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 exudes 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 that one mark on the map, it would be here.
There is a sense of comfort that could be found within predictability and likeness. One that is grounding; and allows for roots to be placed into an, otherwise, impenetrable ground. Because even though, I was told this street was impermanent a hundred times over, it remains to this day. An impenetrable ground that was only made fertile because I had people around me, who were told the same thing; but who wanted to place roots, nonetheless. There is no way to grow without being rooted; without having a place to return to that is unchanging, even when you are in a constant state of evolution.
Six in the morning, eleven at night and one thirty in the afternoon – and everything that comes in between.
This pavement has grown familiar to the sound of my steps. It anticipates and recognizes, like a five-year old waiting for Mum to come home. Sometimes, I could even swear seeing each block, bound and geometric, rearrange themselves into an array of disorder, just to accommodate my sole. The concrete that was once flat and innocent has begun to swell up. The vibrations, 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, has seeped into the concrete and has chosen to settle in between.
Eleven at night, an hour before the day starts anew. Dim yellow light surround the street, the gray of the asphalt tinged with the same yellow hue, the green fading into obscurity. Tonight, everything becomes a possibility. The world’s asleep, Orion is visible from above, and a bright star, that my best friend swears is Jupiter, shines. The street is silent, except for the conversations filled with passion, in which nothing was out of limit, counter remarks countered with something wittier, the words bouncing off of each other until one finally secedes. My friends leave and I am alone again. Sometimes I wished these walks lasted forever; steps leading to nowhere but to the same place, again and again.
On these nights, I feel expansive; like I could achieve just about anything. Nothing bad can ever happen in this street, hell, nothing will ever go wrong in the world again. If only I could just embody that same conviction and will forever and ever.
Six thirty in the morning, the sun has returned. It’s another day. Today I am scrambling for words, praying to God, that the conversation doesn’t evaporate into thin air. Yet it does, like an inevitable vacuum present, dissolving words into nothingness. All the charisma and the hubris having disappeared.
This vertical line of concrete has served witness to every person I was. It serves as tangible proof of all the different selves I have inhabited, one that might just be greater than a diary, for it is free of bias. It exists just because. It is without my interference or self-interests, and thus no physical space has seen a rawer version of me than street 33.
On my favorite days, if I’m 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 I once able to claim my own is now everyone’s. In a sense, it’s a part of all of us. The school with its dim green corridors, the medical center to the left where my 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 I never thought to ask because in my simple mind he’s always going to be there.
I watch as people disperse into groups of their own choosing - my friends behind me: 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 me before I even took my first breath. The home in which all of my parents’ stories return to. My friends become aware of it too; the same disorienting smell, taking us all back to that great place.
Where am I? Am I here?
For just a minute, Al Khor becomes definite. It becomes home in every sense of the word, the distance of five thousand miles collapsing. Just like that. My uncertainty clears. Mine 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 me, then my hair, causing a stream of black to shroud my vision for a second. I am reminded of how badly I need that haircut but above everything else, I am grateful. For days like these; for friends like mine, and for a breeze like that.
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 exudes 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 that one mark on the map, it would be here.
There is a sense of comfort that could be found within predictability and likeness. One that is grounding; and allows for roots to be placed into an, otherwise, impenetrable ground. Because even though, I was told this street was impermanent a hundred times over, it remains to this day. An impenetrable ground that was only made fertile because I had people around me, who were told the same thing; but who wanted to place roots, nonetheless. There is no way to grow without being rooted; without having a place to return to that is unchanging, even when you are in a constant state of evolution.
Six in the morning, eleven at night and one thirty in the afternoon – and everything that comes in between.
This pavement has grown familiar to the sound of my steps. It anticipates and recognizes, like a five-year old waiting for Mum to come home. Sometimes, I could even swear seeing each block, bound and geometric, rearrange themselves into an array of disorder, just to accommodate my sole. The concrete that was once flat and innocent has begun to swell up. The vibrations, 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, has seeped into the concrete and has chosen to settle in between.
Eleven at night, an hour before the day starts anew. Dim yellow light surround the street, the gray of the asphalt tinged with the same yellow hue, the green fading into obscurity. Tonight, everything becomes a possibility. The world’s asleep, Orion is visible from above, and a bright star, that my best friend swears is Jupiter, shines. The street is silent, except for the conversations filled with passion, in which nothing was out of limit, counter remarks countered with something wittier, the words bouncing off of each other until one finally secedes. My friends leave and I am alone again. Sometimes I wished these walks lasted forever; steps leading to nowhere but to the same place, again and again.
On these nights, I feel expansive; like I could achieve just about anything. Nothing bad can ever happen in this street, hell, nothing will ever go wrong in the world again. If only I could just embody that same conviction and will forever and ever.
Six thirty in the morning, the sun has returned. It’s another day. Today I am scrambling for words, praying to God, that the conversation doesn’t evaporate into thin air. Yet it does, like an inevitable vacuum present, dissolving words into nothingness. All the charisma and the hubris having disappeared.
This vertical line of concrete has served witness to every person I was. It serves as tangible proof of all the different selves I have inhabited, one that might just be greater than a diary, for it is free of bias. It exists just because. It is without my interference or self-interests, and thus no physical space has seen a rawer version of me than street 33.
On my favorite days, if I’m 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 I once able to claim my own is now everyone’s. In a sense, it’s a part of all of us. The school with its dim green corridors, the medical center to the left where my 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 I never thought to ask because in my simple mind he’s always going to be there.
I watch as people disperse into groups of their own choosing - my friends behind me: 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 me before I even took my first breath. The home in which all of my parents’ stories return to. My friends become aware of it too; the same disorienting smell, taking us all back to that great place.
Where am I? Am I here?
For just a minute, Al Khor becomes definite. It becomes home in every sense of the word, the distance of five thousand miles collapsing. Just like that. My uncertainty clears. Mine 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 me, then my hair, causing a stream of black to shroud my vision for a second. I am reminded of how badly I need that haircut but above everything else, I am grateful. For days like these; for friends like mine, and for a breeze like that.