For the
past few days, I’ve been having nightmares. I haven’t had these in a while and
they leave me waking up in a daze. The weirder part is each nightmare has been
about someone that’s no longer in my life. Be it ex-husband, ex-friend or
ex-love that I painfully had to let go of recently.
The
quote says that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I think distance does
too. Distance also puts things into perspective. It shows you what matters and
what doesn’t. It also shows you who
matters and who doesn’t, which can be an agonizing reality to face, but that
distance gives you the courage to do things you can’t do when you’re “home.”
I found
myself detoxing my soul and my online social networks from toxic groups I
didn’t even realize were killing me—physically, emotionally, mentally and
financially. Was it easy? No. I mean it’s easy to hit a button that says BLOCK
or UNFRIEND but it’s the aftermath and the meaning that weigh on you. I told
myself I had the rest of my American time to worry about that. Right now on
Arabian soil, I would concern myself with who and what mattered. That’s the
miracle of this place—for me anyway.
The
hotel balcony overlooked the shores of Lebanon and an excitingly busy street. I
loved the sounds of traffic—honking cars and screeching tires. It reminded me
of the lullabies that put me to sleep in California. My ex-husband used to
harass me about that all the time. He told me I was seriously messed up that I
couldn’t fall asleep to the quiet and for being nostalgic to the sound of horns
and sirens and slamming brakes. For 20+ years those were the sounds that put me
to sleep. How was I supposed to adjust in one night to the eerie silence of his
overly quiet dark empty hidden neighborhood? I’m a city girl and will die a
city girl. Give me skyscrapers and downtowns and I’m set!
My mom
was napping inside—the byproduct of jet lag. I sat on the balcony enjoying the
humidity that was balanced out by the air condition that was coming in from the
open door to our room. I watched the cars drive and swerve. I relished in the
waves and their capability to crash against those ocean rocks and find
themselves whole again, united. Resilience.
We were
out of mugs, so I used the water glasses to drink my Nescafe and eat really old
and stale peanut M & M’s that I found in the hotel minibar. Across the
street, I saw a car trying to back out of a full lot and into the street. It
was inching out slowly and then slamming on the brakes, and it did so with so
much trouble for ten minute before finally getting through.
I
laughed at the manifestation of perspective right then. The entire time the car
was inching back and forth, I kept talking to the driver (from eight stories
above, so really I was just talking to myself) and saying, “Keep going! You
have room. Yallah! Go! It’s okay.”
With
eight stories of height, I had a different vantage point than the driver and
could see the clearer, bigger picture. The driver, however, trapped within the
four doors of a black sedan, couldn’t see further than his/her peripherals. Why
can’t we understand that this is how life operates for each human? Why can’t we
all comprehend that sometimes others do not/cannot/may not be able to see the
fuller bigger picture and need their own time and space to grieve? To heal? To
find their way?
After my
divorce, I faced this stupid frequently asked question:
“How
were you dumb enough to get caught in an abusive relationship?”
It ended
up inspiring a poem where I respond:
“I am
not dumb, nor have I ever been dumb, nor will I ever be dumb, but being
intelligent does not equate with being immune.”
It’s
always easier said for the outsider than it is done for the insider. Why don’t
people get that? Everyone is suddenly an expert critic when it’s not their story,
but turn the tables and they suddenly become paralyzed. Growing up, people
always had this desire to remind me that “not everyone thinks like you, Dania,”
but they forget to remember that not everyone thinks like them either.
I stood
on that balcony for a long time, beneath the sun and extreme heat, mesmerized
by the visual representation of reality I had just witnessed. “What are you
drinking?” My mom broke my train of thought as she stepped out onto the
balcony. “Coffee. You used the other mugs so I resorted to these. I hope they
don’t crack.” She pursed her lips. “Why didn’t you just wash one of the mugs?”
I shrugged my shoulders and gestured for her to join me.
“Everything
seems so small, insignificant and peaceful up here. Can we just stay forever?
Or maybe go back to Hawaii? I think I’m done with California.” I began
unloading on the one and only loyal human in my life.
The plans for the day
seemed lax, which was a relief for my jet lagged self. The debate was over
where to eat, what to eat and when to eat. I was just glad that there was a
plan to eat. We sat together over more coffee and talks with the family. “Has
anyone gone back to visit Drosha?” I asked. My cousin, who had come to Lebanon
to see my brother (who is currently unable to enter Syria) gave me a sad smile
and pulled out his phone.
Drosha is the name of an
area on the outskirts of Damascus where my dad’s family had a summer home.
Every Friday was spent there from noon to 10:00 p.m., eating, swimming, taking
photos, playing cards, napping and just enjoying Syria’s scorching summers with
family. A little over seven years ago, it had been remodeled from the old
raggedy red run-down shack that it was, to an actual livable home and I was
blown away. I remember the last time I was there, it was actually winter, which
was a possibility thanks to the remodel and inclusion of heaters. We played
charades in the living room, a game I had spent three days preparing the words
in Arabic for and fifteen minutes explaining to my uncles, their wives and my
cousins. It was one of the most fun Friday afternoons ever.
That same living room was
shattered. It looked like a bomb had gone off in there. The marble floors
lacked luster. One sofa chair remained in the corner. I gasped as I swiped
photo after photo of the home I remembered, in pieces. Walls crumbled. Ceilings
on the ground. Trashed. I have seen videos and photos of Syrian homes in
shambles, but to see your own home as rubble puts things into an even more vivid
perspective.
I knew
that this trip was going to give me a deeper perspective into the vision I got
last year and that is something to fear. Somehow this trip, I feel weaker than
last year. I don’t know how much of this bigger picture I’ll be able to
swallow.
