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

From Page 5B

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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.