Fall 2019
NYU Travel Magazine
Staff
Editors’ Letter
Editor-in-Chief
KRISTINA HAYHURST
Creative Director SAM WINSLOW
Managing Editors MARISA LOPEZ EMMA PETTIT JOHNNIE YU BEVERLY TAN
Secretary
RAEVA SAYED
Treasurer
JULIA ZITA
Africa/Europe Editor NASSIM BAHET
Asia Editor
SONALI MATHUR
Europe Editors
HANNAH BENSON RACHEL KIM
Latin America Editors SONNET PRIETO CRISTIANO ROTOLO
North America Editor CATHERINE HUANG
Oceania Editor ASHIA BEASON
At Baedeker, you drive the conversation. We highlight the experiences of students studying at NYU’s many global campuses. By doing so, our magazine is relatively free-form, breaking the traditional formalities of a “travel guide.” We invite your stories—photos, poetry, and longer reflections—to speak individually on what it means to step out of one’s comfort zone and onto the global stage. This semester, we have been amazed at our authors’ ability to capture the current moment of global political tension and make it human, reminding us that behind the names of faraway countries are real people, with common needs and unique histories. We explore the beauty of travel to reveal these histories of people, families, and nations; in doing so, we hope to all become stronger global citizens.
Middle East Editor
BAHEY ABOU-HUSSEIN
Layout Designers BONNIE CHAN LAURA MEASHER BIANCA SPROUL KATIE SUN CLAIRE WANG
READ ONLINE AT nyubaedeker.com
Cover: Peru (by Kristina Hayhurst). Poem by Beverly Tan. Right: Locals in a Tibetan village invited us to watch their annual horse racing competition. This is the last-place contestant whose horse refused to even trot (by Johnnie Yu).
Baedeker NYU Travel Magazine Fall 2019
Letter from the Editors 1
Photos: Berlin & Krka
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Butembo, Democratic Republic of the Congo
2
That’s a Lot of Water
19
Morocco
3
How to Bike on Cobblestone
20
Photo: Smithville, Missouri
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EDITORS
DARYL TAN
CHARLOTTE CHAN
Delhi: An Inside Look 4 ELISE BIRKETT
ISABEL RUDIE
SYDNEY SOLON SAM WINSLOW TYLER ORBIN
Sounds of Mumbai
San Francisco
XINYUE HUANG & MANDIE MONTES
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5
Tibet
6
El Camino Inca
28
Architecture
30
RHEA PODDAR JOHNNIE YU
Photo: Bhutan
10
Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité
12
JOHNNIE YU
JOANNE SEOYOUNG LEE
A Modern Glimpse at an Ancient Village LAUREN CHIRIBOGA
Photo: Barcelona, Spain LAUREN CHIRIBOGA
Photo: Sapa, Vietnam MATTHIAS WU
Ode to Europa
MARGAUX TREXLER
KRISTINA HAYHURST LINDSEY ALPAUGH, M. MONTES, CHARLENE TAN
Reynisfjara, Iceland
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Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
33
Najaf, Iraq
34
Endpaper
36
REYNISFJARA, ICELAND 13
RIA MITTAL
14
RIDA ALI 16
EDITORS 17
3
BUTEMBO DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF THE CONGO by DARYL TAN
“A
y mzungu!” the cry echoes across the street. The cool wind whirls up the sand off the dirt roads of Butembo, staining my white sneakers with a tinge of orange. “Mzungu!” they call again, it’s a Swahili term reserved for foreigners, usually of the NGO trade, addressing westerners. I always reply “Je ne suis pas mzungu, je suis Singapourienne” I’m not white, I’m Singaporean. The heckling never stops on the way to work—people are always curious when a foreigner is in town, much less one who doesn’t look like a typical WHO official. Here, there is little tourism to speak of. Butembo is a trading town in the eastern province of North Kivu in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Currently it is facing one of the worst Ebola out-
breaks since the 2014 West African epidemic. Yet, as I strolled each morning to work, it was as if the disease was not present; the 214 confirmed cases were invisible to me. As I sat in his office, the deputy-mayor proclaimed to me, “there has been war here, there is poverty here, and now there’s Ebola. But life goes on, right? We still need to eat every day, the world doesn’t stop for us.” I couldn’t sum up the spirit of Butembo any better. The first two wars had come and gone, and before that, it had struggled under the oppressive hand of Mobutu Sese Seko’s regime. But it has not, for a single second, rolled over and crumbled under the immense adversity. In fact, it has relatively prospered. Such resilience does sprout from the void; it has been developed since Congo was under Belgian colonial administration. Lying near the border with Uganda and Rwanda, Nande traders have had a long history of smuggling goods in and out of the country. Bypassing the oppressive colonial regime, this class of traders grew wealthy and commanded great social capital. As colonial master was replaced with oppressive dictator, the Nande traders continued to flourish. They fulfilled local demand, unmet by Mobutu’s badly managed economy. Then the wars came and still
Butembo trundled on unencumbered, avoiding civilian massacres and successfully protecting itself from the abuses of armed groups. During the civil war, it built a new office for the mayor and continued to maintain its own roads, all without the state’s help.
This spirit has never left the town since. Ebola may plague Butembo now, but don’t let the images on BBC and CNN paint the definitive picture of this town. The citizens of Butembo aren’t locked indoors while roving bands of WHO staff in protective equipment go round picking up patients. Sure, hand-washing stations dot the roadside, but so do the mamas selling citron and pagnes. Music still blasts from the phone credit shops as young men mill outside purchasing more unités to make business calls. And all the same, the moto taximen continue hollering at me, because they won’t let a plague affect their daily life. C’est la vie.
Left: The store in the heart of Marrakesh’s medina was filled with different kinds of health-promoting spices. Below: A group of tourists in Morocco, identically clad.
Morocco by CHARLOTTE CHAN
DELHI: AN INSIDE LOOK by ELISE BIRKETT
T
he cacophony of people clamoring and shouting across densely packed streets, vendors yelling louder than the rest to advertise their wares, and tuk-tuks taxis bobbing and weaving through impossibly tight spaces in the stand-still traffic are among the first sights that overwhelm the senses in Delhi. A world all of its own, the city is a unique blend of traditional culture and popular references. Despite what may appear to be a “grunge” look on the surface, Delhi is a colorful, vibrant city full of polar opposites. One of the greatest things Delhi has to offer is the street food. One of the absolute best things I’ve ever eaten were the samosas and chai teas consumed while walking through the street markets that seem to pop up everywhere. At just twenty cents for a samosa bigger than your fist, the freshly made deep-fried potato and vegetable pastries cannot be overlooked. Paired with a miniature cup of piping hot chai, the perfect blend of spice, pepper and sweetness coats the back of your throat like honey and combined, they make for the perfect pick-me-up to stay motivated while traversing through the dirt-paved streets. Taking a visit to a Sikh temple is an absolute must when visiting Delhi. Stepping inside, a peaceful quietness descends that is absent when fighting your way down the busy streets. It is only when you
enter the temple that you even realize the difference. Ornately decorated in reds and purples, yellows and greens and tiny little shimmering mirrors, the temple is reflective of the colorful culture that can be found on the other side of the door, minus the sounds. Instead all that can be heard are voices raised in the songs of prayer, joined together in this place of worship. If you are lucky enough, you might get to also see the massive kitchen with pots bigger than tires filled with curries and lentils. Rotis, the small, round flat-breads are being handmade and churned out at a pace enviable by a factory by the groups of women sitting and chatting on rugs on the floor. Through another hallway, there is a large room where members of the Sikh temple feed meals to the hungry every day. Anyone is welcome, as engaging in selfless service is one of the main tenets
of Sikhism, and is accomplished by these free, accessible meals. It is a moving experience to see so many people dedicating their time and energy to feeding complete strangers, something that can really only be felt through first-hand experience. There are also plenty of historical and religious sites to visit and the architecture of these gorgeous buildings is reason enough to check them out. And despite the fact that Delhi is under no doubt a metropolitan city, the smog that permeates the air and visual and auditory assault that greets you when you step outside shouldn’t make you assume there is nowhere to escape for some peace and quiet. There are plenty of gardens curated with beautiful local plants and flowers that offer a respite from the hustle and bustle of the city and are the perfect way to end a day in Delhi.
SOUNDS OF MUMBAI by RHEA PODDAR
S
omewhere across the world, my hardwood-floored room is greeted by the song of the waves every morning. I know this because that room has been mine for twenty-one years now. From that room, I have uncovered the layers of sounds that define the city of Mumbai: the Arabian sea’s constancy is coupled with the erratic honks of kaali-peeli taxis. The fishmonger below my apartment-building hollers to announce his arrival. Still, I am more interested in the wails of the squabble of migratory seagulls that is desperate to find fresh fish to satisfy themselves before the sun fully rises. They say that the city of Mumbai never sleeps, but it is definitely made of dreamers. The local trains are always over-populated with men and women from all around India who are determined to “make it” in the financial capi-
Neha Vasudevan tal of the country. The city caters to everyone and is home to no particular group of people. Artists spend hours in places such as the Jehangir Art Gallery in Kala Ghoda, whereas stock market connoisseurs keep up with the constant buzz that emanates from the offices of the Bombay Stock Exchange. While the Taj Mahal Hotel stands proud as the ultimate symbol of bespoke luxury, the chaat-wala, who stands a few streets away, has built a loyal customer base over the past twenty years of his entrepreneurial endeavor. What sets Mumbai apart is that even with all the struggles of city life: the turtle-speed traffic, the road rage, and careless pedestrians, the omnipresence of the sea seems to maintain a certain kind of united sanity for all Mumbaikars. A good day is celebrated with a walk to the not-so-clean beaches with a gola in one hand
and a vada-pav in the other, but the sea does not abandon you on your worst days. It offers a shoulder to cry on when you sit on Marine Drive or Bandstand and look towards the horizon and stress about the uncertainty of the future or reflect on the regrets of the past. Perhaps this is why the city is reborn every Monsoon when the entire city is painted by the transparency of the rain. No matter who you are or where you come from, the dancing sea and the singing sky are yours to enjoy. The puddles may soil your clothes before you get to work, but the sight of young children unabashedly dancing will make it all worth while: your soul will clap along. Mumbai is Meri Jaan. When I sit here in New York and think about the concert that the sea and the sky put on every year, my soul can’t help but applaud. 7
TIBET by JOHNNIE YU
T
hese days in Tibet, I probably spend more time with Jarvis than I do in bed sleeping. Jarvis is, unfortunately, not Iron Man’s artificial intelligence system, but rather the name of the much less impressive voice-activated assistant in our Toyota SUV. As a territory with mostly natural wonders, we average about 400km a day in car rides, which, if you include all the bathroom breaks, three meals, and our off-road tangents to lakes and wild animals, totals to a 10-12 hour drive daily. I sleep around 7 hours on a good day. Our off-road trips on dirt paths slowly but surely rearranged my internal organs. I’m not sure these Japanese imported cars were meant to be used as planetary exploration rovers, as the old V6 engines struggled to climb even From top: Two white SUVs parked in the wild; a woman walks by a yellow roofed structure; three men rest at a pit stop in the great outdoors.
8
the smallest hills, making a humming noise I can only assume is a reminder that we’re all gonna get arthritis if we don’t stop and get out of the car to slowly approach sheep and yak for a bit, with cameras. We made one of the longest trips anyone could reasonably take in Tibet—the Ali route. Our trip began in Lhasa, taking us westward toward the borders of Nepal and India, and at the closest point we were no more than 60km from both countries, plus the casual vertical distance of the Himalayan mountain ranges, a.k.a the Great Southwest Wall of China. Alongside my trusty sidekick Jarvis, I was awestruck at the two polar opposite sides of Tibet— the Chinese-influenced political Tibet, and the ancient, local Tibetan culture. The history and political status of Tibet is complex and controversial. China, unlike most other countries, is not united by its people’s ethnicity, as there are
more than thirty ethnic minorities within its borders. It’s not religion either that unites the country, as the Cultural Revolution wiped out any trace of religions during that era, with the exception of maybe ancestor worship. Although, Buddhism, along with Confucianism, have been making a comeback as China struggles to grasp at a legitimate philosophical backing for its non-Marxist, perhaps even anti-Marxist communist status. China’s national identity comes from what I can only describe as a shared history and common struggle of the people. Anyhow, I’ll reserve my political judgement for an untimely comment at an awkward dinner table conversation. The fact is, modern Tibet falls under Beijing’s control, and the logical thing for a single-party state to do in a politically turmoil area is, well, establish stability. I usually stray away from the word “propaganda” because as a Chinese American who grew up in
China under British/American education, I see from both sides that the term is used by either side to label or marginalize an ideology that disagrees with the country’s political or cultural beliefs. Truth is, anything can be propaganAbove: Locals circle a stupa outside a popular monastery. Below: An elderly woman pays her respect to the sacred mountains and rivers of her land.
da. But as I stepped off the train, I heard loudspeakers screech “please stand in a single-file line and keep order” over and over again, echoing in the big, white cuboid chamber that is the building I’m in. I can’t help but feel like I’m in a dystopian film. Fast forward to a couple days later, we’ve journeyed into the wild lands of Tibet, and every occupied building had the red Chinese flag flying on the rooftop, mandated by the local government. Billboards on the road don’t advertise products, rather slogans that placed me right in the middle of a 1980s Chinese history book. My wildest discovery was perhaps the glorified “70th Anniversary of Tibet” posters found in some restaurants, that had the faces of all Communist China’s Premiers—Chairman Mao, Deng Xiaoping, Jiang Zemin, Top: The top of the Guge, high up in Tibet’s thin atmosphere. Right: Outside the Potala Palace, locals wear their best clothes to the resting place of all the Dalais. 10
Hu Jingtao, and Xi Jinping on top of Beijing’s Tian An Men Square. The entire color scheme looked like a remake of the old revolutionary posters produced during the Chinese Civil War era. On the flip side, perhaps a week into our journey, I vaguely remember discovering that in addition to our luggage we took on the trip, there were additional packages that looked like sleeping bags. We initially assumed that our drivers,
in case our planned stops don’t have enough hotel rooms for all of us, would instead sleep in the car and use the sleeping bags. A couple of days later, we rode through a small village, and the drivers slowed down to tell us that this was one of the most rural regions of Tibet. Children would come out from their huts to wave and look at us, which was quite normal in rural areas where outsiders rarely pass through. However, we slowed
our pace, then came to a stop, and our drivers got out of the car. Every time they pass through this town they would bring supplies for the kids—sometimes, their previous customers would donate certain items, but most of the time it was out of their own pockets. What we initially thought were sleeping bags were actually down jackets for when the weather got cold, which seemed like every night since we were at such a high
altitude. Rolled up inside down jackets were sweets which weren’t available in smaller supermarkets in town, as well as school supplies, shoes, and they even had a brand new backpack in the trunk. One would assume that with the strict level of Chinese political influence penetrating every level of society in Tibet, people would be numb to a lot of emotions and focus on a repetitive daily routine, just like a dystopian film. I cer-
tainly thought this would be the case. Casting my prejudice aside, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe at our drivers’ kindness, plus a touch of shame that the idea of charity and the wealth gap in Tibet never once crossed my mind during this trip. Below: A rare sight—the peak of the most sacred mountain in the area becomes visible for a split second. Having waited for this moment, locals appear, ready to pay their honors.
BHUTAN—“How often are these walls painted?” I asked the monks. Apparently, once every decade or so, because “only pigeons shit on them.” Can you imagine a pristine white wall in New York? Photo by JOHNNIE YU
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LIBERTÉ, ÉGALITÉ, FRATERNITÉ! LIBERTÉ, ÉGALITÉ, FRATERNITÉ! LIBERTÉ, ÉGALITÉ, FRATERNITÉ! by JOANNE SEOYOUNG LEE Half past noon on a weekday, chants of the French national motto echo throughout Place de la Nation in the east of Paris. The usually bare statue of Marianne bears a multicolored radiance as groups of youth climb onto the statue to mark their participation in the global climate strike on September 20th. Yet, the climate strike holds a different kind of atmosphere than the usual Parisian protest. Instead of grey haze and tear gas, the square is lit by clear skies, serendipitously reflecting the protestors’ demand for clean air. Booming drums beat along to the synchronized songs of the protestors, whose fervent voices urging immediate action are paired with intermittent giggles of innocence. The air is full of oxymorons—a protest with a celebratory ring, hopeful voices warning of impending doom, calls for a future at a place of commemoration—a perfect reflection of the remarkable nature of this movement and the youth powering it.
Top: Place de la Nation on the day of the global climate strike, pigmented with recycled cardboard signs and technicolored school bags. Bottom: Countless signs throughout the plaza express solidarity with Greta Thunberg, the 16-year-old Marianne of their youth-powered Climate Revolution.
A Modern Glimpse at an Ancient Village A WALK THROUGH A SHADOW—by LAUREN CHIRIBOGA
I sit at the table in my father’s shadow for a family lunch of fideuà with his mother and sister. Church bells chime from the other side of this small mountain village to declare the beginning of midday mass. The ringing continues for over ten minutes. The new bell tower doesn’t echo the same way, but it casts a shadow on the castle where the original tower once stood. A piece of the castle that slid out of existence. The ashes on the walls and streets remain as scars from last year’s correfoc, and from the hundreds of correfocs before that, which are only being healed by time. The soles of my shoes begin to melt in the 110 degree heat, but at least it’s not humid. The sun is high in the sky. There’s no shadow from la Cruz on top of the mountain yet, but a valley breeze rattles my bones like it does the orange trees—like only a jump in a balsa can. If only the balsas had enough
water in them. If only it rained in the summertime. I never thought I could come from anywhere other than the “city that never sleeps.” I’ve always admired Spain from afar, with an occasional 2-week opportunity to be a tourist in a place that I will eventually inherit as my home. But living is strikingly different from visiting. Walking through the same bancales where my dad spent every summer day as a kid; driving past the caves where my grandmother hid during the civil war, overlooking where she’d cross town with water from la fuente. I felt the iPhone in my pocket buzz: a text from my mom, who I had not seen in months, asking “what are you up to today?” That day my past was unveiled. I walked as my ancestors did, who could never have imagined me as a result of their lives over a hundred years ago. I try to see the past through their eyes. I try to. 15
Barcelona, Spain: Casa Milà was designed by Antoni Gaudí to appear as if you are underwater. The outside of the building ripples like waves and the guardrails are designed like seaweed. The inside is painted with blue and coral colors and undersea life. Looking up is as if looking to the water’s surface. by LAUREN CHIRIBOGA
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vietnam The roads are muddy, the ride home bumpy; but in Sapa, it’s okay if loving a person takes a lifetime. by MATTHIAS WU 18
ode to europa by MARGAUX TREXLER any way but upside down and if i told you i could stay paint your colors every day would you believe me anyway? something lingers in the air somewhere i’d tell you, but to speak? i couldn’t bear. your mouth is like a carousel golden round and round spinning whispers in my chest a fox, a trail, a hound there’s nothing worse than skipping stones on a river’s face where no one knows your language or your skin or your melancholy sin i went to the city lovers dream about and couldn’t find my own fled before the flight, my heart stayed back home
Left: Krka National Park on 35mm film. Visitors navigate the tree-rooted and uneven ground to hop in the clear warm water. People of all ages, sizes, and backgrounds gather here in the early evening. (Krka, Croatia) Above: Couple on 35mm film at Wansee See in early September. No qualms with each other, just scenic and peaceful. (Berlin, Germany) by ISABEL RUDIE
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THAT’S A LOT OF WATER by SYDNEY SOLON
Italy boasts just under 5000 miles of coast line. That’s a lot of water. I had dedicated most of September, which is still summer by the conventions of the Italian lifestyle, to visiting coastal towns. Sorrento, then Capri, then Positano, then Manarola.
I thought the answer to anything was to get to the end of the earth, where if you looked out on the expanse, things would be simple. After all, at a certain point, all you can see is the water, the sky, and the sun.
5000 miles of coastline is a lot of room for self-indulgent introspection. Maybe it was a quarter life crisis onsetting at age 20, maybe it was that I was listening to a ridiculous amount of Simon & Garfunkel, but I found myself cycling through waves of despondency. To attach a feeling to a color, in the varying waves of blue present on the coast, my blue felt like the deepest blue only visible at the very point where the horizon meets the sea.
That is to say, things are simple by the water. Although the bluest coastline is a terrible place to feel incredibly blue, it is a great place to feel everything and think about nothing.
I tried to convince myself that I had felt otherwise. I felt obligated to feel on top of the world: how could you feel otherwise surrounded by such beauty? Clearly, everything is not a Lord Byron poem.
Jump off a ledge, let the water absorb the shock. Float upwards and look up at the mountains. Have you ever seen mountains kiss clouds? Hike to the top of the hill look down and watch the world below you instead of participating in it. Feel the blue, every shade of blue a different sensation. Think less. To attach logic to a feeling is trite anyways. After all, on the Italian coast, things are simple here.
Outside Caffe Lietta, shot on Portra 400 (Florence, Italy)
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Smithville, Missouri Photo by TYLER ORBIN
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SAN FRANCISCO
Above: Constantly finding myself through the words of others. This was taken inside City Lights Bookstore, the bookstore and independent publisher made famous in 1956 by the publishing of Allen Ginsberg’s Howl, one of the defining works of the Beat Generation. (by Mandie Montes) Left: Pretty in pink in the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood. (by Xinyue Huang) 27
Chinatown, San Francisco by XINYUE HUANG 29
EL CAMINO INCA — by KRISTINA HAYHURST It’s 4:00 in the morning. My headlamp lights up my breath, fogging the path ahead of me. Besides the boots on my feet and the shifting poles in my hands, the rest of the Andes are shaded in soft darkness under the light of the setting full moon. My team walks single file ahead and behind me. We walk in silence. These are the final miles of a trek that has taken us more than 40 kilometers and 13,769 feet through the Peruvian highlands. These moments are filled with a strange frustration. Each step pulls at the strings of my calves, stirring exhausted rage deep within my chest. My poles are a shoulder to lean on; through them I communicate my anger with the path beneath me. I watch as each forceful and diligent stab incites nothing but the hum of Tanagers in the treetops. The past four days brought my team and I all the way from Cusco along the Urubamba River to the start of the Inca Trail. Millions of years old, it stands as one of the last remaining symbols of the ancient Incan civilization. As we walk, we walk with the Sapa Inca, the Allyu, and all the others who embarked on the monthly ceremonial trek to Machu Picchu many years ago.
30
As we approach the end of the trail, the moments of the last four days flash through my mind. The beginning steps, full of anticipation and beauty: the roaming streams and expansive valleys fell away to rocky planes and steep inclines. The second day, full of doubt, each heartbeat nearly jumping out of my chest as we ascended to the highest peak, Dead Woman’s Pass. The third day, full of appreciation and wonder at the glaciers that encircled our campground and at my feet for carrying me further than I previously thought I could go. And now on the last day, even the frustration and anger hold a meaningful space in this journey—a final release before the last descent. The hovering morning mist slowly breaks over the Andes. The sun climbs higher and higher into the sky. Step by step we endure the last mile of the Inca Trail, rising to the precipice of the Sun gate and watching the rays slowly align with the cobblestone archway which stands as a welcome. My team and I climb up the steep steps on hands and knees, each hand a final extension of our will that has wavered over the past four days. As we reach the summit, all the emotions and expectations fade to the background. In front of me the clouds fully break over Machu Picchu, the finish line. Standing above it and looking down, it appears miniscule compared to the miles of Incan history we have already walked upon.
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TORSHAVN
Cotton candy skies in Santorini. by MANDIE MONTES
Homes in Torshavn, Faroe Islands by LINDSEY ALPAUGH
SANTORINI Cotton candy skies in Santorini by MANDIE MONTES
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JERUSALEM Abbey of the Dormition, Jerusalem, Israel: The Abbey of the Dormition houses both the tomb of King David and the room of the Last Supper. by CHARLENE TAN
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Reynisfjara, Iceland by MATTHEW APUYA
Despite the cool weather, Icelandic sunsets provide a certain warmth to their visitors. I’ve yet to find a sky quite as comforting.
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Jeddah, Saudi Arabia by RIA MITTAL
T
he calming flow of sand between my toes takes me back. The sprawling glitter of Jeddah’s sand dunes instantly fill my mind, bringing with them childhood moments I’d thought had been long forgotten. The heat of the golden grains under my feet battle with the cooling breeze of evening air. I felt a simultaneous rush of chaos and calm sitting at the back of a speeding dune buggy, not an ounce of control in my hands, happy to lose myself in the swells and falls of the sandy sea. As I watch the sun fade away into the Hudson, I am reminded of the fresh strokes of red, pink and yellow reflected on the Red Sea as the sun took its daily dip. There was something hopeful about the limitless warmth I saw in the sky on those explosive dusk hours, something at the tip of my fingers but not fully in the palm of my hand. Those Saudi sunsets were a sign of the untouched beauty within reach, the necessary empowerment soon to come. The brewing excitement of hearing the pitter-patter of rain against my window and seeing rain clouds on a weekday still catches
me off guard. Jeddah’s single downpour a year was treated like a city-wide holiday that no one wanted to miss. The streets of Al Basateen, my neighborhood, were be flooded with children soaked in rainwater and relief, drenched and deliriously happy. The unbridled joy of dancing on my trampoline in the pouring rain has never found me anywhere else. Every time I’m reminded of my childhood in Jeddah, it takes me back to all the happy times, gymnastics at school, field trips to the beach, pool parties in October, endless hours at Toys- R- Us and my friends from all over the world. I remember noticing that my mother never drove, and that she always wore an abaya, or that all the adult women I knew were either doctors, teachers, or didn’t work. My Saudi life was one of blissful ignorance, one which has long since changed, but taught me to appreciate the small things. Like hot sand on a cool evening, a little color on an otherwise perennially blue sky and feeling the touch of rain on your skin, even if it is just once a year.
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by RIDA ALI
32.0107° N, 44.3265° E December 23rd, 2018 5:53 PM. Between barrels of blood, The world floods Images of her On the screen. And they call her “Eye-Rak.” The name that they mention means Nothing to me, As I only recognize From the river that runs through her-And the only thing I knew her by Was the moments I spent Within her. For I know what love is, Because of those moments I spent on her land. As the shopkeeper places The hot tea in my hand. It’s almost like this life was planned So that I would meet her. The verses of the Quran play in the background, And I am exposed to them in a way I never was. Not through a white man’s accent On Fox News Who chooses to abuse What the Arabic phrases mean.
And for a second, As I sit in the City of Najaf, I feel like it is the beginning of the world. And I remember my name, Not the one that is mispronounced, But the one that sounds Like myself. I am not in “EyeRak,” The picture painted by the world Of a terrorist state. I am in Iraq. & I am Rida Ali, Visiting the site of a man who Reminds me of my title. A ruler who Raised mountains And created fountains Out of droplets of tears. And for years I knew of his name, Through the hushed whispers That were hidden And were forbidden to say. For a moment it feels like I was destined To stay. And I pray, That this memory never leaves my mind And that I will find myself here again. She carries generations of blood, But in between the world that floods Her with the wrong name, I call her Iraq.
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Endpaper Every issue, we are left with photographs too noteworthy to miss. Here are two.
A man dressed as a demon lights the fireworks on the final night the annual Fiestas de La Divina Aurora y al Cristo del Salvador. The correfoc (fire run) is a daring way to conclude the celebration of the patron saint of this village and the life of Christ. The traditional music of the Dimonis, featuring unique instruments known as Dolçaines, plays in the background to heighten the experience. by LAUREN CHIRIBOGA
Posing with the People in sunny San Francisco. by XINYUE HUANG
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