She stops in front of me and pulls her keys from her pocket, going back to the door and locking it.
“What are you doing?”
She peers over her shoulder as she locks the door. “Just go. I will be right behind you.”
I shift my backpack higher on my shoulders and pull my suitcase behind me. As I rush down the hall and out the front door of the apartment building, I see a yellow cab pulling away.
“Wait!” I holler after it. “Shit, shit, shit! Mother fucker!”
Allison is giggling behind me.
I whip around. “What the hell is so funny?”
I notice a guy standing next to her. Mr. Med School from Red Square.
“Brad is your taxi. Did you really think I would not go with you to the airport?” she says in jest. He steps toward me and takes hold of my backpack.
“Hey, Ella. Allison said you could use a ride.”
His smile is genuinely sweet and I can see why Allison likes him. “Thanks.”
He pops the trunk and puts my backpack and suitcases in. Allison walks over to me and in an attempt to avoid any tender words, I busy my mind with deciphering Brad and Allison. “So, Mr. Med School and you?”
She smiles and nods discreetly. “Yeah.”
“You two ready?” Brad asks from his side of the car.
I would normally worry about his intentions with her and if he is a good guy or not. It’s just what good friends do. None of it matters as I watch their exchange. I’m happy for her and strangely relieved she has him while I am away. I won’t worry about her being alone for the summer.
As we pull up to the curb under the United Lufthansa sign, I tell myself not to cry as an annoying knot forms in the back of my throat.
“Okay, thank you for the ride,” I say as I open the car door.
I try to avoid looking at Allison, knowing if I see her cry I am done for.
“Like I said, no problem,” Brad says as he opens the trunk of his car. I search for Tom. He said he would be standing outside near the main entrance waiting for all the volunteers. Just then, I see a group of people with Tom standing in the middle holding up a sign that reads, “WorldTeach.”
Brad hands me one bag, then the other, placing them onto the sidewalk and extending his hand to me. “Have a safe trip, Ella.”
I shake his hand, delaying the goodbye between Allison and me as long as possible.
The lineup of cars begins to increase around us as people drop off and collect travelers. Someone honks their horn a few cars back and Brad says apologetically, “Sorry, but we have to go.”
Giving us a few seconds alone, he quickly gets back into the car. I turn to Allison, immediately noticing her red eyes. It’s all I need to see to make my own waterworks start.
“I’m going to miss you,” we both comment simultaneously as we hug tightly.
“Stop it, you bitch!” I demand jokingly, trying to make light of the moment.
“Okay, Okay!” she demands, then tries to laugh but executes as a sad whimper. “Get out of here, bitch.”
Another horn honks from behind us, pulling us apart.
“See you in three months,” I say as I take hold of the handles on both of my suitcases, my backpack on my shoulder. I don’t look back. It will just be another cycle of emotions for both of us if I do, so I instead focus on getting to Tom and the group. Spotting me, he waves and quickly adds a tick mark to his clipboard.
I am the last to arrive as Tom leads us all into the airport entrance now.
Bumping into someone next to me, I look up and recognize the girl’s exotic dark eyes and curly hair. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right,” she says.
I can’t seem to place her, but she seems to remember me. “English class. Eras in 20th Century American Lit.”
I nod as it clicks into place. “Good to see you again.”
“Yeah, you too...” Damn, I don’t remember her name.
She extends her hand, “Analise Diaz. Just call me Ana.”
I shake her hand. “Ella Wallace. El.”
The airport security line weaves snakelike and seems dauntingly endless as Tom glances at his watch, then looks at the line ahead of us nervously.
“So, what made you sign up?” I am not expecting her question and I guess she realizes it as she grins and explains, “We are going to be here a while. Just making conversation. You know, chit chat.”
I take in the line ahead of us and behind us and concede to the fact we will be here a while, but don’t offer an answer to her question. I barely know her, and while it is an obvious question, it’s still one I haven’t come to terms with completely other than the clichéd answer of wanting to have a purpose; she might think it is a line of bullshit or something.
She doesn’t push as she turns around in line and moves forward a few steps, starting up a conversation with the girl in front of her. The line continues at a snail’s pace for a whole hour, forcing us to run through the terminal to catch our plane. Once I am sitting at my seat I am able to breathe and feel reality settle in as I watch the tarmac disappear from my small window. I am leaving the country, going to a country I have never imagined setting foot in, and I am so fucking afraid.
It will be worth the risk.
Through the small pocket window, I watch the flashing light on the wing of the plane against the backdrop of night as we speed along the runway, then take flight. I close my eyes and let sleep take hold, envisioning white sands and the possibility of a new beginning.
Amman, Jordan
Two weeks later...
The two women sitting across the table from me are eating their meal quietly as I reach under the veil I have worked into a makeshift hijab to scratch my dampened scalp, my hair not fully dry from the quick washing I was able to do this morning. Both mother and daughter look at me to watch what I am doing, then turn back at their food and speak softly in Arabic. The mother’s name is Hoda and the daughter’s name is Ameena.
My Arabic isn’t great, even though I trained before leaving the States and the two weeks since being here. The integration classes here, plus assistance from Hoda and Ameena, have been the most help.
I take a generous bite of my dolma, enjoying the grape leaf-filled wrap. It isn’t something I have mastered in the two short weeks I have been here, as part of the leaves give way, breaking a little.
“Shit,” I hiss under my breath. Curbing my cursing has been the biggest challenge, and while Hoda doesn’t know what I have said, Ameena does, having bluntly asked in my past slipups. She covers her smile and looks away from her mother’s curious stare.
I set my Dolma to the side and pick up the Manakeesh with two hands like I would a hotdog. You would think a flatbread with minced meat and delicious flavor would have me more satisfied than a hotdog, but God I miss them. Thinking of them reminds me of Allison. I need to respond to her email when I get to the center this morning.
Hoda asks me a question in Arabic. I catch the gist of what she is asking, if I like the way it tastes. I don’t dare consider saying what I want, which is that it would have tasted better piping hot, but since it’s customary for men to eat their meal first here, I nod and smile, bringing life to her eyes and a small reserved smile to her lips as she focuses again on her plate. Both the patriarch of the house, Ismad Ba’ashir had left for work, while Ghalib, their six-year-old son, had eaten long before us. Mr. Ba’ashir works for a food delivery service for the wealthy here in Amman; the Abdoun area, which is a completely different reality from this side of town.
“Jayyid Jiddan,” I say choppily in my functional, yet poor Arabic, which means “very good.”
Ameena, almost twelve, bows her head and smiles, releasing just a hint of laughter at my lingual butchery before her mother gives her the discerning look of warning to show respect. I want to tell her I’m not offended, but I have made this error before in trying to explain her comment wasn’t harmful. The conversation ended with Hoda walking away angrily and speaking ver
y harshly in Arabic. I had obviously said something wrong.
Ghalib walks around the corner, gently wraps his little hand around my arm, and looks at me with intended sternness as he slowly enunciates every syllable of my broken expression. “Very good,” drawing each letter out. I want to laugh at his adorable animated face, but l smile instead.
He smiles at his mother and sister across the table, drawing out the word again. “Very good.”
Both Hoda and Ameena entertain him with their English in unison, “Very good.”
He smiles proudly, thinking he has taught his mother and older sister something, then skips off to the other room.
Looking across the table at Hoda, I tell her slowly in Arabic that he learns quickly.
Delighted by her son, she smiles wider, but only for a brief moment as the familiar sound of the call to prayer brings a deafening silence over the house. The Adhan is is sacred in this house and throughout much of Jordan.
I continue to eat as the call to prayer sounds and Hoda, Ameena, and Ghalib move to the room next to the living room. I notice Jasara and her eldest daughter, Laila, ascend the stairs. They are Syrian refugees the Ba’ashir family has given asylum to for the past two years. Jasara Ahmadi has one daughter, Laila, thirteen; a son, Rushdi, six like Ghalib. Her husband did not make the journey with them. He was killed just before they fled Syria. Before arriving here in Amman, they had stayed in two of Jordan’s refugee camps, but the overcrowding, lack of supplies, and violence within the camps sent them to the streets to look for shelter. That is when she found Caritas and the Ba’ashir family.
The Ahmadi family does not participate in Adhan since they are Christian, not Muslim. When I read the host family profile Tom handed me on the bus the day we arrived, I asked him if it was a typo. A Muslim family taking in a family of refugees is rare, and more so if they are a Christian family. He said it wasn’t a typo and that is one of the reasons the Ba’ashir family was chosen by Caritas, because of their desire to assist those in need, no matter their religion.
Hoda and Ismad are good people and have lived in this neighborhood since they were children. Jasara and her daughter show respect for the time of prayer as they silently sit with me at the table waiting for Hoda, Ameena, and Ghalib to return.
It has only been two weeks since my group clustered and trailed through Amman Queen Alia International Airport. I remember feeling overwhelming regret. I wanted to run, dart out of the Arabic-speaking crowds smelling of cigarette smoke. I remember thinking 6.4 million people, 6.4 million people over and over again as I shuffled, stopped, maneuvered around, clustered together, then shuffled some more.
Caritas, a humanitarian charity non-governmental organization, had sponsored a private bus to take all of the volunteers into Amman. Tom had spoken to us in more detail about Caritas and how they were a partner organization during orientation after I was accepted into the program. He said Caritas had been handling humanitarian work in Jordan since the 1960s due to the effects of the wars having displaced Palestinian people to Jordan. Where many of the volunteers through WorldTeach are working with the education needs of the refugee population coming mainly from Syria now, Caritas assists with medical, financial, and counseling needs of the refugees in Jordan.
As I walked out of the airport with the group, a hot gust of wind hit me, taking my breath away. I could feel the grains of sand against my cheeks, tingling as they hit my face, along with the smell of waste. I quickly lifted the shawl Tom had given us on the plane and realized he wasn’t giving it to us to be generous, he gave it to us for the purpose of Middle Eastern custom and protection from the elements. I commented to Tom on the smell and he said it wasn’t uncommon since many foreign countries do not share our sanitation practices. He said I would get used to it.
The bus was large, with plenty of room for each of us to have our own section of seats. I didn’t care to socialize, so I sat in the rear in the very last row, hoping to isolate myself. I just wanted to get to our destination, meet my host family, thank them for their hospitality, and hole up in my room. Tom came through handing us our host family descriptions along with the names of the family members. When he got to me, he gave me my packet then sat down in the seat across from me. He asked if I was okay. I told him I wasn’t sure. He smiled and said it was the cycle of traveling abroad, that acclimation worked differently for everyone.
“The first time I came ten years ago I wanted to hop a plane straight back to D.C., but then I met the people,” he said. As he continued to explain, I looked out the window at the sparsity of trees, and the density of golden sand cutaways and cliffs as he wound through a highway. “It will come once you meet your host family and see the center with the volunteers and the children. A feeling of duty washes over you that is hard to explain. The desire to serve will transfer at some point to a fulfillment you can only get from knowing you have met your match, your purpose here.”
The landscape changed drastically as we entered the city, sand hills and limestone rock quarries turning to lush green landscape among the valleys, or wedyaan, then to villas and mansions tiered through the hill tops called jabal. At first it was hard to believe this city was suffering as we passed the residences with well-manicured greenery, iron gates, and luxurious amenities.
As Tom spoke about the city landscape, he told us this was the area of Abdoun, which was west of the center of the city. The widened streets of Abdoun, high above the city of Amman, quickly narrowed as our bus moved down into the wadi of Amman’s inner city. The mansions were replaced with aged cement buildings tiered along the jabals. As I looked up into the dense populous of concrete buildings, Tom explained they were being used as subsidiary camps for the refugees and those who didn’t register with the UNHCR would need to find more meager housing, if any. Many unregistered refugees were in poverty and homeless. Passing the buildings, I notice segments missing, having broken away and slid down the edge of the jabal.
Deeper in the city, narrow streets were lined with vendors, shops, and open doorway inlets for what I would suspect are homes. Some of the businesses and homes we passed were dusty and aged, but kept as best as they could by the people living and working within them. The Arabic signs above the shops moved too quickly for me to read, if reading them were a possibility with my rudimentary Arabic. The faces of men sitting on stools, the veiled women, and the children playing and running around them brought a fragment of the culture to life for me as we got closer to the center of town and closer to the Makan Lil Amal center, which was located in the middle of Amman and the only center supported by Caritas with assistance from the WorldTeach volunteer program. As we exited the bus, a wave of heat washes over me, having been spoiled by the air-conditioning. As I followed the group through the narrow, gated passage the center, I heard the distinct sound Middle Eastern music carried with the light mewing sound of children singing just beneath it. Their voices crooned in their native language. While exotic and so different from music in the States, it was beautiful as the tones welcomed us.
As we stepped into the courtyard, the singing stopped and many of the children surrounded us, taking our hands. The adults stood back, leaving room for the children to see us. Many of the women covered their faces with their traditional hijab, but those partially unveiled showed us the joy we brought to them by being here. Two of those faces were Hoda’s and Jasara’s.
Tom was right. That was the first time I felt like I had a calling, a purpose for being here, and it isn’t the last, as I feel the same calling sitting before Jasara and Laila right now.
“Sabah el-khair,” Jasara whispers.
“Sabah el-noor,” I whisper back.
“Good morning,” Laila whispers and smiles brightly. She is always so eager to use her English.
“Good morning.”
Once the call to prayer has ended, Hoda, Ameena, and Ghalib come back into the kitchen.
Hoda comes to us speaking in Arabic, telling me I must go as she exchanges a small embrace and ki
ss on either check of Jasara, then Laila.
I watch Ameena greet Laila like a sister would, as they exchange a small embrace and a peck on each cheek. They are almost the same height and could easily pass as sisters. Ghalib wraps his arms around Laila’s leg as a little brother would to an older sister, then darts off into another room. While they are two distinct families from two different nations, even two different religions, they seem to have found their oneness as a unique unit. Every day since I have arrived, they have given me no reason to think otherwise as they depend on each other, care for each other, and, in instances, love each other like a true family.
Ghalib runs back into the room and takes the lunch Hoda is holding out for him. She holds one out for Ameena, then me. She has been packing my lunch since the first day at the center, and while it is strange since I’ve never had my lunch packed for me, even by my mother, I accept her expression of respect warmly.
I smile and bow my head to her graciously. “Thank you.”
Hoda bows her head in return and replies, “Welcome,” then quickly moves on to distributing the remaining food in the kitchen for Jasara and Laila to take down stairs to their small space in the house.
Hoda shuffles behind Ameena, Ghalib, and me, speaking in Arabic as we follow them down to leave for the day.
“Allah maakun dayman,” she says at the top of the stairs, hugging Ameena and Ghalib before they descend.
God is always with you.
Watching her close her eyes when she tells each of them this phrase is beautiful. As I come up to pass her, she says the same to me, placing her hand on my back, kissing both of my cheeks. My cheeks instantly flush and my heart softens as this is the first time she has included me in this family routine of goodbyes.
“Shukran.”
I adjust my veil on my head to conceal most of my hair and stay close to Amani and Ghalib as we walk to their school. While the more exclusive parts of Jordan are more liberal with the wearing of hijab, our part of Amman holds utmost respect for this custom in concealing modesty. I learned all too quickly the first few days of being here in the city, if anything was exposed too much I was looked at as if I was a harlot or whore. I could get away with it in the Ba’ashir’s house and in class with the students, but anywhere else the veil was on.
Cross the Stars (Crossing Stars #1) Page 7
