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.
A sense of comfort found within its predictability and likeness, rooting me to a place I always deemed as temporary. A long narrow street made permanent through its people who were told the same thing a hundred times over, and yet, still chose to root themselves on the same ground. A street that will remain unchanged, even when everything and everyone else doesn’t (Scannell & Gifford, 2014, p. 278).
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 swear seeing each block, bound and geometric, rearrange themselves into an array of disorder, to accommodate my sole. The concrete, once flat and innocent, has begun to swell up. 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 street is silent, Orion is visible from above, and a bright star, that my best friend swears is Jupiter, shines. The world’s asleep, except for us. Words float above; free of gravity and inhibition; free for anyone to grab. Topics intermingle and assimilate with one another, until their solitary existence cease to exist – tangents becoming intertwined.
They leave, and I am alone again. Echoes of past conversations linger in the summer air, like a thick shroud that permeates the skin.
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 (Scannell & Gifford, 2014, p. 278). 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 my bias. It exists just because. It is without my interference or self-interests, and thus, no rawer version of me has existed than the one in 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 home.
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 (Scannell & Gifford, 2014, p. 279).
Then, a breeze sweeps across the tree above me, then my hair, causing a stream of black to obscure 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.
A sense of comfort found within its predictability and likeness, rooting me to a place I always deemed as temporary. A long narrow street made permanent through its people who were told the same thing a hundred times over, and yet, still chose to root themselves on the same ground. A street that will remain unchanged, even when everything and everyone else doesn’t (Scannell & Gifford, 2014, p. 278).
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 swear seeing each block, bound and geometric, rearrange themselves into an array of disorder, to accommodate my sole. The concrete, once flat and innocent, has begun to swell up. 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 street is silent, Orion is visible from above, and a bright star, that my best friend swears is Jupiter, shines. The world’s asleep, except for us. Words float above; free of gravity and inhibition; free for anyone to grab. Topics intermingle and assimilate with one another, until their solitary existence cease to exist – tangents becoming intertwined.
They leave, and I am alone again. Echoes of past conversations linger in the summer air, like a thick shroud that permeates the skin.
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 (Scannell & Gifford, 2014, p. 278). 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 my bias. It exists just because. It is without my interference or self-interests, and thus, no rawer version of me has existed than the one in 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 home.
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 (Scannell & Gifford, 2014, p. 279).
Then, a breeze sweeps across the tree above me, then my hair, causing a stream of black to obscure 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.
References
Scannell, L., & Gifford, R. (2014). The Psychology of Place Attachment. In R. Gifford, Environmental Psychology: Principles and Practice (pp. 271-294). Colville, Wash: Optimal Books.
Scannell, L., & Gifford, R. (2014). The Psychology of Place Attachment. In R. Gifford, Environmental Psychology: Principles and Practice (pp. 271-294). Colville, Wash: Optimal Books.