Excerpt from Part I, Chapter 3: “The Active Phase”
The “leaving” is unglamorous. The smell of bleach from cleaning the bathroom, the hollow closet, and the bare walls. The gritty way your clothes cling to your skin after racing from task to task: Electricity off—check. Message friends—check. Prepare documents—check. I save packing for last, so my clothes don’t get wrinkled.
I wonder if Hemingway was stressed before he went on one of his thousands of trips. Did he get stressed by details? Or did he float seemingly on a cloud of literary ease? Did he struggle to swallow the knot in his throat?
I walked through my house, taking in every detail of my surroundings, trying to memorize every inch of it as if it were important to recall how the sofas were located, and where my parent’s wedding photo was placed. There was an overwhelming sense of danger as we waited for the Taxi to arrive. We stood in the centre of the living room, our bodies facing the door. My brother broke the silence by suggesting that we take a photo of our last time here, and we did. Our actions were robotic, void of any emotion. We mimicked what others do when leaving.
In fact, we weren’t leaving. We had already left, four years ago.
Let’s agree to take everything in, to let it change us as deep as it may, the religion of the road. All the work is done now. Now is the time to watch life unfold.
My mother scans the vacant room, pausing at a photo of my brother and me which she had placed right next to an embroidered quote from the Quran. She lingers.
I imagine how the road will be. Wide, the sunlight golden as we saunter toward Beirut. Home is pleasant enough on a Friday early in the afternoon. We board. We have a seat empty between us where Mars can sit. When we arrive it will be midnight our time but dawn there. We will have coffee and a warm croissant. Mars will sleep on my shoulder.
I’m ready. It’s time. Let’s go.
As we drove to the airport, the streets of Beirut stretched out before us like a blur of chaos and noise. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness as I looked out the window, knowing that this would be the last time I would see the city which sheltered for the past few years. The honking cars, the crowded sidewalks, the familiar smells of street food and spices—all of it felt so precious and fragile, like a memory that I could never fully hold on to.
But there was no time to dwell on these feelings. The Taxi driver was too busy navigating the traffic, dodging other cars and honking his horn impatiently. My brother was fidgeting in the backseat, nervous and excited at the same time, and I was trying to hold the tears back. I had to put on the role of the strong and independent daughter, I had to act like everything was okay, I had to lead my family.
As we approached the airport, the tension in the car became palpable. My mother’s knuckles were white as she squeezed the strap of her bag, her eyes darting nervously between the road and the rearview mirror. She tried to mutter some prayers under her breath. My brother leaned toward the front seat to marvel at the airport—it was the first time my brother and I had ever seen an airport or even gotten on a plane. I remained still, my hands clasped tightly together.
I tried to reassure them, to say something comforting, but my throat felt dry and my mind was blank. All I could do was stare out the window, watching as the airport terminal grew closer and closer, like a looming beast that threatened to swallow us whole.
And then we were there, pulling into the drop-off lane, and everything became a blur of activity. The car was swarmed by airport staff, all shouting instructions and gesturing wildly. We scrambled out, dragging our bags behind us, as the staff began to check our documents and scan our luggage.
It was then that I realized how much we stood out, how obvious it was that we were refugees. Our clothes were worn and shabby, our bags were overstuffed and falling apart, and our faces were etched with worry and exhaustion. We looked like a family on the run, like people who had nothing left to lose.
The drive to the airport was a blur, as my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of the future. When we arrived, the airport was chaotic and overwhelming. The crowds of people rushing past me, the sounds of announcements over the loudspeaker, and the long lines at security all added to the sense of chaos and confusion.
I completely agree with you! This degree has introduced me to a world of history and culture. Thank you for…
I hear your conundrum; I too suffer from a ‘title’ that doesn’t pay the mortgage…Beowulf, Dante’s Inferno, Canterbury Tales are…
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Good stuff.
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