Are you Living Or Are You Just Alive?

By Sarah Moawad

This story is about traveling, exploring, getting lost in new places, and finding oneself in the process. Ultimately, it is about seeking. Seeking meaning, seeking roots, seeking history (or YOURstory). It’s about not finding the answers, and deciding to change your questions; about living, and not just being alive. Inspired by my recent trip to Granada, Spain, filled with history and self-discovery, it is dedicated to the spirit of convivencia, of our ancestors, of Al-Andalus.

I stare at her. She stares back. I wonder who she is, everyday, I wonder where she’s going. Some days I think I know, other days I let myself be oblivious. I lean closer, get a better look. Reaching in, I shatter her image, scattering droplets of life and light and tiny rainbows, only to find her once again in the palm of my hand. I bring her closer, placing my lips against hers, and sip until she is gone, absorbed. Rocks beneath me, jagged against the soles of my feet and smooth against the feet of my soul. Sun flirts with clouds, first playing hard to get then coming close for an intimate embrace, shape-shifting, losing form, each melting within the other. Becoming one.

The sudden rush of rapids, hurrying to greet us, escaping the isolation of mountain life, causes you to stumble, lose balance. But you’re okay with it. We’re all stumbling. Stumbling through cities we’ve never heard of, streets whose names we can’t pronounce. Through narrow cobblestone alleyways and makeshift markets selling things you don’t need but convince yourself that you do. Past crumbling remnants of brick and mortar that remain a reminder of what once was. Stumbling upon intimate weddings in richly adorned gothic churches and bustling family reunions whose members don’t know you and whose language you don’t speak. And finding yourself in their pictures. Stumbling into abandoned warehouses that smell of sweat and failed ideas, into artisan workshops littered with plastic bottle cap butterflies and newspaper clocks and endless amounts of sawdust. Stumbling up mountains in flimsy flip-flops, past las cuevas, the caves, where laundry on clothing lines and broken baby strollers meet fire and ferocity and strength embodied in music and dance. Stumbling upon young lovers (and old lovers) in dark crevices and the lingering, ever-present scent of inhaled relaxation, pungent and earthy.

To be a stranger. But even more…to be a seeker. To wander aimlessly purposeful. To be struck by familiarity in unfamiliar places, to hear fragments of sacred language and piece together the remnants of your heritage, found in plates of leftover couscous and the aroma of floral black teas steeped in brass teapots engraved with the words “la ghalib illa Allah”*. To find life in every trickling stream, every fig tree, every hauntingly mysterious black cat that seems to appear just when you’ve lost your way to remind you, embrace the loss. And to take you deeper. To find history, herstory. YOURstory.

By now, my feet have forgotten what it feels like to walk on level ground. And I’m glad they have. The roads mimic life in their unpredictable dips, their harsh climbs, their hesitance, their uncertainties. I don’t know what brought me here, but as I soar past proud, dilapidated infrastructure covered in graffitied wisdom on the back of a motorcycle driven by a man I’ve never met, I know that I am home, in this place that bears no resemblance to any “home” I’ve ever known. It may go by a different name now, but it is forever ours, our legacy (henna)tattooed on it’s every brick. and I will lose myself in it.

I turn right. And again. Only right. Winding through alleys that grow tighter and more abrupt, past the Grand Mesquita (read: masjid), the comforting call of the Athan gently urging a return to the One, the unexpected coolness, a welcome reprieve from the summer heat, brought upon by its marble water fountains. The stones and faces no longer look familiar but I continue, always turning right, reassured by the watchful gaze of Alhambra above, protected in its presence. Stray dogs lounge lazily in the shadows of citrus trees, gazing up at me knowingly, as if carrying a secret I was soon to discover. As I approach, walls seem to vanish and every dead end turns out to be a clearing, the beginning of a new pathway. The scene ahead blurs, spinning in and out of focus, beyond comprehension…colors fuse and blend and fade, time seems to accelerate while remaining perfectly still. I close my eyes and breathe in. Musk. Somehow the air is heavy with it, with no apparent source. “Khitamuhu misk.”** Its seal is musk. I am nearing an end, an origin, a finality…but of what? The ayah reverberates, the fragrance intoxicates…I don’t understand but know I don’t need to. Not now. Just be open, absorb, let the world seep in through your pores.

The scene has changed. Weathered brown fingers carrying prayer beads. Vibrant, flowing robes, bearded men, silk scarves framing proud, dignified faces of breastfeeding mothers and women merchants in spice-filled marketplaces. Those dilapidated walls restored, having reclaimed their original form – strong and grounded, homes, schools, mosques. Libraries, resurrected from the ashes. Palaces meticulously designed, boasting of greatness but always humility before the ultimate Greatness, al-Akbar. An olive-skinned young boy leans against the steadfast trunk of a tree carved and shaped by the elements, housing the secrets of the ancients. He almost disappears among the thick entanglement of proud, determined roots, stuttering through a book of Hebrew poetry, his struggle evident as his persistence unyielding. Songs of doves and nightingales intermingle with recitation of poetry in effortless Arabic, hushed prayers in monasteries, echoes of children’s laughter in open mosque/church/temple courtyards, flowing water through lush gardens…janaatin tajri min ta7tiha al-anhar***. Four women, their backdrop the sharp, rocky hills of Sacromonte****, dotted with lives and stories tucked away in caves, sit on the ground weaving carpets of turquoise and crimson with flecks of gold. One looks up at me and I notice the mole on her left temple, mirroring mine. Another on the side of her nose. My grandmother’s chin. I trace the contours of her familiar face as she does mine. The shadows of a smile in her eyes. The dark curls that escape her loosely wrapped scarf. She nods, welcoming me home.

Eyes open. In front of me, the wall reads, “Tired of not finding answers, I decided to change my questions.” And her. Our eyes fixed, black and unwavering; her skin a blend of olives, honey, and pomegranates. Dignified and deliberate, again she stares back at me. But this time, I feel no need to shatter her.

*Translation: There is no victor but God

** Phrase from the Quran meaning “it’s seal is musk,” referring to the wines of Paradise

*** Description of Paradise from the Quran: “gardens beneath which rivers flow”

**** Neighborhood in Granada, Spain, home to a large Roma community who built their homes in caves; also known as home of Flamenco music and dancing

 

Born in the US, raised in Saudi Arabia, but with her heart and roots in Egypt, Sarah Moawad is a “Third Culture Kid,” simultaneously out of place and at home everywhere and nowhere. She holds a BA in Political Science and Global Studies from the University of Pittsburgh, and has recently completed a Master’s in Middle Eastern Studies from Harvard University, where she focused mainly on religion, politics, and forms of resistance in contemporary Egypt. She is passionate about alternative methods of political expression, activism, and social change through storytelling, humor, and the arts. Her previous experience internships in broadcast and radio journalism, research, translation, teaching, and non-profit work. She is currently a writer and editor for Muftah Magazine, an online magazine providing diverse perspectives on global events.