Coming Home

Traveling is always a strange experience. Boarding a flight, staring at clouds through the small window, random conversations with random strangers who become your friend for the duration of the flight, de-boarding and finding yourself transported to a new universe. I rarely experience culture shock, but somehow, driving from the airport to my friend’s house struck me, overwhelmed me—even though I’ve been here a dozen times before. I just felt that I was so clearly and unmistakably in the Arab world—the architecture, the sandy hillsides, the sounds and smells. And though I forever respond routinely to the annoying observation that I live in the Middle East and that is just so incredible, wow, I was struck with the thought, “I live in the Middle East and this is just so incredible! Wow!” Still, it always feels like coming home. And it is coming home because as cheesy as it sounds, home is where the heart is, and my heart is firmly and forever here.

I went to my family, the family that has loved me and allowed me to be part of them for more than five years, and I was home. I love the welcome. I love the coming home. After two days, the exhaustion of jet lag and the days of Ramadan (without the structured time scheduling of the kids’ being in school) meant that I was insanely sleep deprived. After my first day teaching, I came home at 3 and crashed into a deep sleep. I remember waking up to the sounds of Arabic. A little boy was speaking, and I thought, “Arabic. Someone is speaking Arabic. I speak Arabic. I should go see who that is.” A second later, “More people speaking Arabic. I speak Arabic. I should go see.” Then I woke up a bit more and remembered where I was, smiling in my heavy drowsiness before re-embracing my exhaustion. I am home.