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 justice. Do I talk of home? I have had a few too many for that word 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, back home 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 respond outside of my late grandparents’ yard? Will it only listen to my questions when I lay in my grandmother’s arms, on those metal-framed 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 walls where but a sentiment to the longevity of the area. The area was stuck 30 years back and all that is old and traditional felt in place.1
I wasn’t the most observant kid, but even with my distracted half-asleep gaze and travel fatigue, I recognized when the cities ended and Algoz began, the distinguishable scent salivated, the cars began to disappear and the children emerged, their loud laughter ringing my ears through the closed car windows. The two-hour long journey suddenly felt worthwhile.
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 anticipation – I never knew who won, for the game never ended and new players where constantly added. 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. 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.2
I reckon you can’t stand out there under the hot Sudanese sun for much longer, so you go in. The gates creak open, an array of sunlight reflecting off their gloss finish. There it is, 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 2, yet - to me at the very least – it felt sacred, a soil on which all our unrelated family trees flourished.
If you look upfront, you will find in the 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. Its faucet 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.3 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 peach colored metal-framed beds, though you may find them elsewhere as every Friday they change places, though I’m not certain they still do, 5 years is quite a long time, isn’t it? 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 sung one 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 cool mattresses, and stare at my moon again. For now, however, I must abide my hopes a sincere goodbye and continue to reminisce on that favorable place of mine.
If you are to look beyond the beds to the far right, across from where the wash basin lies, there are two doors. They are simply white metal doors with glass windows on each side. Beyond them my memory is quite feverish, but I most certainly remember the laughter and song, the way time was an ignorable concept and the distinctive taste of hot milk. The house knew a fare share of my mischiefs, but the yard knew far more.
The yard did not make up a great deal of their house, it was simply an extension of where all the memories were 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.4 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. 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 the space embodiment of my past pure self-5 – which I have grown unfamiliar to. I am allowed this nuanced sense of security, for I could never truly lose myself as that yard stands rejoiced, awaiting my triumphant visit.
To best state my dear fondness of this yard; I call it the close friend of a lifetime. The Sudanese culture I grew amid recognized the significance of friendship, we are told stories of friendship and how it surpasses obstacles of war, time, and distance. Swinging my feet off the corner of the metal-framed beds I would always lavish such a great bond, one that exceeds the test of time, not aware that I already had it.
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, the feelings, and sights I grew accustomed are beginning to be foreign.6
To expect my dear friend to remain unchanged when I am away is rather selfish of me, naive even, yet I cannot help but ponder on the slight possibility of the rain smelling as poignant, the noise as soothing and the stars to shine as brightly. Nothing can oversee the test of time, even the area that was stuck 30 years in the past could adapt the modern ways. The creaks must inevitably get covered, the color changing bricks will be permanently stained with that dirt brown shade and the car engines will one day overtake the noise palette unique to that place. Perhaps the inevitable has already occurred.
This distance of little to no connection arouses at the very least an uncertainty; one that hinders my comfort and arises a lingering anxiousness of something that I hardly have control over.7 In a more morbid sense this fear of a partially inevitable loss empowers my connection, it allows for the yard to be far more significant to me than my own self.
Thus, my place attachment to this yard is akin to the one you feel for a distant old friend, one that you hold more significant than your own self.
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, back home 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 respond outside of my late grandparents’ yard? Will it only listen to my questions when I lay in my grandmother’s arms, on those metal-framed 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 walls where but a sentiment to the longevity of the area. The area was stuck 30 years back and all that is old and traditional felt in place.1
I wasn’t the most observant kid, but even with my distracted half-asleep gaze and travel fatigue, I recognized when the cities ended and Algoz began, the distinguishable scent salivated, the cars began to disappear and the children emerged, their loud laughter ringing my ears through the closed car windows. The two-hour long journey suddenly felt worthwhile.
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 anticipation – I never knew who won, for the game never ended and new players where constantly added. 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. 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.2
I reckon you can’t stand out there under the hot Sudanese sun for much longer, so you go in. The gates creak open, an array of sunlight reflecting off their gloss finish. There it is, 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 2, yet - to me at the very least – it felt sacred, a soil on which all our unrelated family trees flourished.
If you look upfront, you will find in the 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. Its faucet 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.3 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 peach colored metal-framed beds, though you may find them elsewhere as every Friday they change places, though I’m not certain they still do, 5 years is quite a long time, isn’t it? 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 sung one 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 cool mattresses, and stare at my moon again. For now, however, I must abide my hopes a sincere goodbye and continue to reminisce on that favorable place of mine.
If you are to look beyond the beds to the far right, across from where the wash basin lies, there are two doors. They are simply white metal doors with glass windows on each side. Beyond them my memory is quite feverish, but I most certainly remember the laughter and song, the way time was an ignorable concept and the distinctive taste of hot milk. The house knew a fare share of my mischiefs, but the yard knew far more.
The yard did not make up a great deal of their house, it was simply an extension of where all the memories were 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.4 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. 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 the space embodiment of my past pure self-5 – which I have grown unfamiliar to. I am allowed this nuanced sense of security, for I could never truly lose myself as that yard stands rejoiced, awaiting my triumphant visit.
To best state my dear fondness of this yard; I call it the close friend of a lifetime. The Sudanese culture I grew amid recognized the significance of friendship, we are told stories of friendship and how it surpasses obstacles of war, time, and distance. Swinging my feet off the corner of the metal-framed beds I would always lavish such a great bond, one that exceeds the test of time, not aware that I already had it.
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, the feelings, and sights I grew accustomed are beginning to be foreign.6
To expect my dear friend to remain unchanged when I am away is rather selfish of me, naive even, yet I cannot help but ponder on the slight possibility of the rain smelling as poignant, the noise as soothing and the stars to shine as brightly. Nothing can oversee the test of time, even the area that was stuck 30 years in the past could adapt the modern ways. The creaks must inevitably get covered, the color changing bricks will be permanently stained with that dirt brown shade and the car engines will one day overtake the noise palette unique to that place. Perhaps the inevitable has already occurred.
This distance of little to no connection arouses at the very least an uncertainty; one that hinders my comfort and arises a lingering anxiousness of something that I hardly have control over.7 In a more morbid sense this fear of a partially inevitable loss empowers my connection, it allows for the yard to be far more significant to me than my own self.
Thus, my place attachment to this yard is akin to the one you feel for a distant old friend, one that you hold more significant than your own self.
References
Scannel, L., & Gifford, R. (2014). The psychology of place attachment. In R. Gifford, & R. Gifford (Ed.), Environmental Psychology: Principles and Practice (5th ed., pp. 272 - 300). Colville, Wash, Washington, United States of America: Optimal Books. Retrieved September 30, 1998.
Scannel, L., & Gifford, R. (2014). The psychology of place attachment. In R. Gifford, & R. Gifford (Ed.), Environmental Psychology: Principles and Practice (5th ed., pp. 272 - 300). Colville, Wash, Washington, United States of America: Optimal Books. Retrieved September 30, 1998.