Returning to Jeddah

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind

* * *

Utter, total desolation.

And I realize the bankruptcy of my own heart. After all, a believer should carry within them a garden of rememberence.

Instead, my feelings, this time around, are of anxiety, uncetainty, malaise. These feelings have been slowly washing over me, creeping up an otherwise clear coastline that is to be submerged.

* * *

The cartoon image of an airplane's zig zag line is about to land on the triple-circled dot that is Jeddah. The neon monitor announces our flight's progress towards King Abdul Aziz International airport in excruciating detail:

Ground speed:
295 MPH
263 MPH
220 MPH

911 metres,

0:05 minutes remaining

We circle the circles and the wheels of the plane are noisily lowered. A phone call (why is that guy's cell phone on?) interrupts the hum that steadily mutes the voices around me into one monolithic baby cry.

A nearby passenger's incessant gaze has prompted me to once again don the wide black cloth, tied around my head beneath the like-coloured scarf. His impertinent darting glances are reminiscent of the crouching Bedouin whose similar stare long ago greeted me on arrival to this Kingdom's other airport.

Just like the passenger now, the Bedouin's unabashed looks removed all doubts that remained about this contentious article of clothing that I finally tied around my head in the middle of passport control. This time, I didn't wait for the arrivals lounge and because of that scurrilous man, wished I hadn't waited until 10 minutes before touchdown to once again assume the non-identity that becomes the obsession for the "liberated" Western mind whenever thoughts of this oil kingdom occur.

And now, buddy glances over and realizes there's nothing more to see. My space is once again secure and, in my non-identity, I am wholly my own.

Too bad it has to be this way but such is the reality of certain places.