It's been a week since anyone has looked at me in that way, and I'm wondering if its the new hair cut, or perhaps the toll that the Israeli border experiences have taken on my previously relaxed holiday demeanour. Then, of course, it twigs. I've been in Europe, where blonde hair and exposed shoulders cause no commotion, my caucasian face is unremarkable and in the crowd I become plain Jane again. I walk the streets unnoticed, unharrassed.
In fact, London is cold and wintery and my haram shoulders stay wrapped up in layers of clothes. When the sun finally shows its face I'm so used to modesty clothing I carry my scarf and cardigan everywhere, sweating under my dark blue jeans. And no one cares.
I miss it, that feeling that I have complained so bitterly about- the stares and sideways glances. I have grown accustomed to my difference, and the reaction it provokes. This cool indifference is what I will return to when the time runs out and the plane takes off and I'm home again.
When I arrive in Amman the wind blows pleasantly warm and the temperature is a summery 33 degrees.
Against my better judgement I leave the apartment in jeans and a singlet. The sensation of the sun on my skin feels like paradise, although it's not too warm for a shirt with sleeves. A taxi stops for me, more than 100 meters away, without me even hailing it.
Screeching recklessly through the streets of Amman, unrestrained in the back of the cab, with the wind in my hair I feel the familiar adrenilin rush that comes with the joy of being back here. I can't tell if it's the perfect weather washing over me or the undeniable fact of my obvious difference- in looks, in attitude.
Either way, the blood courses through my veins as the cityscape flashes past in brilliant white.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment