My father traveled the world for much of my childhood and for those brief moments he actually was home, the first thing he would do upon arrival from one exotic destination or another was lay out his clothes on the bed for my mother to wash, and then, a few days later,  that same scene would repeat itself  before his next flight; my mother would lay out his freshly cleaned and perfectly ironed clothes out on their large and often solitary bed before packing his suitcase, and my father would disappear all over again. 

My little girl brain would hound me with notions like : will he come back this time? How long till you see him again Sana’a? You must try to remember his face and how he smells just in case!

That scene caused me immense heartache for most of my childhood and well into my adult life. But, his absence, as well as the many wars that raged around me,  propelled me into the safety of books and never ending stories. I searched for a term that would relay the enormity of the pain I felt, the inability to move forward or even go back; of having no control over my own life; Limbo.

lim·bo

an uncertain period of awaiting a decision or resolution; an intermediate state or condition.

Fast forward to September of 2019, soon after my one and a half year old daughter and my husband, well, ex husband now, but that’s another story- soon after we crossed over into Quebec from America, we were housed in this makeshift encampment made up of identical beds in identical rooms that had no doors- and while that offered me an intimate glimpse into the countless lives of refugees, each fleeing their own monsters on journeys that may never be told, it provided  little privacy or control. In that part of Quebec, there were no dryers, so I would wash our clothes over the sink and set them out on the bunk bed to dry. For 10 nights and 11 days, every time I would pack the clothes back into that one suitcase we had to cram our entire lives into, I would feel hopeful that today was the day our names would be called and we would be escorted to that red bus many others have sat in before us, and be on our way to the promised land. But, every morning, after having not heard our names echo in the maze of hallways, I would wash the clothes and lay them back on the bed again to dry, and be brutally reminded of that little girl watching her father lay out his clothes on the bed only to pack them up again, not to be seen for quite some time. 

In more ways than one,I am still that little girl, stuck in a state of Limbo, not knowing whether this was my new home, in the land of many freedoms, or if it was that tiny war torn land I left behind.