There is one thought that keeps biting at the back of my head that I cannot seem to silence no matter how hard I try to drown it through the daily performance I pull; the lack of belonging to anywhere.
I cannot silence out the nostalgia of missing out on a very intriguing reality. I find it lurking in my subconscious whenever I walk on the sidewalk of any city, or, strangely, the cold corridors of a mall, where people sit mesmerized at park benches around a fountain.
I do not belong anywhere. I barely knew my neighbors, for they change every few years or so. The markings of our heights on kitchen door frames seem to be distributed over the different “homes” we lived in growing up. In 30 years I’ve lived in 11 houses. It wasn’t out of poverty, far from it, we just didn’t have an anchor.
I find a dull sense of life. Everything is in a state of permanently temporary. This evokes a lack of creativity in everything. A life of this ilk is a life that lacks passion. The taste of life is not like that of a fresh loaf of bread, but that of paper.
The alternative however is not a far cry from a potential dramatic outcome of running barefoot in the streets carrying my shocked children who were awakened by the loud shudder of bombs. A permanent stain on the psychological state of anyone, let alone children.
So for the time being, which was my father’s time being, that well into his 70th year seems to remain a “time being”, is a lucrative job that will give me enough money to enjoy summers in Europe, thus adding to my homesickness. Yet again, how can I be homesick if I do not have a home.
I know I am blessed, but the gap inside me isn’t shrinking, and the result is a senseless lack of sentimentality that contradictorily makes me over pack when I travel.
My mornings were not spent in Jenin, I did not see Ramallah, Sharon got nothing to do with my mother-in-law, and I am not in search of Fatima.
A mental sniper takes out that screaming nostalgia and numbs my hunger by playing cards, watching football games and TV shows.