foil, her no glasses in the sink rule. I miss playing snap in that little corridor between the men’s room and the ladies, I miss beautiful 3aboodie who would say ALLAAAAAH every time we asked “man 5alaqana?” I miss our plans to go sing on 6yoor al jannah and I miss the chalet days and the barbeque days.

It’s been five years can you believe that? Why do I feel like I saw you yesterday and tomorrow we will go to the park again? Maybe because I’m the only one in my family that hasn’t seen you yet? Maybe seeing you when you visited London, when you went Jordan, maybe I would have been able to turn over the page and think, “oh well life moves on”. But it hasn’t. I’m still waiting.

This time when moving was mentioned, I thought I’d been numbed to the fear. A childhood friend was lost to me because of movement; others have started to grow apart as we pursue our own dreams, different universities, different commitments, not enough time to commit to weekly gatherings any more.

I was wrong.

The fear never goes you see. The fear of the unknown, of being without your strong knit group of friends that have known you since forever, those bonds built by sisterhood (imposed or voluntary) never break. The bonds built on the basis of Islam, of common goals, of shared values, the weekly 7alaqat, the monthly leqa2at...they are impossible to break. No matter how much we can hurt another, we’re bound by something far stronger. Something that unless you’ve tasted its richness and sweetness, its permanency, it will remain intangible to you forever.

“Do you think for a second, that if this strong sense of unity, of sisterhood, didn’t exist, wasn’t worked upon – do you think the brotherhood in Egypt would have been half as successful in the elections?”

- an ex-brotherhood member -

I wanted to write about my arrogance, my fear, my unwillingness to adapt easily, I started out planning to write something completely different to what I ended up writing. I’ve always disliked judgemental people, who are they to judge? Have they gone through the same difficulties the other person has? I embrace cultures and trying out new things with a vivacity that shocks my mother, a willingness to listen to any outrageous idea which worries people. I took pride in the knowledge that I accepted everyone and didn’t view myself as better than others. Or I used to.

 You know the stereotype about us being arrogant? Ask me any other time, and I would tell you emphatically, “No! Of course not!” but now, I’m not too sure anymore. Sometimes I open the tap gushing nice hot water and I think, “Do they have hot water?” Other times I’m lathering plates with fairy and I think – oh no! They don’t have fairy, how will I cope??

Is there central heating? Bathtubs? Readily available hot water? Clean streets? Dishwashers? Internet? Where am I even going? Aren’t they all deserts?

And then guilt crashes over me – how dare I ask such questions? How dare I question the civilisation of my own people? Am I any different to those that view different cultures as alien to their own? I don’t think I’m better, no, I know I’m not better. The only disappointment is now seeing that I truly did turn out as any other arrogant stereotype with my ignorance, the very ignorance I despised is what I’ve adopted.

اخشوشنوا فإن النعم لا تدوم