An Entity of My Being - Aseel Zaraqou

An Entity of My Being

by Aseel Zaraqou

The chirping of a peachy Sinai Rosefinch drew me away from my daze. The high notes caused my eyes to stalk the bird, whose wings fluttered in a swift movement to enter the campus of King’s Academy. I trailed the bird on a pathway of stones as I headed towards a land holding defiance towards the irregularity of Jordanian buildings existing on ridges and valleys – absent of greenery. However, the beauty of proportion built King’s campus with a fusion between nature and human constructions. Shrubberies, trees, and a cloak of grass encircled a set of kin buildings and my pathway. Chartreuse and parakeet green painted the crown of soaring trees with its leaves stirring with the summer breeze. Familiarity with my years back in England made the clock ticked backward to find myself standing between uniform Victorian houses environed by deciduous British trees. My daze was interrupted by the bird’s twitter elevating to a higher pitch. Once again, my eyes searched for the bird, and they found its webbed feet standing on the red tiles of a building. The bird seemed to be calling me over. Almost like a magnet, I felt a default attraction as I stood in front of that building – HH Mohammad Bin Rashid Al Maktoum Libray of King’s Academy. The two-story building stood as an epitome of architectural intelligence through a peculiar combination of British and Jordanian qualities. The gabled portion of the building projected forwards with the ridge of its roof experiencing a discontinuity as it elevated from its original standpoint to the wider gable on the backside. The wider gable existed on a large cuboid held by sixteen parallel wood colonial square columns. An association with the old Victorian times was made through the two gables capped with red tiles and the teak wood framing the roof’s ridges and the three windows above the door. Nonetheless, the building’s identification couldn’t be British with the presence of Jordanian Ma’an stone. An ivory-white limestone with a rough dotted surface built the exterior of the building and the base of the columns on the side. The stone held vigour in its composition, which enabled it to stand still against the odds of fire, wind, and earthquakes. The Jordanian resilience was exemplified through a national signature of the stone. My contemplation 38

caused an odd resemblance to appear before my eyes. I held the Jordanian stone in the DNA of my ancestors generating my chocolate strands of wavy hair and the desert’s swirling sand present inside my eyes. Yet, my body was embraced by the British dress crafted by a navy lace covering a rosy nude fabric with the lace extending to form fluted sleeves. The building and I were both in a dilemma of belonging; we couldn’t belong to one side. I was intrigued by the discovery of those qualities in the outer design of the building, and an elevated curiosity towards the interior caused me to step inside. A beige carpet covered the floors of the library with six wooden columns standing at each side lifting the first floor to the second. Consistent spacing held the columns apart and resulted in the creation of mini-corridors that carried books on its wooden shelves sitting on opposite sides. These books held an odour of groundwood that overtook my nostrils as my fingers traced the pages that captured me in entities beyond space and time. On the first floor, I found myself in Shakespeare’s rebellious Juliet, and in Harry Potter’s strength at facing adversaries. I found acceptance towards my religious doubts in the books of philosophers arguing for different sides. These shelves saturated with English books captured my attention, but I was still aware of the Arabic literacy calling me to the second floor. The second floor made me indulge in the reality of my life in Jordan. Ibrahim Nasrallah, a Jordanian Palestinian distinguished writer, revived my sorrows against the inequality of being a female in the sexist society of the Arab world and the disastrous love stories that could terminate a girl’s life. I found myself in the tragedy of our present and past recorded in Arab literacy. I grew an admiration for these Arabic books, whose language and tragedy brought me close to my Arab side. However, the books on each floor weren’t separated but represented a unique extension to one another. The second floor was surrounded by the transparent railing as an indicator that everything is existing in the same place. The difference of these qualities didn’t create a barrier; they merged to create an identity made up of many sides. My British past and my Arab present were captured by the rooms of the library existing at the far end of the mini-corridors created by columns. The first turnover to my right on the first floor guided me towards the room of my British childhood. The space in the room was dominated by 39

an azure blue table. The undulating sides of the table were surrounded by a matching circular stool standing on four wooden legs with vibrant bean bags scattered on the side. A parallel universe existed between the library of King’s Academy and the library of Marshfield Primary School in England. I recalled the colouring pencils standing still on the same blue table before an interruption to their placidness caused them to roll over to reach the grasp of my little hands. I used to scrabble on my colouring notebook and grin proudly to my father observing my work. The fairytale books that I used to take home were present on King’s shelves that left me with kindness from Cinderella’s story and the wisdom of the turtle winning the race through overcoming the rabbit’s arrogance. My past extended to this room, while my present existed in an adjacent upper room. The left room on the second floor witnessed the adolescent years of my life accompanied by my Arab classmates giggling and chatter. My friendship with my classmates bloomed between these walls as we were able to connect with our Arab side. We gathered around the rectangular wooden table to share the Arab humour that was difficult for ‘western’ people to comprehend. It was hard for western people to denote the meaning of being ‘on my head’. We debated the Palestinian conflict, which is ambiguous to many western sides, in a fierce passion belonging to the Arab nationalism we hold inside. This room of my present complemented the room of my past; they all contributed to moulding the person that I am now. The library resembled an entity of my being that exists from the merging of British and Arab qualities. My identity that seemed to find no approval was held proudly within the walls and the design of the library. The exterior greeted me with acceptance, while the interior of the library provided an understanding of who I am. My identity being British and Arab seemed almost like acquiring a similar charge that forces repulsion. People always demanded a classification to one side; a predicament was raised between an ancient grudge towards British colonialism and the rejection of ‘terrorist’ Arabs. A common dwelling towards mistakes and differences created a barrier between us. A history and a stereotype divided us to think that we could never live together. However, the repulsion of similar charges applied to magnets, not to a mixed identity. The possibility of similar British and Arab charges living alongside one 40

another is exemplified through the library and me. Peace existed in what I previously assumed to be the ‘dilemma’ of my life; I am not an Arab or British river, but an ocean made up of the fusion of these two waters.