On Feeling Misplaced
by Rania Dawud
Collage by Arwa Al Shamsi.
At some point in my early childhood, a joke began on my dad’s side of the family where I would be repeatedly asked which country I’ve lived in is my favorite. “Jordan or Canada?”, “Canada or Qatar?”, “Qatar or Jordan?”, “Tayeb… Canada or Jordan?” over and over again until I got tired or annoyed. The joke never really went away fully, and later on, a new category was added: “Qatar or Dubai?”, “Dubai or Jordan?”, “Jordan or Qatar”, “Tayeb… Dubai or Canada?”. It’s only now that I’m much older that the jokes have declined; the format is no longer funny with a twenty-year-old. Of course, all children get teased by their relatives, although I did notice that the talk of countries was considerably less in the other jokes. But most of the other children weren’t just visiting Amman for the summer either.
My parents were both born in the Arabian Gulf to Palestinian parents. I was born in Amman and my brother was born in Edmonton. We were so scattered right from the start. I am a Palestinian Jordanian-Canadian who grew up (mostly) in Doha, Qatar. I’ve cycled between four countries growing up, and will probably cycle through more going forward.
When my mother and younger siblings landed in Amman two summers ago for their summer break and to visit me, we sat in the living room of my grandparents’ house, making general, polite small talk. While everyone was catching up, my uncle asked, “Aren’t you happy to be back in Jordan? Don’t you feel relieved to get a break from el ghorbeh (living abroad)?”
My mother paused for a moment and the two of us looked at each other. I don’t think it occurred to either of us that el ghorbeh was something we could get a break from. I was born into it and I couldn’t really picture an alternative. My parents haven’t properly resided in Jordan since they got married. Over twenty years on the move, settling down has become more of a fantasy than a viable option.
As I walked down the steps alongside the auditorium with my classmates, it was hard to miss that the auditorium was more than two-thirds empty. Our high school graduation ceremony was paired with the awards ceremony for other high school students in order to bring in a larger audience.
We were thirteen graduates sitting in a half-circle on the stage, and one by one we were called to stand on the center of the stage while our English teacher read out the most impressive essay we’d written for her class. Partly done to show off the talent of her students, but largely to extend the otherwise very short ceremony.
My high school was a very small Canadian-system school in Doha that taught 300 students between Kindergarten and Grade 12. It was a tiny, friendly Canadian expat community, made of individuals who were also hyphenated. Having left Canada a decade ago, I would have classmates and friends share their memories of “back home,” sharpening this aspect of my identity that I’d begun to forget. It was refurbished by second-hand impressions and descriptions that were still fresh in the minds of others and foreign to me. Meanwhile, whenever I was asked about school by anyone on the outside, I would need to begin with a preface. “You’re only thirteen students though? What’s the point of a whole graduation ceremony then?” a family friend jokingly tells me.
Currently, I am an English Literature major and part of the smallest faculty I know of. People’s faces fall when I tell them that I am one of four Literature graduates for the class of 2020. My mom teased that my class can fit in her car. “They might as well not bother giving you classes!” a relative jokingly tells me.
At 18, I moved to Amman alone to attend university while my family continued to reside in Doha. I visited every chance I got. I was always really excited and relieved to be back, yet by the next day, I was already sad.
Doha, you see, is now a very rapidly changing city. Whenever I go back there’s always a new thing. Whether it’s a new mall, a new freeway, a new bridge, a new trend. Little nuances that I missed became outdated so soon. There is always something that I’m missing, I always have to be out of the loop in some way.
Coming back home to realize that life moves on without you is frustrating, though inevitable. I don’t think I expected for things to stay the same with my absence, but it also didn’t occur to me that things would change.
Sure, I would always have my family. But they had new inside jokes. My sister had taken some liberties with our shared room. My family had a new food spot they enjoyed, a new dessert they were obsessed with, or a new temporary tradition that would soon be replaced by whatever fleeting fixation came next, right as I began to catch up. “Oh! Remind us to take you to that Indian restaurant in the Pearl. She’ll love it, right?”
The friends I made there have all moved away. My plans revolved around only one person outside my family.
I just couldn’t believe I was lonely here as well.
The end of my visit always came too soon. I would kiss my mom goodbye, holding back tears every time. Half an hour later I’d be sitting in the airport gate simmering, feeling like an angry foster child.
In Amman, I’d pace around the empty apartment. I’m so closely acquainted with silence I don’t think I was ever in the loop.
One foot out the door in two lands, I’ve become unfamiliar with either.
There had to be a point where I admit defeat, raise the white flag. I just had to accept that in every stage of my life there will always be something to set me apart. Something that made my experiences unconventional. Embracing it feels pompous, ignoring it is delusional and impractical.
I find myself in a very tricky Venn diagram to rationalize. Academics might call it postcolonial, journalists may say it’s a very Gen Z Internet Age phenomenon, parents might call it our jihad (struggle). I don’t think I care which it is, really, I just know it’s very very solitary.
Rania Dawud (@whosrania) is a writer from Amman, Jordan. She is passionate about storytelling in all its forms, she is frequently trying to make sense of people and the little phenomena in their lives.
Edited by Fatima Al Jarman
Collage created by Arwa Al Shamsi