street 33
Choosing a place to describe came with great burden. Was I to choose my favorite room in the house, a café I’ve spent long hours in, or perhaps, a hidden spot I recently discovered.
I knew only of one thing, the place had to be somewhere in Al Khor.
Al Khor is defined by a lot of things. In Persian, it means ‘creek’, a shallow body of water which flows. Like a river but not quite. On a map, it could be pinned to the North of Doha, a little bit to the East. To me, it is the place I have spent the last eleven years in - on some days, I could even call it my first home.
Al Khor is not absolute, it isn’t north or east, river or creek; it is a place of infinite entities.
Ultimately, I chose a street. A street I’ve walked through countless times, with people who meant differently to me, for reasons that diverged from one another.
It is in this street where I have witnessed the sun whisper goodbye time and time again, making the same promise that it will return the next morning. Hues of red and orange spill into the starkness of the blue sky; only to be reflected against the dull grey of the asphalt. Trees of green exuberance line the pavement, duly standing like reservists awaiting their time. Accompanying them are poles of steel with flickering lights (on, off, on, off) seemingly unsure when to make their presence known.
Darkness slowly creeps in, and yet the street still reeks of warmth from the now-absent-sun. Vehicles branded with the same, proud symbols slide past each other in uniform speed, not one kilometer lower or higher than twenty-five per hour. Yellow blocks of mortar intertwined, completing a story-perfect rectangle; two windows out front, three out back, and repeat. It is too picturesque.
But if my world could be reduced to one mark on the map, it would be here.
Six in the morning, eleven at night and one thirty in the afternoon – and everything that comes in between.
This pavement has grown accustomed to the sound of my steps, like a five-year-old waiting for Mum to come home after work. Beneath me, the concrete, flat and innocent, has begun to swell up – perhaps from absorbing the conversations it has heard. Sometimes, I could even swear seeing each block, bound and geometric, rearranging themselves into an array of disorder, just to accommodate my sole. It has recognized the frequency changes of the sound waves I have produced; from Taylor Swift to T-Pain, and to some foreign artist whose language I have known all my life but to which it cannot discern just yet.
On my favorite days, if you’re particularly lucky, the rain just stopped. It’s the middle of February, one-thirty in the afternoon; a year has passed since it last rained. A lot of people are walking home today, the pavement you were once able to claim your own is now everyone’s. In a sense, it’s a part of all of you. The school with its dim green corridors, the medical centre to the left where your best friend's mum works, the Al Meera right next to that, with the man behind the cash register who always says hi, yet, whose name you never thought to ask because in your mind he’s always going to be there.
You watch as people disperse into groups of their own choosing - your own friends behind you: laughing, complaining, talking about the day’s joys. The ground is soaked, there’s a distinct smell in the air. One that smells of Earth, tea, and perhaps... home. The home that has claimed you before you even took your first breath. The home in which all of your parents’ stories return to. Your friends become aware of it too; the same disorienting smell, taking you all back to that great place. Where are you? Are you here?
For just a minute, Al Khor becomes definite. It becomes home in every sense of the word. Yours and everyone who has stepped on it, unsure whether they could claim Al Khor as their own.
Then, a breeze sweeps across the tree above you, then your hair, causing a stream of black to shroud your vision for a second. You are reminded of how badly you need that haircut but above everything else, you are grateful. For days like these; for friends like yours, and for a breeze like that.
You all belong here.
I knew only of one thing, the place had to be somewhere in Al Khor.
Al Khor is defined by a lot of things. In Persian, it means ‘creek’, a shallow body of water which flows. Like a river but not quite. On a map, it could be pinned to the North of Doha, a little bit to the East. To me, it is the place I have spent the last eleven years in - on some days, I could even call it my first home.
Al Khor is not absolute, it isn’t north or east, river or creek; it is a place of infinite entities.
Ultimately, I chose a street. A street I’ve walked through countless times, with people who meant differently to me, for reasons that diverged from one another.
It is in this street where I have witnessed the sun whisper goodbye time and time again, making the same promise that it will return the next morning. Hues of red and orange spill into the starkness of the blue sky; only to be reflected against the dull grey of the asphalt. Trees of green exuberance line the pavement, duly standing like reservists awaiting their time. Accompanying them are poles of steel with flickering lights (on, off, on, off) seemingly unsure when to make their presence known.
Darkness slowly creeps in, and yet the street still reeks of warmth from the now-absent-sun. Vehicles branded with the same, proud symbols slide past each other in uniform speed, not one kilometer lower or higher than twenty-five per hour. Yellow blocks of mortar intertwined, completing a story-perfect rectangle; two windows out front, three out back, and repeat. It is too picturesque.
But if my world could be reduced to one mark on the map, it would be here.
Six in the morning, eleven at night and one thirty in the afternoon – and everything that comes in between.
This pavement has grown accustomed to the sound of my steps, like a five-year-old waiting for Mum to come home after work. Beneath me, the concrete, flat and innocent, has begun to swell up – perhaps from absorbing the conversations it has heard. Sometimes, I could even swear seeing each block, bound and geometric, rearranging themselves into an array of disorder, just to accommodate my sole. It has recognized the frequency changes of the sound waves I have produced; from Taylor Swift to T-Pain, and to some foreign artist whose language I have known all my life but to which it cannot discern just yet.
On my favorite days, if you’re particularly lucky, the rain just stopped. It’s the middle of February, one-thirty in the afternoon; a year has passed since it last rained. A lot of people are walking home today, the pavement you were once able to claim your own is now everyone’s. In a sense, it’s a part of all of you. The school with its dim green corridors, the medical centre to the left where your best friend's mum works, the Al Meera right next to that, with the man behind the cash register who always says hi, yet, whose name you never thought to ask because in your mind he’s always going to be there.
You watch as people disperse into groups of their own choosing - your own friends behind you: laughing, complaining, talking about the day’s joys. The ground is soaked, there’s a distinct smell in the air. One that smells of Earth, tea, and perhaps... home. The home that has claimed you before you even took your first breath. The home in which all of your parents’ stories return to. Your friends become aware of it too; the same disorienting smell, taking you all back to that great place. Where are you? Are you here?
For just a minute, Al Khor becomes definite. It becomes home in every sense of the word. Yours and everyone who has stepped on it, unsure whether they could claim Al Khor as their own.
Then, a breeze sweeps across the tree above you, then your hair, causing a stream of black to shroud your vision for a second. You are reminded of how badly you need that haircut but above everything else, you are grateful. For days like these; for friends like yours, and for a breeze like that.
You all belong here.