My Distant Friend
A place of significance? Isn’t that too broad a term to mean something particular? A few places come to mind but they don’t do my curiosity just. Do I talk of home? I have had a few too many for that to mean much.
I sat on this topic for a few nights now and I have yet to reach an end. Thus, I comply to my old habit and sit in our backyard facing the night sky, in attempt to clear my head. Qatar’s moon isn’t as luminescent as that of Sudan, and the stars are hidden away in the void of the night, they use to be too many to count but now my fingers grow numb while I look for more than three. Even after laying there for hours, nothing came to mind. “Does the moon not work outside of my late grandmother’s yard, will it only answer my questions when I lay in my grandparents’ arms, on those metal beds?”
Their house is in the region of Algoz in the South of Sudan. Algoz was certainly different; it was where the village people lived among modern walls, though it might not look that way from outside, but we had electricity and television, the water ran cold, and the doors locked well. The cracks on the house walls where but a sentiment to the longevity of the area. Nevertheless, you would now when you’ve reached it, for the cars begin to disappear and the children emerge, the area was stuck 30 years back, for all that was old and traditional felt in place. The ancestorial and cultural sense of place is rather evident.
There is one wide field of sun-kissed sand, where the neighborhood kids played, and everyone else sat on top of the four cars parked nearby, watching the game with great excitement – I never knew who won, for the game never ended and new players where constantly added. There is a homogeneity unique to the residents of this area. A few homes surround the field in a curve and on the end of the array is my grandparents’ house.
There you stand in front of these giant black metal gates, which remain unlocked through night and day. On your left around the corner is a well, built by my great grandfather decades ago, the bricks gouging out of its side and the trees growing into it forming a peculiar shade, telling of its age. There was always a metal cup on its brim, for any passerby to use. Everyone in the neighborhood, old or young, has once had a drink from this well. The atmosphere exudes kindness and love, and you have yet to set foot into my grandparent’s yard.
I reckon you can’t stand out there under the Sudanese sun for much longer, so you go in. The gates creak open, and you are instantly in this new yet familiar space. A rectangular yard, which to my child self, seemed endless. The ground is of burnt clay bricks, their crimson color shone best after rain, and the walls were of various shades of red and brown stones. The house looked like all the others in the neighborhood, yet it always felt distinct.
If you look up, you will find in the far distance a wash basin used for ablution (wudu), it is of a light peach brick that looked unnatural amid browns, yet it fitted oh so perfectly in that far left corner. It’s fossette ran cold water even on the hottest of summer days. I am still in awe of its functionality after being used by three generations of far and close family and strangers who were in a hurry to go pray. The stream of water is almost silent when accompanied with the engines of cars driving by the house, the cheers of the kids playing football on the street, the far away radio music, and the tea talks of the neighborhood aunties and uncles just outside.
On your right are two metal beds, though you might find them elsewhere as every Friday they change places. I reminisce about the late nights where I laid in my late grandmother’s arms, staring at the star-filled sky singing one of her latest lullabies. My most frequently sang lullaby translates to:
Oh, my moon, oh lovely moon, won’t you check on mom and dad
and tell me when they are on their way back.
I remember sleeping on those beds, which we often pushed together in the middle of the yard, enjoying the cool breeze and waking up to the sunlight gently kissing my cheeks (Though the mosquitos always got to me first).
My grandmother said some of the most brilliant poetry while sitting on those beds. She had one of us write her words down since she couldn’t read or write. Maybe in the future, when I need inspiration, I will visit those beds, lay down on their cold mattresses, and stare at my moon again.
You may wonder where the actual house is. The door to our house is at the far right, a white metal door with glass windows on each side. Whenever you visit, make sure to have a drink of hot milk from our village milkman, I will guarantee no milk can compare, especially with a side of homemade gargosh (Sudanese biscuits).
The yard did not make up a great deal of the house, it was simply an extension of where all the memories are truly made, but to me it stands more sincere. Perhaps I recognize it as truly ‘my own’, compared to the actual house which belonged to everyone who visited. The yard was the one place where the world revolved around me alone, the moon was mine and the wind twirled to my entertainment. In heavy rain I sat by the white doors, staring through the fog of their windows to the rain droplets bouncing off the bricks, washing out the dirt brown and showcasing their crimson hue. My face would light up with surprise during the color reveal as if I hadn’t witnessed it hundreds of times before.
I don’t recommend you blindly trust my narrative, for my depiction is but fragments of memory viewed through rose colored lenses. I am more bonded to the meaning I projected on this yard than the tangible space, as is exclaimed in the meaning-mediated model (pg. 291) in the article Psychology of place. It is likely that the ‘real’ yard is simply shades of brown and grey, humidity and headache. Nevertheless, it unveils my past and youth, it allows my child mind to flourish far beyond the physical factors, it “becomes a referent for the past” as in place-referent continuity.
The entire concept of place attachment is most comprehensible to me when I compare it to personal attachment, as is done in the theory of "Place attachment: Parallels with interpersonal relations?", personifying place allows for this rather foreign topic to be more acknowledgeable and applicable to us, for the grief accompanying the loss of a loved one is more familiar, unlike place loss.
My grandmother’s yard is the friend I knew from before I could open my eyes, they saw my first falls, tears and joys. They saw my heartbreaks from early on and introduced me to all the miraculous beauties of life. As I grew up, I took them for granted. Then I had to leave the country and leave them behind, I tried to stay connected, but I couldn’t do much … they were out of reach. As time goes by, I slowly lose ties with them and though in my heart I know they will always be there and welcome me with open arms whenever I’m back, I cannot help feeling distant.
Thus, my place attachment to this yard is akin to the one you feel for a distant old friend.