When I set out to write these days, I find myself getting stuck on the mechanics of how to write well instead of what truths to express. When I share updates about my certified-crazy life, I find myself hesitating on how I'll be perceived instead of inviting others into the journey. When I try to return to my meditation practice, I find myself going to war in each sit instead of harmonizing with my body and letting go of my bottlenecked stressors. The common threads: a fear of being misunderstood by others, and even myself.
Exhibit A: I've been sitting on a few pieces from my time in Middle East for a hot minute now. After all, how am I supposed to distill worldview-altering experiences in Syria and Iraq when they feel like such alienating topics to capture? The circular loop of mental despair continues: how is anyone supposed to relate to this piece when they can't see what I saw?
But I stop myself again. It's okay if I'm misunderstood in the moment. That just opens up a fork in the road: who cares enough to really understand what I'm all about, and will stay for greater discovery? Funnily enough, this blog itself was never meant to be directed at anyone but my older self.*
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To me, a good life actively involves seeking out rejection and the unknown. If this means that I'll be labelled as an oddball or judged as an outsider, so be it. I can't count how many times I've used the word “unconventional” to describe my life choices, but it's increasingly become a source of pride. A different type of focus. Optimizing for unbounded play instead of unfulfilled potential. Travel has been a big part of the last year, but the majority of people only see the Instagram highlight reels. What's not captured, even by these words, is the spontaneity and serendipity that led me to some of the best connections I've had: a group of four missionaries from Michigan who I bonded with in Jordan, a group of mindfulness enthusiasts and yogis I met in the Saudi Arabian desert, an introspective Japanese flight attendant crossed in Barcelona, & free-spirited Singaporean health practitioner who I connected deeply with in Monaco.
Viewed this way, travel is not about escape. It becomes the opposite — you get thrown into a tsunami, a torrent of sounds, smells, and sensations that will choke the comforting life force out of you if left unchecked. So yes, it does take a different type of traveller to visit the likes of Syria and Iraq, but probably not in the way that you think. You don't need to be extra bold or confident or adventurous. The pre-requisite is something more simple, yet dashingly more difficult all the same — the capacity to connect with others, the willingness to open yourself up to people. In this way, places like Syria and Iraq transform from being the most “dangerous” places on earth to the most “heartwarming”.
To showcase the texture of my trips in the unventured Middle East, here's an excerpt from my unpublished Substack post:
In May, I hobbled down the bustling bazaars of Damascus in search of cultural treasures that shape the characteristic charm of the City of Jasmine: scented soaps, styled shawls, streams of silver. I was used to the typical open market energy from other Middle Eastern souks, but there’s always a unique feeling of immersion in the unique environments that the artisans and crafters conjure together.
I came across a pair of animated shopkeepers joking and laughing boldly, and couldn’t help but approach their stall. At first glance, both were offering a product mix that was nearly identical to the other’s: a wall of fabrics and silks on the left, a panel of custom-crafted sculptures down the center, and a mix of decorative rings, bracelets, and necklaces to the right.
After a quick greeting with my broken Arabic, I asked one of the shopkeepers out of curiosity: “Isn’t it a concern to either of you that you’re selling the exact same items? I mean, someone might be taking home all of the business for one day.”
He smiled and told me (paraphrased):
>> In Syria we have an old tradition in our souks. If I’ve made a big sale for today, then the spirit is to redirect new customers to my neighbour here. So it’s okay if there are multiple stalls with the same items. The best outcome for us is thriving as a culture, as people together. To be honest, we don’t make much nowadays but that’s what real growth in our souq means to us.
“That’s what real growth means to us”.
Tradition. Spirit. This isn’t a story meant to highlight the shaky situation in Syria as the citizens try to rebuild after a decade-long conflict.
I could boast about Syrian hospitality for hours, but the essential point is there are experiences in life that cannot be accurately described with enough rosy vocabulary, yet remain grossly misunderstood. I felt the same sensation in Iraq — the highlight being the 4 am sunrise excursion across the ancient Euphrates river to reach a setting of true beauty: the Mesopotamian Marshes. This is where I met arguably the most remote yet resilient people in all of the Middle East (a bold claim, I know): the Marsh Arabs. When Saddam Hussein was in power, he started a project to drain the Euphrates for political pressuring, a move that threatened the Maʻdān's livelihoods after branding them as dissenting traitors.
Yet despite the hardened history, the warmness and kindness of the Marsh Arabs still shines through impeccably. I was invited into their homes to indulge in their flavourful home cooking, to pet their domesticated water buffalos, to frolic with their starry-eyed children, and to listen to their stories of adjusting to modern-day Iraq. Travel like this makes me reflect on my existing worldviews — that the road to joy is paved with simplicity and diversity. That humans are inherently durable and flexible, even in the face of huge misfortune. That you don't need to burden yourself with arbitrary self-imposed milestones which mainly serve to make you more legible and understandable to the public, instead of creating more inherent joy and passion in your life.
As I look towards the next (and possibly last?) youthful travel chapter in South America, my story will inevitably shift into another ambitious gear — into lands where muggings, robberies, and murders supposedly run rampant.
But it would be such a disservice to my marinated, maturing mind to perceive “ambition” in a conventional way, i.e. a static quantity that scales linearly. If you'll indulge my calculus metaphors before I close — ambition is less of a constant upwards chase of an unreachable aspiration, but rather a consistent yearning for greater understanding. It then becomes useful to think of internal progress as logarithmic, or even a step function, where setbacks/crises/failures will materialize at the local minima, but never to a breaking point where it alters the positive global maxima.
Without constantly deciding to take the Kierkegaardian leap of faith into the unknown and shedding the fear of being perceived as outrageously eccentric, I would have access to these rich nuggets of opportunity. South America will be a platform where I can open the proverbial silk roads into climate, creativity, community — the 3C's that will be the foundation of 2023. As my tech brethren love to advocate as their mantra: it's time to build (or my update: make things with other creatives).
Signing off with an old Murakami quote from Kafka on the Shore:
In traveling, a companion. In life, compassion.
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