Wednesday, October 9, 2019 // The Statement
6B

From Page 5B

Read more online at
michigandaily.com

PHOTO BY DANYEL THARAKAN

B

y mid-March, Steph and I knew the drill. We
marched through the streets, stomping through
the roundabouts and heedlessly injecting
ourselves into the traffic. The cars surrounded us like in
the movies, but it was exciting. The masochist in me lived
for the thrill of potential danger. I liked going straight
into that lion’s den. Maybe my amygdala is defective.
The increasing normalcy of my life was comforting too.
Our classes were invigorating and purposeful; I knew
what I was doing in Jordan and I found solace in that.
Studying the refugee crisis was characteristically heavy
material, but walking gave me the ability to navigate
through all that mental traffic. What omnipotent power
had blessed me with privilege? Baba would say God. My
dad would say karma. I’m jealous of their certainty; I
can’t relate to that feeling.
Steph was worrying about her future as a doctor as
I savored in the uncertainty of what would be next.
I would figure it out. Hopefully ... The fear of failure
wouldn’t hit for months to come, when I’d start feeling
the withdrawal symptoms of being aimless. What’s the
point of walking if you don’t know what direction you’re
going? I had a path in Amman. I knew the path like the
back of my hand. I didn’t like unrequited attention, but I
tolerated it. Women are gifted at tolerating things they
shouldn’t.
It became so much easier once our routine integrated
the men’s harassment. I was scared but I didn’t
understand why. I knew they wouldn’t lay a hand on me,
but I still felt unsettled at the idea that I relied on their
mercy for my safety. And that’s not only indicative of
Jordan; that’s a woman’s reality. Their flagrant gazes tore
down the neatly arranged curtain that had been hung up

in front of me my whole life.
I had spent my adolescence impulsively walking
through Chicago at night, and I didn’t want that taken
away from me. Safety precautions notoriously tarnish
anything fun. Walking in Amman had me questioning my
pedestrian experiences in Chicago. Maybe I just didn’t
notice the unwanted ogling. Maybe, I was oblivious.
Nonetheless, my routine in Amman fostered comfort,
and with comfort came the desire to push the edge. Steph
and I found our own means of staging mini coups. What
better way to repel men than to dress more provocatively?
We thought we were so clever. We were not.
I say provocative like I wore mesh and ripped jeans,
but provocative meant that I was wearing white, an
ironically innocent color. Provocative meant that you
could visualize my form as a woman. Provocative meant
that my shoulders were covered but my arms weren’t; my
legs were covered and my shirt was loose.
Then one day, Steph got pissed. There had been a
group of men who were around our age, acting seemingly
harmless as usual. But they started following us, so we
went into a store to throw them off. One of them clearly
didn’t appreciate our defiance and went into the store
with us. He followed us around and laughed at our fear.
What do we do? We left the store and he emerged, right
behind us. We tried going faster but still, he was there.
Caught between my fight or flight instincts, I could hear
my mom telling me I should act like the graceful woman
she had raised me to be, and I could hear my muscles
laughing at my delusion. Eventually, his friends made
him back off and he disappeared. Thank God, because I
could feel myself riding the line of cultural insensitivity,
screaming crudely in the middle of the street.

We were fine. Of course. Steph and I always were. I
always was. I was blessed enough that my recklessness
never cost me my safety, and my risks had always paid off.
But that was a risk Steph wasn’t willing to take anymore.
So, I started walking alone. I couldn’t help but wonder
when the day would come that I wouldn’t be so lucky as
to have my imprudence be rewarded with the luxury of
immunity.
M

aybe I can find my halawa on Amazon. Will
that make me happier? I thought that coming
home would be liberating, but I feel stuck. I
can’t seem to find motivation or purpose. What the hell
am I doing? I learned and experienced so much, only to
come back to Ann Arbor and sit on my couch, doing the
exact same things I did before my semester abroad.
I’m more of an outsider here than I was with Baba
and Steph. I embodied my identity better when I was
disguised as the good Christian girl Baba craved me
to be. She doesn’t have tattoos. She doesn’t expose her
shoulders. She’s a virgin. They knew a utopian version
of me. Well, utopian for them. That version of myself
felt pretty dystopic in my nightly water-filled eyes, but it
somehow felt more real. Contradicting, right? Maybe it
was the sense of purpose. I’m scared to lose myself, but I
can’t even resolve which version of myself I’m hoping to
keep. I don’t know what I want. What if I don’t figure it
out? Seventeen dollars for a pound of sugar-free halawa.
I want it.