Umm al-Dunya
I pack my bags, weep my goodbyes, and embark on the first voyage I’ll ever have from home. One with airplane crackers and crying babies all going to the same place. Boarding the plane, I can’t help but think finally, maybe I’ll cross another milestone and we’ll get some turbulence.
I can see the sea they talk about from my window seat. The one I should know and love. I wonder if the cerulean water will feel as familiar as it is refreshing. If the sun above will singe the hairs on my skin for turning my back on it, for not knowing how the air of my land breathes on my skin.
The woman seated beside me smells like jasmine, and her gold trimmed abaya looks like one Ummi would wear on Eid. It reminds me of home, she asks if that’s where I’m going, and my comfort slips away.
As I step off, I try to inhale the crisp Nile air I’ve heard is fresh, healthier, home – but I only breathe in questions. Do they know I don't belong, can they tell I’ve never walked these busy streets filled with chatter, and the deafening honks of cars and motorcycles. “Inti magnoona” they holler, reminding me this is a road.
I’m finally seeing the pyramids, but it’s with this over-excited tourist who has no idea that our driver’s been making fun of his hat. To his credit, I don't understand the man completely either, but I do know that tone when I hear it. The sand has invaded my sandals and my chiffon scarf is soaked, but I look a lot better than the couple who will “ just die to see a mummy.”
The kids, who are no strangers to this heat, climb the smallest of the pyramids with ease, when they get to the top their mom will take a photo, and it will look like they ascended Everest, then they’ll go home and eat homemade shawarma in their shaqa.
I, however, will attempt to crawl up that mount, and fail because my knees don't work like theirs do. I’ll go back home in a white taxi, but this time I’ll be sure not to put my seatbelt on so I don't offend the driver, an unspoken rule here apparently. Then, I’ll eat the shawarma that I ordered with my broken-arabic, while lying on the couch that doesn't belong to me, and I’ll do it all how tourists tend to do.
Jummah in The Women’s Prayer Room
criss cross, side lean, hugging our knees
we sit and attempt to listen, on the misted window
the taped up “no talking during khutbah” sign tells me
it's going on strike. a toddler devoured in thawb waddles
from wall to wall receiving glances and giggles of love
from every woman he passes, today, they are all mothers
the room gets warmer with each abaya’d body that joins
we greet each other with kisses to hot cheeks, make sanctuary
in two rak'ahs, attempting to create our own breeze
the whiteboard in the corner is still sprawled with Sunday
school lessons and the teenagers congregate loudly
in the rest room buzzing with avoidance
the speaker crackles a choppy khutba and I try to find
focus on the small screen up front, the prayer room shiny.
ivory pristine backs and taqiyahs never burst out of frame.
an icy chandelier sparkles above neatly spaced rows.
do you think they can hear us?
children wailing, chats echoing, the woman telling us to zip it
can they feel the joy radiating off the toddler and all his spectators?
would they understand our shared smiles?
could they possibly know what an honour it is to worship
in the chaotic abundance of this harmonious room
Shirin Abedinirad, Evocation #2, 2013. Land art, Central Desert, Iran. Using mirrored circles partially buried in sand, the work creates the illusion of pools of water, reflecting the sky across the dunes and challenging our perception of nature, absence, and desire. Artwork Courtesy of our Featured Artist Shirin Abedinirad.
