Author: Churan Xu
The night breeze kissed the shining beads of sweat on my cheek. Granules of sand brushed my dry lips. I pressed myself into the smooth peak of the dune, watching the sun swell from a hint of pale yellow to a shade of ruby red. The canyon started to soften and melt under its dwindling warmth as the horizon slowly blurred into the starry night sky – a spectacle unforeseen in megacities.
Climbing down the mountain, I found myself in the warm embrace of newly-lit candles. A splash of color that saturated the faded rocks. I followed the light to a bonfire, where the entire family of Beaudoin people gathered. The desert was quiet and peaceful at night: surreal, otherworldly... The only sound was the gentle sizzle of the fire, the soft whispers of the wind, and the rustle of night-blooming plants waking up from their daytime slumber.
The tip-tap of shoes and the faint smell of grilled chicken broke the silence. Jordan has some of the most unique foods in this world, including chicken that’s grilled underground. Alongside its crisp outer layer was meat coated with oil, a delicacy of incredible tenderness and juiciness. To celebrate the blessing of food, the family started dancing in Dabke, a traditional Middle Eastern dance. With their arms interlocked, they sang and chanted, stomping their feet to the rhythm. The energy touched something deep in my heart and filled it with light and joy. Seeing how much they could bond and connect, I started to picture how my family was doing overseas. I wanted to tell them the endless possibilities of the way to live life, the stories I’ve heard, and the people I’ve met here in this magical place. Most of all, I wanted to show them how much I’d grown. I was no longer the whiny girl I was one year ago.
I grew up in Shanghai, in the midst of the hustles and bustles of this metropolis. I’ve grown used to the sharp whistles and horns and the moving crowd of pedestrians. Tick, tick. Time was too precious for anyone to appreciate moments in life. My eyebags grew, alongside worsening mental health, as a tradeoff from earning more A-stars in school. I gave up sketching, skateboarding, badminton, among other hobbies so that I could pour more time into academic competitions. Exhausted, I started to lose track of myself, as I climbed up Mr. Sisyphus’ mountain every day. My passions, aspirations, and dreams were fading away. I never clearly knew what I valued in life and in other people. There was a vacuum in the gaps of this fast-paced city.
I didn’t think I was on a quest of meaning when I decided to take a risk and accept the offer to go to school in Jordan, the Middle East. I was practically in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t until my departure that I realized: with the detachment from my previous life and the reflections on my privileges comes a full-hearted exploration of the living chronicles of people from all walks of life. My journey on the land of the mystery became the prologue of my life: the search for my meaning.
Learning and growing in a country that I am not familiar with culturally and linguistically is no easy feat. To infuse myself into the local culture, I picked up a plucked Middle-Eastern instrument called the Qanun, drawn by its mystery and nuance . To my dismay, however,I walked into the classroom ready to engage in this brand new experience only to discover that I was the only international student. Instead of greeting me, my Arabic classmates innocently asked “Why are you here?”, leaving me with shaking confusion and quivering lips.
In the midst of my mental clumsiness and chaos, I forgot the Arabic scale for the song I just learnt. When I asked for help, my instructor spurted in Arabic. My brain couldn’t guess which of the 72 Maqamat scales that one belonged to, and so I sat quietly with confusion. “This is not Western music. You know, if you want to perform Arabic music, you need to KNOW Arabic”, said my instructor in a falsely calm, passive-aggressive tone. She turned her back. I froze, confounded, unable to process what I was just being told.
I was later treated as if I was invisible, while she proudly recorded a video of another outstanding student of hers for a good 40 minutes or so.
I was out of words. The power of music had failed me. It did not transcend language or culture.
Two flies fluttered into the room and landed on my Qanun. I stared, dead inside, wishing to storm out of the classroom and stage an epic debate with my music instructor. She seemed to sense my hostility. Thinking any conversation would be futile, I stood up and left without a word.
The walk back to my dorm room never felt so far. “Are you okay?” I was zoning out until my thoughts were interrupted by concerned classmates. Frustration flashed across my face, almost undiscoverable. “It’s nothing,” I replied for the sake of being polite, trying to hide the distant look in my eyes as I walked down the stairs to grab my chicken shawarma.
Am I not worthy enough to play this instrument?
The evening prayer song, solemn and serene, blasted from the speakers. I walked to the field after dinner to clear my head. The world dwelled into an eternal silence. Some people paused, staring into afar, while workshippers kneeled down and prayed. As beams of sunset touched their shoulders, Islamic music unveiled its powerful spirituality. I felt an inexplicable admiration. As long as I felt the beat, I was part of the rhythm. As long as my heart beat with the music, what other people said didn’t matter.
Arabic music was so different in its coexistence of calmness and power, though I never truly understood why. I started my journey there. I interviewed every classmate and discovered generations of family stories. A symbol of love. People change and the family tree grows, but the texture of music heals everyone’s heart throughout time and space. In the Wadi Rum desert, I discovered that music empowered the Bedouin people in crisis. When extreme weather took away their tourist industry, when their children were beaten up for begging downtown, they would dance around the bonfire to music every night, just like the night I encountered the dancing Beaudoins - the night they embraced me.
A month later, I visited street graffiti sites at the heart of Jordan — its capital city Amman. I met a local artist working on her new graffiti, whom I initiated a conversation with. Born to Syrian parents, she became a refugee at a young age. She discovered her interest in art climbing up and down the refugee camp to find a signal for her worn-out radio to receive the art podcast. Artwork soon became the source of her financial and emotional support, allowing her to start a life of her own. For her, art is life. She will relentlessly defend her art if anyone dared misrepresent or tarnish it.
Looking back, I don’t blame my music teacher. The accusations of xenophobia ended up as opaque bubbles that itch in my heart. It’s a privilege, at least for me, to experience a different culture with all its diversity and nuances. She, on the other hand, had studied and lived in Jordan her whole life. I have taken the road less traveled, and that has made all the difference.
I’m leaving Jordan to study in the States next year, but I will continue to pursue meaning in art, diversity and multiculturalism. More importantly, I discovered something much more profound and metaphysical. It’s the determination that if I have enough courage to give up comfort and familiarity and leave everything behind, and I treat everything that happens as a clue and everyone as a teacher, the truth of my existence will eventually arrive to me. For the first time, I understand what world-traveler and journalist Elizabeth Gilbert meant when she titled her book Eat, Pray, Love: now, better than ever before.