I pulled out one of my Kuwaiti derraa3aa to wear today after having them shoved in my closet for ages, and I am struck by a completely irrational sense of homesickness for a place that was never really my home to begin with.
I miss Souq Mubarkiyyah and its treasures both expensive and simple. I miss the humid, hot air at night, the scented breeze that tugged at my belly. I miss the bukhoor at the masjid on Jumu'ah, the way I lingered a little longer in sajdah to enjoy the scent.
I miss the precious circle of Muslim expats whom I met every Tuesday for tafseer class in English; I miss the women who heard my story, understood my pain, loved me through my misery, celebrated my freedom when I left.
I miss the languid drawl of the Kuwaiti accent, even as I hated the arrogance in the eyes of those who immediately judged me not only as a foreigner, but a lowly one. I miss the late night excursions for greasy shawarma and piping hot fatayer.
I don't miss the loneliness of being a stranger to everyone, including my then-husband. I don't miss the emptiness of knowing that I wasn't good enough, that I would never be good enough. I don't miss the silent suffocation, the cold shoulder turned to me without explanation.
I don't miss laying in bed, curled up on myself with my infant tucked into me, next to a person who wanted nothing more than to erase my entire sense of self. I don't miss sobbing for hours, with only my child and the walls of my apartment as witness, knowing that I had no power over myself or my future.
I don't miss the eeriness of feeling more numb each day, of fading, of nodding in acquiescence and erasing my sharp edges into dull corners, of waking up with the taste of loss always on my tongue, no matter how much gahwa I choked down to mask it, no matter how much I sweetened my shai.
It was so long ago, and yet - wearing this innocuous derraa3aa, a simple, comfortable dress that I remember picking out and buying from an Afghani merchant who loved to tell stories - I feel dizzy with phantom heartache and hysteria and hollow grief.
I wish I could rescue myself sooner, before the bright spark in my grin was stamped out, before my hopefulness withered to bitterness, before I turned from lithe lioness-cub to limping gazelle, before I was too wounded to realize when I walked into a trap and thought it love.
Sometimes, I wish I could forget it all. Other times, I panic - that the memories have faded too much, that I will forget what happened to make me who I am today, that I will lose my connection to who I was then. Greedily, I want to cling to the tatters of myself.
I tell myself to breathe. That was then, and this is now. I am myself, now - mostly - almost. And this dress that I'm wearing... is just a dress.
I will wear it again next week, and the week after that, and again, and again, until it is just a dress again, mundane and faded, and my skin will stop prickling at the touch of fabric so steeped in sorrow and the salt of the ocean and desert air. It's just a dress, after all.
I miss Souq Mubarkiyyah and its treasures both expensive and simple. I miss the humid, hot air at night, the scented breeze that tugged at my belly. I miss the bukhoor at the masjid on Jumu'ah, the way I lingered a little longer in sajdah to enjoy the scent.
I miss the precious circle of Muslim expats whom I met every Tuesday for tafseer class in English; I miss the women who heard my story, understood my pain, loved me through my misery, celebrated my freedom when I left.
I miss the languid drawl of the Kuwaiti accent, even as I hated the arrogance in the eyes of those who immediately judged me not only as a foreigner, but a lowly one. I miss the late night excursions for greasy shawarma and piping hot fatayer.
I don't miss the loneliness of being a stranger to everyone, including my then-husband. I don't miss the emptiness of knowing that I wasn't good enough, that I would never be good enough. I don't miss the silent suffocation, the cold shoulder turned to me without explanation.
I don't miss laying in bed, curled up on myself with my infant tucked into me, next to a person who wanted nothing more than to erase my entire sense of self. I don't miss sobbing for hours, with only my child and the walls of my apartment as witness, knowing that I had no power over myself or my future.
I don't miss the eeriness of feeling more numb each day, of fading, of nodding in acquiescence and erasing my sharp edges into dull corners, of waking up with the taste of loss always on my tongue, no matter how much gahwa I choked down to mask it, no matter how much I sweetened my shai.
It was so long ago, and yet - wearing this innocuous derraa3aa, a simple, comfortable dress that I remember picking out and buying from an Afghani merchant who loved to tell stories - I feel dizzy with phantom heartache and hysteria and hollow grief.
I wish I could rescue myself sooner, before the bright spark in my grin was stamped out, before my hopefulness withered to bitterness, before I turned from lithe lioness-cub to limping gazelle, before I was too wounded to realize when I walked into a trap and thought it love.
Sometimes, I wish I could forget it all. Other times, I panic - that the memories have faded too much, that I will forget what happened to make me who I am today, that I will lose my connection to who I was then. Greedily, I want to cling to the tatters of myself.
I tell myself to breathe. That was then, and this is now. I am myself, now - mostly - almost. And this dress that I'm wearing... is just a dress.
I will wear it again next week, and the week after that, and again, and again, until it is just a dress again, mundane and faded, and my skin will stop prickling at the touch of fabric so steeped in sorrow and the salt of the ocean and desert air. It's just a dress, after all.
2 comments:
I thought you were happily married to the person because that’s how most of your posts were online. Was this a co-wife setup or is it something older than that?
My marriage during my time in Kuwait was to someone else, not my current husband.
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