Tag: Creative Non-Fiction

The class began in a circle. The teacher was explaining something about the body, but I wasn’t really paying attention to what she was saying. I was carefully eyeing the other students in the room, trying to get an idea of what to expect from the next sixty minutes. As I looked around at each of them, I grew more confused. The drastic differences in body shape, size, and age of the others in the room only added to the mystery. There was a twenty-something-year-old woman, a woman who looked to be in her seventies, and a funny looking middle-aged man wearing a headband.

The class began with slow music. The teacher demonstrated movements simple enough for me to follow. As the class went on, the music sped up, and the movements did, too. I no longer felt like I could follow – I had no idea what I was supposed to do with my feet or which direction I was supposed to go in! I was overwhelmed and convinced that I was doing it all wrong. Everyone else in the room seemed comfortable, flinging their bodies back and forth in sync with the beat. When the class was over, I looked up to find the instructor walking towards me.

“Congratulations on completing your first Nia class, you did great!” the teacher said with a smile. I politely thanked her and started gathering my things to head home; I had no idea at that moment that Nia would alter the course of my life. Nia is a whole body fitness practice. What guides the practice is the sensation of pleasure derived through movement, and the goal of Nia is to find health through movement. The practice is inspired from nine movement modalities coming from the fields of dance, healing, and martial arts. Nia teaches that sensations are our body’s way of communicating to us – of letting us know what nourishes it and what causes it pain.

I began attending Nia classes regularly; I would drop my kids off to their preschool in the suburbs of Houston, and then I’d head straight to class. What kept drawing me to the classes was the strong sense of relief that I found through the practice – not to mention the sense of freedom and joy as well. Movement began to serve as an outlet for me to express my emotions, to be silly, and to connect with others in a loving and inclusive community. When I learned that my family and I would be moving back to Saudi Arabia, I decided that I wanted to take Nia back to the Kingdom with me; I completed the first levels of teacher training and earned my white and blue belts.

I was glad to learn more about the practice that was changing my relationship to my body. Nia helped me feel comfortable in my own skin. It taught me not to shy away from expression, and it helped me let go of feeling shame in relation to my body. It also re-taught me how to play! I have been teaching Nia in Dhahran for over five years now, and I absolutely love sharing Nia with others, especially in the Saudi community. My goal is to contribute to the creation of a vibrant moving community here in Saudi Arabia.

Teaching Nia gave me the confidence to be who I am and to share what I know with others. It gave me an inner personal power that I’d never felt before: a strong sense of confidence and purpose. I knew I was good at something, and I felt obliged to share it with the members of my community. I asked a friend of mine, who is a psychologist, for advice on ways to share Nia with a more diverse selection of community members. She suggested that I volunteer at the hospital she worked for. I began regularly going to the psychiatry department and participating in the patient outreach program. I introduced a twenty-minute movement class to help the patients move and get out of their minds. I began each class by saying, “My name is Manal, and today we will be moving, not exercising. There is no right or wrong way to do this. This is simply a chance to explore the way your body moves!”

I had the pleasure of witnessing the positive effects of Nia on many of the patients and staff members at the hospital. Even if the effect was temporary, it was real. I encouraged them to get in touch with their bodies, to imagine where they wanted to be and what they wanted to do, and to be creative with how they used their bodies. Most of all, I encouraged them to play! And we played a lot. My experiences teaching Nia and facilitating movement sessions at the hospital helped me realized how much we suffer when we don’t move. We suffer when we don’t laugh, don’t dance, or don’t play; we disconnect from our bodies and limit ourselves to the confining space of our mind. It’s like having a huge house and only using one room.

The body mind connection has become more and more evident in recent years. Most therapists and mental health professionals are aware that we can’t fully heal using our minds alone – we need our bodies, too. Modern society has restricted our movement and our ability to express ourselves through our bodies. We’ve become accustomed to sitting down for hours, staring at screens for copious amounts of time, and dreading forms of movement. This phenomenon is not limited to Saudi or to the Arab world – it’s worldwide. As humans, we are not meant to be sedentary – whether that happens through sitting at a desk, driving, or watching TV for hours each day.

When I speak about movement, many immediately translate that to mean exercising, or to going to the gym. I have nothing against those practices, but I certainly don’t see them as the only ways to move. 
Similar to movement, dance has been squeezed into a tiny rigid box by society; it is either seen as a formal and strict art, like ballet, or as a flirtatious and seductive show that is labeled as forbidden in our society. To truly understand what movement and dance mean, we should look at a two-year-old child. At that age, the constrictions of society and cultural norms have not yet been formed; a child moves spontaneously to different sounds, and expresses his or her emotions fully without inhibition.

We learn from that child that it is our natural right to move and to dance. We can’t reach our full potential if we don’t move. Movement helps us connect the dots, express our emotions, and find ourselves.

So here is my invitation to you. I invite you to move:

I invite you to get up and move, get up and dance.
Don’t let someone define music and dance for you.
Make your own definition.
Let your breath be your guide, let your heartbeat be your music.
Turn on your favorite song or dance in silence, no matter what you choose, just get up and move.
If you don’t know where to begin, ask your wrist how it moves.
Connect to your ankle and ask for guidance.
It doesn’t matter how you move, just get up move.
It doesn’t matter how you dance, just get up and dance.
Move your anger, move your fears, no matter what is the emotion just get up and move.
If you can’t get up and move, just be still and witness yourself move.
Witness your blood dancing around, your breath moving in and out.
It doesn’t matter how you move, just witness yourself move.
Witness with awe and wonder, how we are all designed to dance and move.
Nothing alive in this world is still, it is through movement we find ourselves.
And after you have danced and moved, come to stillness of mind and be grateful for this body that moves.

When I was 16, my Saudi father and I spoke for the first time. In his heavily-accented English, he told me that Saudi Arabia was my second home, despite the fact that I had never been there. Thus began the opening up of my second world – a part of my identity that was both foreign to me, and yet strangely familiar.

The movement from one identity to two was an indescribably enriching and confusing experience. I had always been a Midwesterner from the United States. I have my mother’s last name – she is the one who raised me – and I did not know Arabic. I didn’t even know very many people of Middle Eastern descent, and here I was being told that I belonged, in a way, to this distant country called Saudi Arabia. I had heard about Saudi Arabia growing up, of course – my mother made sure to tell me what she knew about my father and that side of my family.  I had images in my mind from the maps she had shown me; basically, Saudi Arabia was one giant desert, and I had relatives there.  When I did a History Day project on the Hajj in 7th grade, this inspired many more conversations with my mother, and my brain gathered as many stories as possible from my mother about what she knew about my father and his family.  I knew that I had blood ties to people in Saudi Arabia, but with that first phone call with my father, everything seemed to change dramatically.

The first time we spoke, I did not know what to say.  There were too many questions and it was impossible to know where to begin.  So, I mainly listened.  My father told me about his life, his time spent in the U.S. during which he had married my mother, and he kept apologizing for his bad English (it was not bad, actually).  We had many very complicated feelings, justifiably, during that conversation, and the phone call left me both elated and angry.  I do not recall the specifics of what all we talked about, but the vivid memory of my emotions will never fade.

On one call with my father later on, “Soak Up the Sun” by Sheryl Crow was playing in the background; I told him I could hear it, and he said, “yes, yes,” and said he enjoyed the music of Sheryl Crow, especially that song.  This American hit, from that point on, would remind me of him, and consequently, Saudi Arabia.  That has never changed; I occasionally put on that song to relive the positive aspects of those initial conversations.

From the age of sixteen on, I rapidly became acquainted with my Saudi family – my many aunts, uncles, cousins, and my two siblings who share the same father. I met quite a few of them on more than one occasion, and I am now very close to some of these people. My sister and I began seeing each other at least once a year; I can barely imagine or remember a time without her in my life. I received flowers and family photos by mail, regular phone calls from cousins, and spent hundreds of hours over the course of the next sixteen years (I am now thirty-two) hearing anecdotes, learning various Arabic words and phrases, and gaining a truly deep understanding of this fascinating culture.

As with any cross-cultural exchange, there are some “Lost in Translation” moments that go along with it.  A first cousin of mine, who saw a photo of me eating ice cream, wrote in an MSN instant message to me, “you need a date.”  I wrote back.  “I don’t want a boyfriend right now,” I responded.  We wrote back and forth for the next few minutes, with him telling me that having a boyfriend had nothing to do with it, and then eventually, with me finally understanding that he had meant to write, “you need a diet.”  I told him it was rude to talk about someone’s weight like that.  He sent back several emojis to convey that what I had pointed out was hilarious, and that telling someone eating ice cream that a diet was necessary was just a normal joke.  Basically, he went on to tell me to chill out and to be less of an uptight American.

Because of the context in which I grew up, which was literally and figuratively very far removed from a Saudi Arabian identity, my new identity and my familiar one almost always stayed separate from one another.  Over the years, as I grew accustomed to my father’s side of the family, their specific brand of humor, and the boisterous nature that was unfamiliar to me within my mother’s side of the family, the ways in which I spoke with my Saudi family differed drastically from my dynamic with my mother’s side of the family, the one I had always been around and been raised by.  I would tell my mother’s family vaguely about my Saudi family when asked, and vice versa; however, beyond that, there really was zero overlap between my two lives – until recently.

Inevitably came the next movement – from that complete separation of two identities to this gradual hybrid of one. Slowly, the two sides of my family are becoming acquainted with one another.  My mother and sister immediately bonded when they met (and I bonded with her mother), but beyond that, there was no overlap until even more recently.  Now, I have had a Saudi cousin of mine meet one of my cousins on my mother’s side. There are connections that have formed on social media between my mom’s side and my father’s side of the family, conversations that now take place when I’m not even there. The two parts of myself seem to have found a way to connect.

My father has since died, but that did not put a wedge whatsoever between my connection with my Saudi side, or the connections that have been made between both of my families. The cultural understanding between them has grown, and I celebrate both of my cultural identities for what they are.  Life is complex, which is not a bad thing.  I will continue to listen to Sheryl Crow’s “Soak Up the Sun” when the mood strikes me, and I will embrace my unusual perspective on it.  I am an Arab-American woman, and this is my story.

Saudi women have a complicated relationship with men, to say the least. Primarily, we’re taught to respect our fathers, to trust them and the leadership of our patriarchs without question. On the other hand, as we grow older and develop into young women, we’re simultaneously taught to mistrust any “other” men as wolves. The term “other men” constitutes any man who isn’t a part of my direct family – any man who isn’t my brother, father, uncle, or grandfather.

These “other” men are painted in an absolutely evil light; we’re taught to see them as animals, driven by dark and primal instincts. We’re taught that they’re only out to get us “prey.” Of course, the lines between “other” and non-other

men blur, particularly as we grow older and marry what was once an “other” man, but becomes the man we owe ultimate fidelity and respect to for the remainder of our lives. We owe him obedience to the extent of never even refusing him sex; it’s common knowledge here that when a woman refuses her husband what he wants, the angels spend the hours of the night cursing her. The solidity of the sources behind this belief is a whole other matter, of course.

I remember overhearing my aunt giving marital advice to my other aunt when I was about twelve years old. One would think they were plotting a battle to take over the country from the complexity of their discussion. She had a fight with her husband over the purchase of a luxury bag; harsh words were exchanged and she left the house for her mother’s house in a huff of anger. Now, she wanted him to come to the house, begging for her to come back and asking her forgiveness. And she wanted an expensive gift – the same Chanel bag he had refused to buy her in the first place. The idea that her fashion selection was over his budget, or that he wanted to save for their future didn’t cross her mind. The idea that expensive luxuries should maybe be saved for special occasions, or that she could earn her own money and buy it herself, or even the idea of reaching a compromise weren’t any of the suggestions brought up by her sister, who was comforting her. They weren’t speaking about her husband as though he were her partner that she was simply having a misunderstanding with; they were speaking about him as though he was the enemy. And he was the prize at the same time.

“Wait a few days, he will come eventually. When he does, turn him away so he knows he will have to work for your forgiveness!”
“Yes! I agree”, chimed in the estranged wife.
“Then, when he comes again, make sure you look good. Put something pretty on, but not too pretty – he mustn’t think you are trying. And perfume, you must smell nice and tempting. Don’t rush to hug him though, act sad, like he has betrayed you and you can barely look at him. How dare he think you aren’t worth it!”
And on went the conversation. “If he says this, then you say that, and if he does that then you do this!” Even to my twelve-year-old ears, it sounded petty, exhausting, and ridiculous. I knew that a marriage shouldn’t work that way. Unfortunately, sometimes it does – especially when you’re raised in a culture that sees men as being the ones “in control.” When you are raised to believe you don’t have much power in a relationship, you will probably resort to plotting and manipulation as well, simply as a means for survival.

I remember that those two aunts had an insatiable appetite for those cheesy romantic novels translated into Arabic. The ones with the rugged, dark and handsome hero and the rebellious, but innocent and misunderstood heroine and that always ended with a steamy love scene and a happily ever after. The ones that ended with sudden perfect understanding, even though he’d kidnapped and “ravished” her. Maybe that was another factor that influenced their understanding of men, and maybe that’s why they approached disagreements with such drama. I must confess I indulged in some of those kinds of reads myself, but I affectionately refer to them as “junk food of the mind.” They’re easy reads that provide some escapism from reality with the assurance of a happy ending and no surprises. Like chick-flicks. But I digress…back to my experiences with men.

I grew up during the late 80’s and 90’s, in almost perfect segregation. This means that the only examples of the male species I interacted with after I turned ten were my younger brother, my father, and my uncles on the rare occasions that they visited from the distant cities where they lived. My Grandfather had long since passed away, and the maternal side of my family lived across the globe. I suppose I also interacted with our driver(s) over the years, too. Men were virtually an alien species; I would only see them on TV, or in the street from a distance. They were never really known as human beings.

I remember there was this one “boy” – an older teenager – that used to stalk me from his car when I was about fourteen. He would be waiting outside my home when the driver took us to school in the morning, and he’d follow us there and would be waiting for me when we got picked up to go back home. At one point, it got so bad that he followed our car for and hour and a half to the airport. That’s when my mom found out about him and told my dad, who had him picked up by the police and “slapped around a bit” so that he’d cease and desist his stalking. In hindsight I’m not sure how I feel about the way things played out. A bit appalled, I guess. But at the time I simply thought he was getting what he deserved. That he was a creepy weirdo (which he probably was), and that I was glad he was gone. I also remember being a bit curious; didn’t he have school? A job? Family? Friends? A life? Who has the time to sit in their car, day in and day out, for weeks, maybe even months, and wait for a girl so that he could shadow her from a distance? Maybe all the scary stories and warnings had failed in achieving their goal with me, but I felt a mixture of pity, mild disgust, and genuine curiosity towards that weirdo. Not fear.

I’m lucky that when I was seventeen, my family moved to the more liberal city of Jeddah. The new friends I made there included their brothers, cousins and male friends. These men became my friends as well. And over time, I slowly became a bit more comfortable around them. After I graduated from college, I started meeting many men as clients and colleagues. Some were marked “sleazy,” others “cool” in my book. But I quickly learned that it’s not so hard to tell one from the other, and to set the tone of a professional relationship either way.

Later on, I chose to pursue my masters in London, and while there, I made more male friends, except that none of the men in my classes were Arab. By then I was pretty comfortable setting the boundaries to my various friendships with men, so I found it fun to see if these non-Arab men were any different from the ones back home by testing those boundaries. Don’t get me wrong, there were still jerks out there who didn’t know how to take no for an answer, but maybe because people that attend university are already more educated than many, those men would accept the boundaries that I set and respect them. Maybe it was because I was an alien creature to them as well, being Saudi and all.

But I still viewed them as strange creatures that may or may not have been wired differently. My conversations with other women of various nationalities confirmed that. While they didn’t hold the same views that I was exposed to growing up, there was still some confusion, frustration, and mystery involved in their relationships with men. Sometimes abuse as well. I remember a German girl, a friend of my classmate’s, who was telling me about how she discovered that her Austrian boyfriend of two years was actually much older than he originally told her he was, and that he’d also lied about his name. When confronted about this, he became angry and so aggressive that she had to call the police. I remember thinking I couldn’t understand how she could have been so oblivious to his real nature and identity for so long. Maybe she didn’t understand him well enough to see the signs – and I’m sure there were small signs, at least. Though this is an extreme example, women and men struggle to understand each other all over the globe. Perhaps that’s why self-help and relationship books sell so well world-wide.

I sometimes have moments of complete clarity and realize that men aren’t any different from us, that they were only raised and socialized differently (no matter the specific culture we live in). Deep down inside, we’re all children that simply want to be understood and loved. And like women, men have also grown up to wear masks and perform their rigid gender roles. Unfortunately, we’re all subjected to the limitations of these masks, and they often make us act and behave (and possibly even think) as though we were actually a different species.

He loves reading, walking in parks, exploring museums, watching movies, having very good meals, going to the theater, and taking road trips to various country sides. He’s come to love the things that didn’t exist where we grew up. Few of his activities are typically “Arab” – except for reading and writing, of course. Baba is a devoted fan of literature, classical Arabic poetry being the most cherished, and this is a trait he passed on to me.

The only time baba and I speak in Arabic is when engaging in the complexity of Arabic poetry. It would always happen unexpectedly. While some pieces were recited at predictable times, like before going to bed, the enchanting words of Antarah or Umr’u Al Qays were always orated in the most curious of moments. The qualities of ancient rhyme seemed to suit baba’s company most especially when he had fallen ill. Perhaps lending himself to the melancholic quality of these ancient words, he’d read to me then explain the poetic meanings – the environmental and social metaphors wrapped within words, the adjectives that hinted as to what the poet was feeling at that particular moment, and the larger messages about love, loss, or pride. Through this ritual, my father taught me to love the art of language, and to believe in the power of communication, of connection – particularly in our moments of weakness or drought – as it were. Once upon a time, the Arabs of the Peninsula were masters of it.

That land is in my heart… How pleasant its meadows….

بروحي تلك األرض ما أطيب الربا

This verse is perfect. I believe that every Arab will find it relatable. That pleasant meadow which seems to be lost, could it be Palestine, Syria, Iraq? How many Arabs feel estranged today? Does my father feel it?

I’m not sure when or how we came to lose this power of communication, what the ancients called “magic”, but I do believe that we have. Our loss of this ability to connect is what caused me so much struggle as I grew up. I was born in Dhahran and lived there for 17 years before moving away to pursue my higher education, and I now work full-time in the field of culture. At the age of 14, I remember sitting at the usual Friday lunch when a family member aggressively blurted something out, accusing all Jewish people of belonging in hell. I opened my mouth to try and respond by saying, “you mean the Zionists?”, but as I looked for my father’s approval and saw that he had caught my train of thought, I quickly decided not to say anything. He was shaking his head subtly as if to say, “stay quiet,” so I did.

I am the first grandchild on both sides of my family, one side being quite different from the other. As a result of this, I was made to hear countless contradicting tales as I grew up. The only connection between both sides of my family’s stories is that both were immersed in patriarchal thought. Feminine perspectives seemed to be worn out, or simply muted. I remember hearing things like, “don’t gossip like a woman, there’s a special place in Jahannam for that,” or “our daughters don’t play football.” These anecdotes formed a very large chapter of my formative years.

As though we were created for distance, and that it is sin for us to be with each other again…

كأنا خلقنا للنوى وكأنما حرام علينا أن نجتمع

I snap out of my thoughts, and find myself at the kitchen table, looking out of our flat’s window as baba continues to stir at the stove. From here, we’re able to see our building’s inner courtyard. We’re surrounded by eight stories and perfectly white frames. My mother often likes to peer out from the window and peek at what other people may be doing in their homes. This curiosity perhaps comes from our past. When we lived in Saudi, we had little idea of who our neighbors were; we only knew what cars they had parked outside.

But from the 7th floor of Berkley Court, a simple turn of the head revealed a myriad of living rooms, terraces, and kitchens – some littered with children’s toys, others with pianos and house plants. Every window frame giving insight into the dweller’s character, creating a cinematic sense of community, of knowing one another by living in proximity – by glimpsing our differences and similarities from a distance, connecting from a distance. This completely conflicts with the Arab sensibility that demands public and private life remain distinct from one another. Sometimes I wonder if the “land” As-Summa refers to is a place that only exists in memory. I wonder if what lives in memory is even real anymore.

And how pleasurable its summer and spring stays…

وما أحسن المصطاف والمتربع

Though I deeply appreciate this Meccan poet, I do not know of the moments of “spring” he is referring to. All I remember about being outdoors on a Saudi April day is coming out of school in the starching heat, only to be met by a flock of boys in cars, driving out of their way to pass by our female section of the segregated school when classes were over. They looked like dogs in heat, panting and sweating under the sun, flailing their arms out of windows to get our attention. Occasionally a schoolmistress would stand outside as we exited the school and bark at us, “cover your faces!”

Despite that I did not experience tangible moments of “pleasurable spring” in the land I call home, I did experience many moments of mental awakening. Whilst they often came to me in agony or in sickness, these moments were inspired by the words of the great Arab minds who came before me, through the voice of my father. The merit of these words was made known to me through his guidance, in the same way it had been revealed to him through his own fathers’ voice. I was trained to find refuge in verse, in the sound and meaning of metaphor and simile. Sometimes I feel as though my ancestors handed me a survival toolkit by teaching me to love the art of connection, of words in rhythm; they’d shown me a hidden meadow: a place of solace no matter what surrounded me.

I remember the days of Al-Hima and bend over in sorrow, fearing my heart will break.

واذكـــــــر أيــــام الحمى ثم انثني على كبدي من خشـــية ان تصدعا

I remember when Baba explained what al-hima means. It comes from the word himaya, which carries a meaning of protection and preservation. My grandfather taught him this – he too, was a poet, and a member of the Saudi Bureau for the protection of the environment. Al-hima, are the green lands in the middle of deserts; they were – and remain, to an extent – to be considered sacred grounds. These were the grounds upon which early Arabs dwelled in freedom of thought and expression, on which the greatest of ancient poems were mused and narrated. I like to think of these grounds as a state of mind too – capable of carrying us through time and space. Perhaps they’re capable of carrying – and empowering – an Arab woman on her journey towards other grounds.

Lo, the nights of Al-Hima will never come back again, so let your eyes to tears

وليست عشيات الحمى برواجع إليك ولكن خلي عينيك تدمع

I don’t know what baba is thinking most of the time, but his mind must be somewhere beautiful at this moment; I watch, as he stirs the steaming mixture in the pot and hums along to As-Summa Al-Qushairi’s words as Fairuz carols. I muse to myself later on in the evening: here we are, sitting down together for our curry dinner in the capital of the world and looking out our window at the neighbors, each with their own stories and notions of home. In this moment, despite all that’s surrounding us, the Arabic language remains what moves me the most, my endangered meadow, my home, full of mysteries and riddles. With each chapter of Spring, I long to discover what else can grow.

موشحة الصمة القشيري

Al-Summa Al-Qushairi’s Ode

It’s my first week in Vienna, and I’m enjoying exploring all that the city has to offer. The late August air is warm to the skin, and the sun rises early and sets late. I’m spending my fourth afternoon in the city at the little outdoor café at the end of our street. I order a café latte, and I think about where I want to go later this evening. I notice you staring at me from two tables over. I try to ignore it.

You stare for a while (you always do), and so I politely smile, intending to embarrass you into looking away. You misunderstand my smile. It wasn’t an invitation, though now it’s too late and you’re coming over. You’re dressed in jeans and a black polo shirt this time. You have light brown hair with grey flecks in it. You try to break the ice with some insignificant comment about the weather. I smile again, my lips pressed tighter together this time. You keep talking, oblivious to my discomfort and disinterest. Moments later, you ask my name, and then finally, you ask the question you’ve been wanting to ask from the moment you saw me: “So, where are you from?” Except that you’re not actually curious about where I’m from, but rather why I look the way I do.

The above-described scenario has become a regular one. It’s never exactly been an unfamiliar occurrence, but since moving to Vienna, it happens practically every day. I get it: I don’t look like most people around me here. My hair is a little (a lot) curlier, and my skin is a little (a lot) darker. In Dhahran, I didn’t look like most people around me either. Or in Atlanta, or Casablanca, or New York.

In the Arab world, we have a saying: ism 3ala musama. Translated, it basically means that you become the meaning of your name. My name is Hajar. Translation: Emigrate. I prefer to use the word “journey” when describing the meaning of my name. And if you asked me to put my life into one word, I would have no word to choose but my name. My life has been one long journey – from one country and culture to the next. My migration – my hijra – has come to lie at the core of who I am.

What’s most interesting about my journey is that it hasn’t been linear. On paper, it may seem that way: a migration from the east to the west. But in reality, it’s been messy. There’s been a lot of moving back and forth, and a lot more emotional drain than could ever be illustrated on paper. My journey began in Mecca, where I was born. My Saudi Arabian father and Moroccan mother were living in London at the time, but they decided it would be best if their second child was born in the place her paternal grandparents called home. Not long after my birth, my non-linear journey began.

After those few first months in Mecca, we spent the next few months in Casablanca – the place my set of maternal grandparents called home. Soon after, we went to Dhahran, Saudi Arabia for a few years, and then to Houston, Texas for a few more. After that, it was back to Dhahran, and then to New York, and then back to Dhahran. At this point I had graduated high school and moved to Atlanta, Georgia. Since then, I’ve graduated again and am now here, in Vienna, where my family has most recently settled.

During the times I lived in Saudi, my siblings and I attended international schools. As a result of this, we found ourselves speaking more English than Arabic. We also found ourselves forming multicultural and multinational friendships. I used to have Karkadeh with my Sudanese best friend and her family on Thursday night, and then I’d have Biryani at my Indian friend’s house on Friday. My friends practiced different religions than I did, and they understood the world differently.

My cousins, who lived in Mecca, attended Saudi schools. My siblings and I used to be very close to them as kids. We spent practically every big holiday in Mecca with them and the rest of my dad’s family. I remember one specific visit, however, more than the rest. I was fourteen at the time, and I was having an intense argument with my eldest cousin, Abdulmuhsin. I don’t even remember what the argument was about, but I can’t forget the words he spat at me in a fit of exasperated rage:

“You know you’re a kafira, right?! That’s why all you do is speak English and hang out with foreign people!”

This comment changed the way I viewed Saudi. I always knew I was different, though I never realized that part of my society viewed my difference in this way. That my lifestyle, to them, translated into my being the ultimate enemy in Saudi speak – to my being someone destined for Hell and undeserving of God’s mercy. I still can’t understand how we allow our fears to misguide us – and our children – as such, how we throw around such sharp words that none of us actually understand.

Let’s fast-forward four years to my freshman year of college at Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia. Though I’d lived in the states before, this was my first time doing it alone – and with a hijab on my head. After our first round of midterms, my friend and I went to the mall to reward ourselves with Frappuccinos and Mani-Pedis. As we laughed and walked through the mall, I was interrupted by another one of those familiar, yet unwelcome conversations. Beginning, of course, with “So, where are you from?”

“I’m from Saudi Arabia,” I calmly explained to the tall black man dressed in a blue button down and dress pants. He stood beside a kiosk selling CD’s, and he loudly exclaimed, “Wow! Saudi Arabia!” I smiled and nodded my head awkwardly – we were standing in the middle of the mall; it wasn’t exactly the most practical place to hold a cultural conversation. He ignored my obvious discomfort and went on:

“You know it’s a shame what they do to you girls over there. I mean, just look at you! You got a pretty face; it’s a shame you gotta cover the rest of it up. It’s a shame you gotta cover any of it up. What’s under all that, anyway?” he said, a hint of condescension in his voice. He looked me up and down, the faintest hint of a smile remaining on his lips. I looked him straight in the eyes, then turned and walked away without saying another word to him.

Encounters like this one made it clear to me pretty early in my life that we live in a world where everything is divided into “us” and “them.” This is true for both the East and the West. Fortunately (or unfortunately) for me, the further I went on my journey, the more the line dividing the two sides became blurred. This made it a little more difficult to navigate who I was, and to establish my proper sense of identity. I spent my adolescence consistently questioning who was right and who was wrong in this long-standing rift between East and West. Which side was I to take? It wasn’t until I realized that I didn’t have to pick a side that I began to feel at peace with who I was.

It is easy to live life consumed by one way of thinking – by the cultural norms dictated by our parents, our families, and the religions we’re raised with. It’s natural to pick a comfortable viewpoint of the world and to live by it – to stick to it. But true growth comes from challenging that original viewpoint. From living within the friction, between the lines. Living in as many different places as I have has helped me come to understand this. It’s given me the tools to understand multiple perspectives, but more importantly by consistently challenge my own.

I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, or where my hijra will take me. I don’t know what I’ll say the next time someone asks where I’m from, or how I’ll feel about it. Lately, I think the answer lies in changing the question; in asking people about their journeys, instead of where they are from. In looking at the plurality and complexity of our existence and embracing it for once, without trying to simplify or limit who were are. Despite all that I don’t know about the future – my final destination or my means of travel – I know that I’m grateful to have come this far on my journey. And I know I’m ready for the rest of it.

The story, as it has been told to me, begins at St John’s Mercy Hospital in St Louis, Missouri. “Time of delivery: 7:00 am,” announced the male obstetrician gynecologist. “Congratulations Mrs. Batterjee, it’s a girl! I understand she is your second?” The doctor turned away and ripped off his delivery room gown and gloves without waiting for an answer from my exhausted mother. She lay there on the birthing bed, thinking of her husband and feeling sorry that he had missed the delivery. My father was extremely busy starting his new business at the time, and she had gone into labor a couple of weeks earlier than expected. Perhaps the reason for the early delivery was the stressful trip she had had to make from Saudi Arabia to the U.S. at thirty-two weeks pregnant. She had to make the long trip alone, with her two year-old daughter in tow. This was what my parents arranged for, thinking – as we tend to do – that things would work out as planned.

Of course, things rarely work out as we plan. Either of my parents can tell you that they never planned to marry someone from the other side of the world. My parents fell in love when my father, who is a Saudi from Jeddah, traveled to pursue an education in the United States. He met my mother, an American from St. Louis Missouri, at university, and they were inseparable from that moment on. They married within two years, and had their first daughter soon after. Almost four years later, they moved back to Saudi Arabia together.

When my mother found out she was pregnant with me, she knew she wanted to deliver in America, where she would have the support of her mother and sisters, just as she had with her first baby. Since my father was busy launching his new business at the time, they agreed that my mother would travel first, taking with her my older sister, and then my father would catch up a few weeks later. Their plan seemed foolproof, but I came early and my father missed the delivery.

Back in the hospital, a sweet voice came cheerfully into the room. “Good morning!” the cherubic nurse sang, carefully carrying the little bundle in her arms. “Here she eeees! Isn’t she just precious?” the sweet midwestern voice went on. My grandmother smiled as the nurse approached, eager to meet her newest grandchild.

“Sooo?” gleefully prompted the nurse while looking at my mother, “What’s her name?”

My mom glanced at my grandmother before quietly responding, “Modia.”

Touched, my grandmother smiled at my mom as she gently took me from the nurse and held me close. She whispered softly in my ear, “You are precious! You are so special.” This was my first encounter with Grandma’s soft voice and powdery sweetness, tainted with the faint smell of cigarette smoke.

Grandma was orphaned as a child. Her and her older sister had lived with their parents in Kentucky until they were about three and five years old, when both of their parents died suddenly just a few months apart; first, their father, Frank, and not long after, their mother Modia, a descendent of William Cunningham of Scotland. They were too young to really remember their parents, or to remember how they each died. Mom named me after her late grandmother, Modia Jewels Cunningham, to help her mother mend this old wound, the wound of a child losing her parents. I remember her explaining to me: “I named you Modia to help me bond with my mother and to make her feel special”.

Modia is the name for a chain of four Islets of the Echinades Islands in the Ionian Sea off of Greece. The four Islets of Modia are Soros, Apasa, Girovaris, and Modi. Modia is an uncommon English name and it is most definitely not an Arabic name. Modia is also the name of a rich matron mentioned in the poems of the book, The satires of Decimus Junius Juvenalis, by Juvenal, a Roman poet active in the late 1^st century.

No one could have known at this moment that Modia would not be the only name I would bear. It was months later, back in Saudi Arabia, when my father went to legally register my birth that I was given another name.

“What’s the baby’s first name?” the Saudi government official uninterestedly blurted at my father with a heavy Bedouin accent. It was hot, and the queue was long. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke; so many new fathers waited patiently to complete their family’s documents at the Ministerial Agency for Civil Affairs. This is where my predicament with my name first began.

“We named her Modia” my father responded with a quivering smile.

“A girl? Ha! Name’s no good! Choose another one!” he scoffed – a typical reaction for a Saudi government official in those days. The sweaty, smoke smelling man held my soon to be birth certificate and waited with a Bic pen in hand to write down the new name.

“But her mother chose the name” my father countered. He froze, not knowing what else to say.

“I said choose another name! It’s no good – it’s not Arabic, it’s not allowed. Choose another one,” he paused to draw heavy smoke from his Rothman cigarette with his left hand. “Are you Hijazi?” he asked as he blew the smoke out of his lungs and unintentionally into my fathers face.

“Yes, why?” My father began to get uncomfortable; that question could stir up a political argument, and he didn’t know what other name to choose. He was afraid anything else would upset my mother, and yet the authority was imposing his power.

The man looked at him impatiently, “you’re taking too long, I have hundreds of people in line,” he began to scrawl and said, “name her Moudhi, it sounds similar to the name her mother chose.” He handed the completed certificate to my father.

Sword names given to girls are very rare; Moudhi is possibly the only one. The name describes the shimmering light that reflects when a sharp sword is drawn from its scabbard. Moudhi is a Bedouin name, mostly given to tribal princesses a long time ago. In modern day Arabia the name Moudhi is rarely given to girls anymore. Moudhi became the name I was to be known by in Saudi society. Today, even my father calls me Moudhi.

My last name, Batterjee, is a well known merchant name in Hijaz with an unknown origin. Many Indian people I meet, however, tell me it’s a typical Indian name. In Arabic, the root word of Batterjee, batter, means amputation. And the entire name, Batterjee, means he who amputates. Amputation is commonly used to punish thieves and criminals in Saudi Arabia. An incriminated thief is not sentenced to prison, but instead has his right hand amputated after Friday prayer. Similarly, but more severely depending on the crime, criminals of murder, rape, and treason are beheaded.

The sword has historically been used as a tool to execute such punishments, to separate honor from shame, guilt from innocence. Swords are used to divide, to split, separate, and create boundaries. In countries like Saudi Arabia, the sword is etched on the flag, incorporated into the country’s insignia and given much cultural significance, as well as physically implemented by the law to execute authorized punishments.

Nobody else I know has my birth name Modia, besides my great grandmother, though countless Arab women from previous generations have the name Moudhi. Today, I bare two similar but different names from the past – strong names from opposite worlds. Were I to translate my name literally, it would state: a sharp, shimmering sword / separates honor from shame. This, surprisingly, symbolizes my life’s journey quite well. I have always lived a duality needing to defend who I am – someone caught in an endless battle between East and West, living with an American mother in a nation riddled with Middle Eastern post 9/11 extremism. I grew up carrying the burden of justifying my parents’ bicultural marriage to others. Today, I carry the burden of justifying my own choices as someone living between two worlds. Nonetheless, I have always carried these burdens in the same way: choosing to pursue honor in the place of shame.

My name is Rozana Al-Banawi.
Rozana is me, the oldest child.
Khala Rosanna Montejano is my ex-step-mom.
She spells hers with an “eS” and double “eN”s.
She’s Mexican-American, that’s why.
I spell it with a “Zed” and an “eN.”
She married my father when I was 5 years old,
making it impossible for them to name me
after her.
My mother’s name is Reem.

Reem wanted to name me Dima. In fact,
I was Dima – for four days. Some say a week.

شقيقتي الوحيدة إسمها فاطمة…ايوة أنا سموني رزانا وسموها فاطمة.
فاطمة هي الشقراء، البيضاء….وانا السمراء
اختي من ابوية إسمها عائشة…وعائشة هي الأمريكية!
(ولا هي شقراء ولا هي رزانا)
طفشونا الناس…لا ما نبغ نبدل اسامي!

جدو علي الي خلاهم يغيروا إسمي
…أحس كان ممكن اكون ديما

بس هو جدو عاش في ألمانيا وكان يحب الأسماء الأجنبية
كان يروح إجازات في إيطاليا…يحبوا رُزانا في إيطاليا
وأسبانيا والفلبين والبرازيل
فأهلي كمان صاروا يحبوا رُزانا

The spelling in Arabic is

Ra ر – Zen ز – Alif ا – Noon ن – Alif ا

‘Dhamma’ on the Zen!
Like: Ruba, Rula, Rutana.
They’re all: Ra & ‘Dhamma’
To this day, my father insists it’s the right spelling.
It’s spelled the same way in my passport.

أبلة أسماء كمال هي إلي عرفت تجيب معنى إسمي بالعربي
إما صندوق المجوهرات الثمينة
أو
نوع من انواع السحب المتدرجة

I learned from Abla Asmaa Kamal the meanings of my name in Arabic:
Either a box of valuable jewellery,
or the serene, gradual layer of clouds.

I love my name’s meaning in Urdu:
it means everyday.

هنا، أنا أي إسم ما عدى إسمي
رَزان – رُوزان – رَزانة
مرة في الكوفيرة نادوا سوزان وما رديت
وراح علية الموعد!
حتي حماية ناداني رووزان لمدة ١٢ سنة
فرحت من قلبي لمن سمعته يقول رُزانا

In the West, I make bookings under Rose Hafiz.
“I’d like to make a reservation for four ‪at 6 o’clock‬ under the name of Rose Hafiz”
Hafiz is a popular Sufi name nowadays in the west – they love it.
Hafiz is my husband’s & children’s last name, which I haven’t taken officially,
but still use when I’m abroad.

In Saudi, I make bookings with Rozana Al-Banawi.
“Al” connotes impact; it’s a great conversation starter:

“البنوي…فين ترجعوا؟”

Rozana, on the other hand, doesn’t resonate here.
I’ve learned to let it go when they paraphrase:
Razan Al-Banawi!

Dahlia Baeshen was the one who came up with RozaBee.
It’s a play on: Rozana AND Banawi (wi = wee)
Roza Bee is the name of my coaching practice.
It works with the paradoxical relationship between
the “being” the rose and the “doing” of the bee.
It accentuates the essence of who I am.
The cutest little billyboy calls me:

“أَنتي روزا بييييييييييييي”

Roza, Rozie, Ruzza – all the nicknames I’ve been given in the past.

My favourite one is Ruzza, Arabic for a single piece of rice.

Fourteen hours and fifteen minutes after I’d taken my last sip of water, I found myself sitting upright on the plush velvet sofa in our newly decorated living room, a sea of pillows in various shades of grey engulfing me. I propped one of the pillows behind my back to help me sit upright – I have a “very bad habit of slouching,” as my mother likes to frequently remind me. Yet another hunger pang hit me as my eyes fell on the bountiful arrangement of food and drink on the table before me: sugary dates, qishta, fresh fruit, and nuts. An array of neatly lined up juices promised all kinds of flavors – kiwi, mango, pomegranate, and guava. Last but certainly not least, laban, water, and two gleaming silver thermoses of Arabic coffee fought for space at the end of the overflowing table.

I took a glance around the living room to distract myself from the nauseating hunger that comes only in the very last moments of a day of fasting. I noticed that most of our guests – all dressed in colorful and elegant thobes – had closed their eyes and were mumbling to themselves, uttering last minute prayers. Their hands were cupped to their faces, their ears eagerly awaiting the sound of the athan, just like school children waiting for the bell. I placed my own hands into my lap, allowing my gaze to follow the intricate web of lines running along my palms. I took this moment of silence – something extremely rare in our household given the existence of my “sweet” five-year-old brother, our two lovebirds, and the constant clanking and crashing of dishes in the kitchen – to pray. I asked God for good health, peace, and happiness.

As I was praying, scents of saffron and cardamom wafted towards me, teasing my neglected stomach. Someone had opened the thermos holding the qahwa, and its intoxicating smell now filled the entire room. I could almost feel the coffee on my tongue, its lingering taste in my mouth before I’d even broken my fast. Once again, I took a brief look around the room, focusing first on the grandfather clock on the wall opposite me, and then on the way my mother, dressed in her favorite maroon thobe, was fidgeting with the coffee cups, making sure they were properly positioned on the silver tray, then pushing the tray towards the center of the table so that all the guests could reach it.

My focus was interrupted by the sudden call to prayer in Mecca, which I heard 61.8 miles away through the flat screen T.V in the corner of the room. Eager hands soon reached for glasses of laban and dipped neatly divided dates into fresh cream – the athan in Jeddah sounds seconds after the one in Mecca ends. The first thing I wanted to do was pour myself a cup of coffee, but my mother’s disapproving look reached me from the other side of the living room (she has a tendency of reading my thoughts before I’m able to act upon them), and I remembered that I was supposed to offer cups of coffee to our guests before serving myself. With a sigh, I popped a date (heavily loaded with gishta) into my mouth to break my fast, and then I got to work tending to the guests.

Luckily many of them were already quite busy, downing bottles of water with shocking speed and helping themselves to the juices and dates on the table. After serving a couple of relatives, I poured myself some coffee. I watched as the steaming caramel-colored liquid gracefully leapt from its temporary home, the silver thermos, and into my tiny white coffee cup. The first sip brought a sense of relief. The second reminded me that Arabic coffee is rather deceitful – sweet at first, but sure to leave a bitter aftertaste in ones mouth.

Instead of waiting for my mothers’ unspoken signal, a piercing glance that was only noticeable by her own flesh and blood, I got up and began rearranging the living room for maghrib prayer. I walked to the sequined chest in the corner of the room, careful not to trip over my long green thobe, and I pulled out several prayer rugs and sharasif salah for the ladies. I began to lay the prayer rugs out on the marble floor, each rug a different color and pattern than the last. Soon, the floor of our living room was almost completely hidden under the rainbow of prayer rugs.

My uncles’ deep voice filled the room as he recited the call to prayer. It’s amazing how delicate a man’s voice can sound when reciting Islamic prayer. How something so rough can become so soothing, like velvet. Mothers halfheartedly scorned their young children for refusing to get up and pray, choosing to play on their iPads instead. Fathers and other guests hastily filled the gaps in the row of rugs, ready to commence prayer. Once my own father took his place as the Imam in the front of the room, all was quiet. Feelings of peace and breaths of gratitude seemed to float around the room.

After prayer, the noise and haste returned. Guests claimed their seats at the dining room table, shuffling around to sit beside one another and moving all the kids to one side of the table. As this happened, exclamations over the feast before us could be heard. Cries of “mashallah!” and “Esh hada ya Dania?!” filled the room. They thanked my mother as they took in the array of dishes before them. The dining room table was taking on a larger load than it ever had. There were nearly fifteen different dishes arranged on it. My stomach ached more than ever at the mouth-watering sights and smells that took over the room. Stuffed grape leaves, seasoned lamb chops, cheese and meat sambusak, pasta with béchamel sauce, lentil soup, salads, and a massive platter of kabsa were some of the dishes before us.

Conversation filled the room as adults clumsily reached over one another, passing plates filled with food. They talked politics and real estate while children pushed the food on their plates around, giggling at silly faces they made at one another. One by one, guests reached their maximum capacity, and said a prayer of thanks and blessings to our family as they excused themselves from the table and headed towards the bathroom to wash their hands before returning to the living room. In the living room, things were quiet. Everyone sat down comfortably, and we turned to face the television, unable to move or talk from all the food. The guests looked at the desert laid out on the table like it was the plague, and yet none of them refused me when I handed them plates of kunafa filled with cheese and cups of tea. As I served desert, my mother fidgeted with the T.V. remote, flipping the channel to MBC 1 so that we could all tune in to the latest episode of Selfie.

I started to doze off early in the episode, my food coma overpowering me. I couldn’t help but love the month of Ramadan in that moment, despite the consistent cycle of waking up and sleeping too late, or the unintended weight gain (a direct result of eating like Vikings every night for thirty consecutive days). As I was drifting off to sleep, I wondered how much a single month could affect one’s mindset and top priorities. Perhaps Ramadan was actually just a prolonged version of New Years, of resolutions that never really lasted the whole year. Abstention from food and water from sunrise to sunset for a whole month can be seen as an opportunity for one to transform into a better, more disciplined, more religious, more sympathetic, and more tolerant human being. It can also be seen as an opportunity to celebrate – to gather with family and friends. An opportunity to eat, and eat again.

I sat there, in a familiar stranger’s house, shielded by my mother, who was far more social than I was. This was her environment, her comfort zone. I looked around the overly embellished salon, taking in the fusion of modern and archaic ornaments, noting the distinguished smell of Oud and the hint of Chanel Nº5 that floated in the air. I felt out of place, and with each passing moment, I felt my throat grow tighter, my palms sweatier. On the rare occasion that someone asked me about my age, name, or school, I inherently replied in a voice different from my own.

It was always the same scenario; it just took place in different locations, with slight variations to the characters present. My being there was no more than a formality. It saddened me to know that I wasn’t there as an individual, but as an addition – as someone who would one day be a legitimate member of this society. Not today.

I listened to the way they spoke. They were always talking about destinations – losing a few pounds, getting a higher professional position, or perhaps trips to Paris, London, or Istanbul. They talked fearlessly about what they wanted and I couldn’t help but listen. I stared at them in awe, though my stares were disregarded. I wanted to one day be so confident that no one’s stares would faze me.

A woman rose. I was unsure who she was at first but after a minute, I realized she was the hostess. She walked with a certain grace in her perfectly fitting monochrome dress and red-soled heels – an outfit I was sure from observing my mother had taken her very long to select. The refined woman carried the gold dallah – which surprisingly went well with her large gold earrings – in one hand, and a stack of fanajeen in the other as she circled the room, offering her guests Arabic coffee. She approached my mother, and I prayed that she wouldn’t interact with me, afraid that my bashfulness would be interpreted as rude or unfit for a setting like this.

Uninterestedly, she asked one of the most frequent questions there was: “How is school?” Typically I would have smiled ever so slightly and with the voice that wasn’t mine, responded by saying that it was fine. But something was different this time – I was determined to make an impression. “I graduate in 1,350 days!” I announced, hearing my actual voice enthusiastically relay the message aloud. I wasn’t sure whether I meant my comment as a joke, or as a mere observation. Either way, it stood out, and it wasn’t shy at all.

There was a brief moment of confusion at first; glances exchanged between the hostess and my mother, then, an approving laughter from the women. My mother looked at me and affectionately put her hand on my shoulder. The hostess looked at me with a humble smile, and gestured to me asking if I wanted coffee. She held out her hand to me, offering me the small cup of coffee, though we both knew she was offering me more than the traditional beverage. My mother seemed surprised when I reached out and took the small cup from the woman’s hand. Her eyebrows crippled with confusion and delight. I held the fenjan, white and decorated with a stylish trim of golden geometric shapes, in my hand as a prized possession – my token of acceptance. My eyes beamed with pride and confidence.

I came into the salon waiting for the moment I’d get to leave. I left looking forward to the next gathering, to the next time I’d get to be this version of myself – this elegant, coffee-drinking young woman, a woman who spoke with her real voice and was heard.

The smell of cardamom takes me back to some of my favorite memories of family gatherings in the holy month of Ramadan: everyone sitting around the iftar table, eagerly awaiting athan el maghrib to taste the luscious dates arranged before them, and to pour fresh coffee for themselves and their loved ones to sip and enjoy.

I grew up in a home that was always full of people, and always open for more guests. My father valued hospitality very much, and he explained to me at a young age that by inviting guests to your home, you show a willingness to share, and, more importantly, a desire to appreciate and befriend others – to love and embrace community. Not only did he highly encourage such generosity, but he also reprimanded his children for any action that showed the slightest form of inhospitality towards our guests.

I was nineteen when my father’s cousins dialed to say they wanted to come over for lunch for a change of scenery. Being the responsible and independent young woman I was at the time (I attended university abroad at the time, and was used to making decisions on my own) I made the only choice that seemed reasonable: I told them that I would call them right back after checking with my parents to see if they were prepared to have guests over for lunch. Oh, were my parents furious when I told them what had happened.

“If anyone ever wants to come over, you say ahlan wa sahlan; albeit beitakom! That’s all you say! You think they’re coming over for food?! Or to see a new place and new faces? They want to come see their family!” My mother went on about how I’d utterly embarrassed them, and how she’d taught me better than this. My father made me call our cousins back and apologize. I had to tell them why my first answer was totally out of place and rude, that I’d been abroad for a while and had thus forgotten how to respond in a cordial manner.

Things are different today. Saudi hospitality no longer revolves around simplicity, or around honoring guests and cultivating friendships. Nowadays, it’s about being the best. Hospitality has transformed into an unhealthy competition amongst the Saudi elite – an aggressive sport of one-upmanship in the form of lavish displays of table settings, exquisitely presented food, and pictures of these exclusive dinners and events plastered all over Instagram as a means of flaunting status. We no longer care about the time a host spends cooking for us anymore, but rather about who is catering.

When considering hospitality and friendship, I often think of the hadith, “Let the believer in Allah and the Day of Judgment either speak good or keep silent. Let the believer in Allah and the Day of Judgment honor his neighbor. Let the believer in Allah and the Day of Judgment honor his guest.” Arabic coffee and dates used to be all you needed to welcome a guest to your home, and cooking for guests was a heartfelt bonus. Hospitality was once about spending time together and making conversation. It was about meeting your friends’ children and bonding with new neighbors.

Though the state of Saudi hospitality today saddens me, I try to teach my own children part of what my father taught me. Because times are different now, I can’t teach them exactly what he taught me and expect them to actually apply it in their lives. I strive, however, to teach them to find a balance between what hospitality is truly about, and what they witness going on around them. Most importantly, I want them to learn to be generous with their time, their words, and their emotions. I want them to remember that the point of socialization is not to compete, but to enjoy one another, to help and be there for each other.

“Yes, please” I hear myself respond. The Asian flight attendant held the dallah in her left hand, as is customary to serve Arabic coffee. She poured the boiling hot liquid into a white thimble-sized coffee cup known as a fenjan, which she then handed to me with her right hand. I was impressed with her perfection of the ancient Arab tradition.

Saudi Arabian traditions can be confusing and stressful, because the slightest thing can offend someone. Serving a guest Arabic coffee must be done with the right hand – it’s the ultimate expression of hospitality. This can be a challenge for right-handed persons, such as myself, because the coffee has to be poured fresh out of the dallah into the fenjan with the left hand and served to the guest with the right hand. The delicate act of pouring the hot coffee into the small coffee cup is a skill that takes practice and getting used to. Saudis always want to ensure that they present themselves in the best possible manner, even if they are indifferent towards their particular guest.

My favorite place to have Arabic coffee is on Saudia Airlines flights. As soon as I get a whiff of the boiled cardamom and lightly roasted green coffee beans, my senses are awakened. As I carefully sip the steaming drink, aware of the caffeine entering my bloodstream and aware of the fact that I am on an airplane, the thrill of traveling hits me. My favorites flights are outbound – exiting my country.

Traveling is an essential part of the Saudi lifestyle. Perhaps this practice is remnant of the Arab Peninsula’s ancient past – of the trade routes and covenant journeys by winter and summer mentioned in the Holy Quran. For thousands of years, these routes extended throughout the Middle East, starting from India to Bahrain, all the way around the south of the Arabian Peninsula, and up the Red Sea, eventually finding themselves in Souk Okaz of Makkah. Personally I love to travel – to fly away in hopes of rest and relaxation from customs and suffocating social obligations.

I take every opportunity I can to hop onto a plane and visit a far away land. It is common knowledge that Saudi society is conservative by tradition, and some might even claim that it is oppressive. I don’t support the “oppressive” perspective, but I do find relief when I travel. The relief is a feeling of freedom, a freedom from judgmental attitudes and minds, from unforgiving social norms. Traveling provides us the opportunity to be ourselves. We are able to spend our days as we wish, enjoying ourselves from within the comfort of an anonymous community.

The first thing I do when I arrive at my travel destination is take a walk. I relish in the experience of seeing faces, and watching people move around in the clothes they chose to wear this morning. Colors are vibrant and human expression is exciting. The fact that I can see people jogging, talking, laughing, rushing to work, or even sitting on a bench revives my soul with purpose and poise.

I sip my Arabic coffee and feel totally content in my seat. The pressure of the cabin changes as the aircraft ascends into the skies, enhancing the feeling of the anticipated freedom in my chest. I look forward to my trip and I think of all the different things I want to do. I look forward to being myself.