https://www.artfromguantanamo.com/moath-alalwi/
Half a Decade
The sea brims waves with foam and the sky with clouds.
I rode in on the latter.
I was born in June, a summer baby. And naturally, I have an affinity for the sea. I can’t actually swim well enough for it to be called swimming.
Once when we went on an excursion in the waters surrounding the Dominican Republic, my father and I were strapped into life vests and instructed to swim toward the barriers where the sea life was (there we could take photos with sting rays and admire coral—the standard tropical tourist treatment). I timidly climbed down the ladder of the boat, knowing that this nine year old body couldn’t swim. I knew it was deep, the water was dark. So when I plopped down, despite all the reassuring from my father and the guide, I panicked. I went down before I went up. The life vest on, and I still was submerged before I was floating. I grasped the rungs and climbed back up to the safety of the deck.
This past May we went to Florida for a bit, school was basically over and everyone needed a break of some sorts. On one of the last days we drove out to Hollywood Beach. The water was clear and blue, and of course enchanting. Warm and so, so soothing. Facing away from the beach, and out into the horizon, the water was divided: clear blue, dark blue, and again clear blue. People were swimming past the dark patch and ending up in calf-deep water. So I swam into it. And I got there. (I also convinced my non-swimming-incredibly-afraid-of-deep-water Mom to come in, and later when the tides changed she was stranded… oops).
I am not afraid until I am out of my depth. So my love remains. My love remains because I remember the summers waking up and loading into Oksana’s car and heading out to Coney Island. My love remains because I remember the thermoses we filled and headed to Rockaway. And because I remember the brief visit home and the sand of the Caspian Sea, we rubbed it into our hair and all over our skin, it was just sand.
When we first moved here, it was a lot of plane riding. From Baku to Istanbul, a brief respite, and from Istanbul to New York. It was difficult for me. But not as difficult as it was for my parents. And not as difficult as I made it. Any time I had my hands on a paper and a pen, I drew. And every time the drawing was the same. A family on a plane headed home. I did not understand why I was isolated. Why was I removed from world I knew? Why was I suddenly imprisoned?
I had spent one hundred percent of my life watching the sea bubble around my toes as my mom called from the shore “Don’t get mazut in your hair.” I had sat on light wooden benches built into decks as we sailed, boasting about never getting seasick. I had found fascination at the airport. Everything measured, accounted for, systematic. I loved the flights.
I felt agonizing pain in my ears as we descended onto the runway. The lady in front of us looked back pityingly, as my mom pushed a candy in my mouth and instructed me to pace the aisle.
Being in the sky was different. Surrounded by clear blue. The clouds bubbled around the smooth metal. We were airborne.
The next summer, when my feet felt the Atlantic, I was unfazed by the cold, I’d forgotten the warmth of the Caspian. I’d forgotten that before the threat was oil, because now I was steering clear of plastic bags. I’ve forgotten about the airplanes.
I didn’t hit the shores, I hit the runway, in a vessel nonetheless. My luck brought peace with it, safety. I was not imprisoned, I was rescued.
