© Anushka Bose. All rights reserved.*
Near our house on 6th St. in Dhahran.
At a plant nursery on Dammam road.
Home is shuffling through Heathrow to reach the gate
counting how many movies I can watch based on the flight duration
but underneath the exhaustion of the journey
rested the excitement of nestling under the covers upon arrival
Home is the lopsided schedule that jetlag ensues
catching up with friends from where you left off
months or years ago
in the comforting corners of the city that envelopes your heart
Home is in the smallest of things
it’s in the smell of freshly baked za’atar filling the aroma of the commissary
in the stream palm trees on rolling hills boulevard,
and in the corners of Khobar’s souks,
scouting for pashmina shawls and oriental rugs
in King Khaled Street
Home is the shade and sunny gleam of the winter Arabian sun
it’s in the aroma of baklava’s
and Arabian oud
scattered around Dhahran mall
home is the distant memory that broods on nostalgia
Honey-Labneh Bread from the commissary. My favorite!
The mosque across the Al-Munirah Commissary
Home is the mountain of sand on shaybah
where I once recall rolling down the dunes on a tray
feeling unstoppable and free
with laughter and adrenaline
and covered with sand and memories for hours after
during a girl scout trip
Home is Christmas in the desert
of greetings and get-togethers
with friends and family
who witnessed you grow up
through the ups and downs
Home is the breezy wind that accompanied my morning runs
where a light jacket will do
where the palm trees swayed with ease
and I ran as free as a bird
finding solace in the pause I desperately needed
from the noise of reality
Near the Third Street Track and Middle School, I took this on my way back from a morning run.
Our family’s Christmas tree.
Home is the bittersweet partings after the holidays
huddled within the warm hugs and glossy eyes at airports
of ma’a salamas and Arabic snacks shuffled in your luggage
and of waving hands before entering immigration at Bahrain International Airport
Home is the Kleenex given by a friendly woman with a faint smile
who saw the tears roll from my eyes
that I tried to stop and hide
as I loaded the tray with my laptop and metals
on my last visit to the Kingdom
Distant from the city’s dust and heat
you can’t forget the city’s feat
that played a part in who you were
and who you are
and who you will become
for better or for worse
While our feet can’t reach home
the place in time we once roamed
our hearts will remember
the life and gleam of our past
and so we carry the stories in our sleeves
of the sand and the dust
and everything in between
that made our homes
full of culture and contrast in the Kingdom
One of my favorite spots in Main Camp.
In the backyard of our home on 6th St.
We scavenge about our lives in another part of the world
hoping curious eyes will ask us to share our past
but most of the time
the stories are safely tucked under our skin
sown into the fabric of our hearts
They are a permanent part of our soul
that will forever accompany the lens through which we see the world
Home, a million places all at once
it’s the food, shelter, memories, aroma, togetherness of the past
and the current embrace of the present
It’s the places we have been
places we are in
and the places we will go
Because no matter what
the life of a global nomad ensures one thing
your heart be in one place
and your foot in another
Both creating their own brand of magic
Anushka is a Graduate Student at Korbel School of International Studies at the University of Denver. She spent her youth growing up in Dhahran, where she attended Dhahran Elementary, Dhahran Middle School, and Dhahran Academy. She loves learning about new cultures and is fascinated by the diversity that brings us all together, especially the expatriate community, where the only thing that is common is that we are all different, in culture, religion, and the perspectives we hold. One day she hopes to publish a book on the third culture kid experience. Dhahran holds a big place in her heart.
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