Where is home? Is it the place you were born, or
where you grew up, or is it somewhere else? Is home just one
place or many places?As a child, my
family moved from country to country. My mother always told
me that the reason we were so ???unsettled??™ had to do with my
father??™s gypsy blood. Apparently his grandmother had been a
nomad, never staying in the same place for more than a year
or two. Whatever the reason, I was always unsure of where to
call home. I didn??™t remember too much about the city where I
was born and I could only remember bits and pieces of the
other places I lived, but there was always at least one fond
memory that stuck in my mind.
When we finally settled down in the
United States, I came to the conclusion that I belonged not
just to Scotland, my birthplace, but to the whole world. It
was part of me. It was my home. It was something I carried
with me in my mind and heart. I had the olive skin and
nomadic urges of my gypsy ancestors, the fair hair of my
Teutonic forbearers, and the desire to explore and discover,
a gift that had passed down through the generations from my
Viking ancestors. I was a woman of the world. I was as
comfortable getting off a train, alone, in an isolated
French village in winter, as I was climbing Ayer??™s Rock in
the heat of Australian summer. I had confidence; I had faith
in the world, though one day that faith was put to the test.
I had been sent to the Middle East on
an assignment for a magazine I was writing for. My job was
to travel throughout Jordan for two weeks and then write an
article about my journey and discoveries. My stamina was
tested the first day. I don??™t know how I survived the long
and tedious flight from the western United States. It took
me forty-eight hours from the time I left my house in Salt
Lake City, Utah, until I collapsed on the bed in my hotel
room in Amman, Jordan. Though I??™d traveled most of my life
with no worries, I found that being alone in an Arab country
made me slightly nervous. Jet lag attributed to most of
that. My nerves were soon put at ease that first night when
I received a welcoming phone call from Prince Raad, of the
royal Hashemite family. He assured me that I would enjoy his
country, that I??™d be safe, that I??™d have special treatment
and that the country was open to me. We made plans for
dinner upon my return from touring.
The next morning a car and driver
showed up at my hotel. My assigned driver was a devout
Muslim named Issa. I was concerned that our differences
might cause some discord, but after chatting for a while, I
realized there was nothing to worry about. Smiling a broad
grin, he opened the car door for me and I began my tour of
this incredible country. I explored the ancient, abandoned
desert castles, rode a camel through the barren wasteland of
Wadi Rum, and swam in the bay at Aqaba, where four countries
meet ??“ Israel, Saudi Arabia, Jordan and Egypt. I took a
buggy ride through Petra and it??™s ancient buildings carved
into the sandstone mountains, humming the tune from ???Indiana
Jones and the Temple of Doom,??? which had been filmed there.
I basked in the luxury of a spa along the shores of the Dead
Sea in 120 degree F temperatures. I felt at home in each of
these places and most everywhere else I went.
One morning Issa explained that to get
to our next destination, we??™d have to drive through the tops
of the mountains or face a drive through miles and miles of
inhospitable desert. Salt Lake City is surrounded by massive
mountains, so I didn??™t mind thoughts of the shorter drive
through the steep mountains of Jordan. As we drove up the
zigzagging, unpaved dirt road, which was cut into the sides
of the cliffs, I tried not to be terrified. My knuckles dug
into the arm rests several times when the car skidded on
rocks and sand towards the edge. After safely arriving at
the top and breathing a sigh of relief, we headed to the
small village, Talal. As it was Friday, the Muslim holy day,
Issa pleaded with me to stop at the village mosque so he
could worship and pray. I had no problem with that. He
disappeared into the mosque and sat in the car, enjoying my
book.
Only a few minutes passed when
something smashed into the rear window of the car. I jumped,
wondering what it was. A group of ten-year-old boys gathered
around the car. One of them threw another rock. Soon all of
them were tossing stones. The car was being pelted from all
sides. Bravely, I opened the door and stood outside the car,
hoping my presence would stop them, but the boys began
swearing at me and throwing more rocks. Tired of their
nonsense, I chased them, screaming at the top of my lungs.
That deterred them, as they darted away in all directions.
By now I was feeling highly agitated
and fear was growing inside of me. Here I was, a western
woman in a foreign, male-dominated world, out in the middle
of nowhere, and my only contact was inside a mosque, where
it is forbidden for a woman to enter. All the boys but one
kept their distance, but the lone holy terror wouldn??™t give
up. For the next half an our he pelted the car, breaking
several windows, scratched and dented the doors and hood,
and made obscene and abusive gestures to me.
Finally, after a very long hour, Issa
appeared through the heavy, wooden doors of the mosque. The
boy dashed away. I opened the car door and bounded towards
my driver, crying with relief to see him. He was in shock to
see what had happened during his absence. Not only was he
concerned for my safety, but he knew he was going to have to
answer for the damage to the car, but to the royal family
for putting me in harm??™s way and that upset him to tears.
Luckily, I had watched where the boy
went and pointed it out to Issa. We drove down the dirt road
to the boy??™s house. Issa went to the door and mumbled
something in Arabic to the father. Soon the car was
surrounded by men, who I presumed were the boy??™s relatives.
One man dragged the boy by the hair to the side of my car to
be identified. I assured them that was indeed the young man
who did all the damage. Issa told them who I was and why I
was here. Their faces were etched with horror and fear. The
apologies went on for ages. The boy was severely beaten in
front of me, which I did not wish to watch. I turned my head
and wiped the tears of sorrow from my eyes. I had only
wanted him to apologize and understand the errors of his
ways. Issa made a quick list of all the damage to the car,
demanding payment from the boy??™s father. I was certain the
poverty stricken family could not afford to pay anything
towards the repairs. I told Issa to let them off and that I
would pay for it myself. The father wept openly with
gratitude. The boy was given another beating. Shaken and
upset by the day??™s events, I felt such relief when we were
on the road back to Amman. My heart went out to the family
and to the young boy. I realized that I had left a bit of my
heart there, even under such frightening circumstances.
After another week visiting this
amazing country I loved the people and the land. As I stood
at my hotel window, looking out over the white stone
buildings spread across the hills of the city, I realized
that though there was one negative incident, I loved Jordan.
It was going to find a place in my heart and be one of my
homes, where I would feel welcome and comfortable any time I
visited.
Each place that I spend time in becomes
part of me and I become part of it, forever. I belong to the
world and it belongs to me. To me, home is where my heart
is and I??™ve left a little bit of my heart everywhere I??™ve
been.
?© 2003 Margo Fallis?
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Blessings to you. Have a great week ahead.
Bob Johnston
Minneapolis
Starfish @ Ripplemaker.com
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