It has been 1 year since I left Bahrain after being hit in the face with a kitchen utensil. 

Throughout this year, I have learned to lean into my American identity in ways I never thought I could before. This American self is not like the stereotypes that you know of. This American girl merges her unique talents, interests and connection to the world with independence and strength. 

I have integrated back into this American life and have made some amazing connections along the way. I am a full-time single parent to my son, Ilya. And I am making the choice every day to be the best parent that I possibly can. 

This year has also led me to a surprising place. Before, I had always dreamed of studying Arabic and developing fluency in the language. While living in the Gulf, I was conversational but never had much formal study of Arabic. It was a gap that my heart wanted to fill.

But this year, upon returning to the US, I was introduced to an opportunity to complete an intensive course in Persian language at the University of Wisconsin- Madison. I have developed fluency in Persian after only 4 months of study, and I feel a rich connection to Persian culture as well. 

I now feel that I have a clear goal in sight. 

After many years of feeling like I have to run to find myself, I have found myself not in Armenia, Qatar, Lebanon, or Bahrain – but within my own state, surrounded by Americans with incredible stories to tell.

Everything happens for a reason, and it will keep happening. We are led to very dark places, only to be shown the light, to be presented with opportunities to grow. I can be both here and there at the same time. There is no need to run, because everything I need is around me, is in me.

After our visit to Karashamb, we visited Dilijan, which is in Northern Armenia. It is a large city surrounded by green mountains. We spent most of our time at the city park. The playground was located in the far end of the park, and the path was green and tree-lined. It had old Soviet playground equipment, an old Ferris Wheel and a ticket booth. Ilya’s favourite attraction was a yellow metal truck. I saw many parents and grandparents there and Ilya played with Russian and Armenian children.

We stayed in a small cabin which was previously a Russian summer house. It had two twin beds, an old cabinet and a table with two tea cups. Nearby there were a few small markets, a bakery that sold the famous “Khachapuri” pastry and a fruit and vegetable shop. I finally bought myself a jacket and the woman in the shop spoke to me in Russian. Ilya was quite interested in the bra section and the shop assistant found it very funny. She was a pleasant woman and was eating cake for breakfast. She inspired me to do the same the next day.

After Dilijan, we took a taxi to Bjni, only 15 kilometres away from Karashamb. We were back in the land of walnuts and apples. The cherry trees were all in bloom. The man who owned the guesthouse was a trout farmer. Ilya watched the fish swimming swiftly in circles. In the middle of the village was a river. We walked over the bridge to see the famous Armenian bread “Lavash” being made. We stepped onto the floor of the bakery, which was covered with flour, and watched an elderly woman measuring and rolling the dough. The dough would be passed to another woman who tossed it gracefully into the air, spreading it onto a special pillow and tossing it against the walls of a wood-fired oven. They were making mountains of like-sized Lavash to feed the people of the village that night. They were doing all this while laughing and chatting away. Ilya was given fresh bread to try. He stuffed the whole piece in his mouth.

Dinner that night was a homemade Armenian meal which the guesthouse owner’s wife prepared. We had tabbouleh, yogurt soup, chicken with rice and cake. Ilya spent the rest of the evening playing with cars while I wrote in my journal.

The village of Karashamb went dark for two days after the storm. Cold rain pattered against the windows of the cottage. Like two fools from the desert, we only brought sandals for our feet. I didn’t have a jacket.

I grew up in this type of climate, so I am not sure what I was thinking.

Ilya slept in his green jacket and refused to remove it for two days. We were invited to our hostess’s house to drink tea while she warmed her house with the kitchen stove. She stood and cracked and cracked and cracked nuts for us to enjoy. We had great conversations about culture, identity and motherhood. I feel that we really connected on that dreary afternoon in her kitchen.

We walked in the cold rain to a farm in the neighbouring village. Two strong mothers with strollers climbing a steep hill to the house. There, Ilya got to see some farm animals and swing. We were invited inside for a coffee. The old farmhouse was simply decorated. There was a large dining room with a huge table and next to the table was a portrait of the husband. We sat in the living room with the husband, wife, and her brother. They served Armenian coffee, dried plums, cake, and “Kama” balls—a type lightly sweetened grain ball covered with sour cherries or sesame.

I was able to sit and chat with these people who have seen so much in their country. My friend helped translate. Through this conversation and others, I find Armenians to be very peaceful people.

We walked back to the cottage and read animal stories by candlelight.

Ilya and I arrived at our cottage in Karashamb, a small village 40 minutes from Yerevan. It was a quiet place surrounded by trees full of blooms. They mostly grow apples and walnuts in that region.

The stone structure we stayed in was full of inspiring details. Books, coffee, fresh mint leaves. All natural linens.

Ilya played in the sand pit outside the front door of the cabin. The owners of the cabin are both professionals in books and publishing. They have two children and decided to relocate to get away from the chaos of the capital.

Ilya and I took a walk in the afternoon.

As I was writing this in my journal, the late afternoon sun was falling on the pages…in the most beautiful way. It gave me a warm feeling in the chilly cabin.

That afternoon I completed a small volume of Hafez poetry. It was all about love and wine. I read while Ilya slept peacefully.

That night, the sky became dark and the wind started to blow. Ilya started to sing “Rain, rain, go away.” As if he knew it was about to rain.

The world changes during the month of Ramadan. Early mornings turn into late late nights. I was lucky to have shorter working hours at my job in KSA. To eat or drink water at work I needed to go on the roof of the building or the “non-Muslim rest area.” No coffee shops or meals out for a month. It felt hard and restrictive at first, but I got used to the feeling of hiding to eat. It’s the first year in many years that I haven’t attempted to fast along with my friends and family.

Towards the end of Ramadan, when many Muslims pray all through the night, work stopped and it was time for a change. My husband is currently in the US, so I decided to take Ilya to Armenia. It’s less than a three-hour flight from Dubai. My hope was to let Ilya enjoy some cool weather and nature. I also hoped to enjoy a sip of water or a “Khachapuri” pastry in the gleaming hours of sunlight.

Ilya developed a horrible fever that lasted for one week before the start of vacation. I was going to cancel the trip. But a round of antibiotics helped him recover, and we took off.

Our first 2 days were spent in Yerevan, the capital of Armenia. Our first outing was to a vegetable shop near our apartment. I bought fresh strawberries, tomatoes and cucumbers. The produce was fantastic.

I remember feeling overwhelmed the first two days of the trip. Ilya had many tantrums and I felt a huge sense of responsibility because I was alone in a foreign place with a young, vulnerable child. It was terrifying. I tried to keep an open and creative mind. We tried using a stroller, I wore him on my back, and I also tried to let him walk. I wanted to see which was the best method for keeping him calm and safe while out and about.

I decided that the best method was to travel slowly. We went to parks, we took short walks in the neighborhood, we attempted supermarket trips, and I relaxed on the balcony while he napped at home. This is how we were able to make it work.

When the clock strikes 5:00 on a Thursday, swarms of vehicles can be seen making their way to the bridge connecting KSA to Bahrain.

Cars of families are on their way to a mall or a movie.

Cars of Westerners are on their way to a bar.

And other cars, well, they might be hoping to find love.

But that’s a story for another day.

This weekend I have decided not to cross the bridge.

Because the person I am over here and over there are different people.

Many people breathe a sigh of relief when they arrive in Bahrain, which doesn’t have a dress code and offers places to dance and drink alcohol.

Freedom is much more than these things.

For me, Saudi is where I can be without expectations or judgement.

Sometimes people say hello or start a conversation. (It is much easier to make friends in KSA.)

And to be honest, I think I am living in a more open, liberated place than the conservative Shia village where I usually stay in Bahrain.

So, today I breath a sigh of relief that I am here and not there.

Perhaps I will go to the supermarket, or to a cafe with my son, or you might just find me roaming the isles of IKEA shopping for items to fill my new, small home.

Here I am again. Back where everything started in 2018. It is where the journey of “Musafira” began. The name of the place might be the same, yet everything has changed.

And it happened suddenly.

One job ended and the next began.

Trips back and forth over the bridge from Bahrain to Dammam.

Adding more and more stamps on top of stamps in my passport with bent pages, frayed edges.

It has been a hell of a week. Searching for apartments, starting a new job and being thrown in the middle of a training program with no preparation. Enrolling my son in daycare. Driving….

In Saudi, all traditional road-rules go out the window.

In the first week, I am not proud to say that I have abandoned the turn-signal, parked in handicapped spaces, passed in emergency lanes, and cut-off a number of people on the road. Because if you drive any other way, there is no hope for you. You might as well say goodbye to your bumper.

All of the chaos settled for a moment today while sitting in a specialty coffee shop on lunch break.

“I really am back in Saudi. And it feels quite nice to be here.”

The journey from here, to Bahrain, to Germany, to Thailand, to the US, to Qatar, to Bahrain again; has lead me back to the place where I created myself and started a career.

But this time around, Saudi is a different place.

Even the rain falling on the window and the freezing cold breeze makes me think of somewhere else.

I heard Taylor Swift playing in the supermarket.

I played with my son in the park this week wearing jeans and a hoodie (which even feels weird where I was living in Bahrain).

Who knows, perhaps I have found the place I meant to be. Perhaps I have found my freedom on this rainy day in Saudi.

I wanted to take a moment to share this work of poetry by Rumi. I hope you find it useful as I have.

The Guest House

​

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

​

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

​

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

​

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

​

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

​

​

by Rumi

​

Taken from SELECTED POEMS by Rumi, Translated by Coleman Barks (Penguin Classics, 2004).

I was very unimpressed by the definition of “home”. It is just “a place where one lives.” The place we spend the majority of time. If work is that place, I suppose that work is home for some too.

For me, I realize that I am longing for home. Home as in a home for my spirit.

Home is not the US. It is not Bahrain.

It is a feeling. It is the relationships that are built.

A home is a place where you feel safe. It is where you feel comfortable and relaxed and heard.

“There’s no place like home.” “Home is where the heart is.”

I realize that much of my frustration comes from not having a home.

Well, I do have a home. But it is not my “home.”

Currently I live in a room within my in-laws house.

This room has nothing that represents me. It is not a place where I feel like myself. And it is not a place where I am able to nourish my spirit and feel comfortable.

When I leave my “home” to fill my cup of water in the kitchen downstairs. I must change from shorts to long pants. I must say greetings on the way to the kitchen. Even when I just don’t feel like it.

In the evenings, when I am on a drive in the car, I spend time looking at the lights in people’s houses. Some houses have harsh, white lighting. It radiates an energy of emptiness. The people living there may not feel “home” either. After all, I am sure many feel the way I do.

But other homes radiate warmth. Sometimes you can see a chandelier above the dining room table. Sometimes you can see a small reading lamp. Sometimes it is the twinkle of a string of lights in the garden area. I imagine the people in these spaces feel home. I hope they gather with friends, cook glorious meals, sing, dance, and love each other. I hope they feel that they can rest their spirits after a long, weary day. And find the safety it provides them.

Sometimes, in the glow of these lights, tears begin to fill my eyes.