The Healing

by Saeeda Hafiz

  Sharon and I have different mothers and didn’t grow up in the same household, so she was spared the domestic violence. But we share the same dad, and we both had stories of him not showing up. I was sure that I hadn’t told her this one though: I was fifteen years old. My friend’s dad was going to take us somewhere, but his van had just broken down, so I asked my dad to take us, and he agreed. It was a gamble, because often he would say yes but never show up. This time, he actually showed up and took us where we wanted to go. But when we were getting out of the car, he said, “Girls, rides aren’t free. That will be two dollars each.” He held out his hand. I was mortified as I watched my friends dig into their pockets and purses and hand over money to my father.

  I went to bed that night with the blinds slightly cracked so I could see the moonlight peeking in through the darkness. I needed to know that there was always a little light shining somewhere, especially because I didn’t know who I could turn to for help.

  When I woke up in Craig’s house, at age twenty-seven, I felt like I had no one. My bed was warm. The house had a morning silence. I went over to the window and opened it. Fresh air found its way in. As I breathed in, I plainly realized that no one had any obligation to me—not friends, and certainly not family. I had to fix my own problems. I had to be an adult. I was no longer the child who always had to be an adult due to growing up in a family of chaos. In the back of my mind, I thought to myself, “When do I get to be a kid? When do I get to have an adolescent period?” On that morning, I told myself, “That time is long gone. Childhood is over.”

  I remembered the 401(k) plan I had participated in when I was employed by the bank. So instead of hiding from my phone calls, I picked up the phone and made one.

  “I need to cash in my 401(k),” I said to my fund manager, Elise. She was ten years my senior, a successful African American stockbroker.

  “Are you sure? You worked hard to create a savings for yourself, for your future.”

  I told her I was sure, thinking that I might not have a future.

  I didn’t think Elise and other outwardly successful people in my life would understand that I had never really asked anyone for anything. In fact, at a young age, my mother saw me earning money and harped on the fact. One Christmas, she took me to the mall. I was prepared to buy gifts for my friends at school. I was about to do my shopping, and she said, “Now that you have money, you should buy quality gifts for your brothers and sister.”

  I gave her a perplexed look. It was my friends at school who were there for me and made me feel loved. I wanted to buy them nice stuff, and so I did.

  “Yeah. She went to the mall and bought all of her little school friends very nice gifts,” I overheard my mom say to my Aunt Clair, in a tone that seemed to criticize me for being generous with my friends and not putting family first.

  I was confused. It was hard to be loyal to a group that was causing me so much pain, especially when I wanted to be loyal to the group that loved me and that I loved in return.

  I cashed in my 401(k), paid off some bills in one payment; and paid others just enough to keep the phone calls at bay. It felt good to alleviate some of the pressure. I was in desperate need of self-renewal. I was exhausted.

  After paying my bills, I looked at the lump sum that I had left over, about $2,000 to live on. During the previous six months, a group of my spiritually minded friends had been putting together a pilgrimage tour they called the “Power Trip.” I’d never paid attention to it before because I knew that I couldn’t afford it; but now, looking at this lump sum of cash and wanting a break, I signed up for it. It felt like a luxury but also a necessity. That’s how I could justify spending this money on a trip, when I should have been focused on trying to stay afloat financially. I needed to escape, if only for a while.

  CHAPTER 11

  Istanbul, Budapest, Cyprus

  SO, ON A HOT SUMMER DAY, I boarded a jet at the Atlanta International Airport with just one carry-on—a gray Samsonite bag with two thick maroon stripes that looped around it to make two strong handles. I was met with familiar faces from Atlanta, Pittsburgh, and Lexington, Kentucky; my group and I were all on our way to meet unfamiliar faces in Istanbul, Budapest, and Cyprus.

  Called the “Power Trip,” it was set up as a tour for participants to understand the interconnected spiritual history of Eastern and Western philosophy. We were going to study the Ottoman and Byzantine Empires and trace human history dating back ten thousand years. We would look at how events and concepts from this region and time period might impact humanity in the future, and how religious themes intersected with secular ones. It didn’t make a lot of sense to me, but I wanted to be on this jetliner, going to faraway lands, hoping to stop my fall into an existential abyss.

  I buckled myself in nice and tight. I took a deep breath. And I thought about how much I loved traveling. The possibilities were endless, from meeting the love of my life to experiencing a culture that would change my worldview forever. Being an outsider on purpose was so seductive.

  Traveling in a group was new for me. My idea of seeing the world was to go to a strange land by myself and talk to new and different people, just as I had done in college. My preference was to live with a local family that I didn’t know and learn how they lived. But this was not that kind of trip, and I wasn’t in the right mental space for that kind of exploring.

  The woman next to me on the flight out was named Kathy. I explained to her that I didn’t really know what I was doing on the trip. I was out of money, and I didn’t have a stable home to return to. Kathy listened to me talk about my situation with my voice quivering. Matter-of-factly and without judgment, Kathy told me that I needed to visualize a different kind of life. In a strange way, I felt that she was showing me unconditional love. Then I had a sense that maybe this entire group loved me unconditionally.

  She told me: “I remember when I was broke. I sat on the beach and I cried. Then, I said to God and myself, money is as abundant as grains of sand, and there is no reason for me to not create the kind of bank account I need and want. Then I got to work manifesting my dreams. Now, I own property and I am financially abundant.”

  Kathy wasn’t bragging. She was merely stating facts. She was being inspirational.

  I needed some inspiration because suicidal thoughts were flashing through my mind. Perhaps it doesn’t matter if I have a home or not; this might be the end anyway. Maybe that’s why I’m taking this trip, to end my life on a high note, seeing the world before I go. Food and yoga can’t save me.

  Kathy interrupted my thoughts and said, “Even in my darkest hours, a force reared its head and told me, ‘You are capable and you’re powerful and you’re protected.’ Saeeda, many of us on this trip could write you a check to make the financial situation go away. But you are protected, powerful, and capable to create the life you want. Trust me.”

  Was Kathy right? Was I powerful? Was I capable? Was I protected? Her words made me think about the time when I was a junior in college, telling my friend’s mother, Carol, who was a psychologist, how tough life had been for me. She responded by saying, “Yeah, your life does sound tough, but no one is going to feel sorry for you. No one is going to feel sorry for the poor black girl who figured out a way, on her own, to pay for a trip to Taiwan while still in college. I’m not saying your life wasn’t bad. But when you can take a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Asia at age nineteen, they draw the line at feeling sorry for that kind of person. Achievement always trumps hardship.”

  Was Carol right?

  We landed in Istanbul, our first stop, about midday. Known as the port on the Bosphorus Strait that straddles Europe and Asia, it was a fitting place to start our exploration. From the bus to our hotel, I saw grown men sitting in frog pose and smoking cigarettes while talking to each other as if they didn’t have a care in the world. In my yoga teacher–training classes, the teachers often made reference to different
people around the world who sit in frog position naturally and easily. So when I looked out the bus window and saw the men actually sitting in a squat next to stone walls, smoking cigarettes, drinking hot tea in glasses, and talking to each other, I chuckled to myself, full of the feeling that the world offers us countless ways to live.

  I was excited to be visiting a Muslim country, to be in a place where everyone recognized my name and had some idea of what it meant: Saeeda—successful and happy. When he was in one of his Black Power moments, my dad would say, “With a Muslim name, people here [in the United States] will always ask you, what kind of name is Saeeda? And you’ll have to tell them who you are and why we are Muslims, but you can go anywhere else in the world and people will already know. The name Saeeda is as common as the name Mary in many places around the world.”

  Turkey also seemed a comfortable place to be a Muslim woman, with a secular government that seemed not to stifle women. In Istanbul, I was a glamorous figure, unlike in America, where I’d be just another black girl or simply invisible. In Turkey, women and children were pleasantly curious about my appearance. Growing up, I had never felt like the beautiful one. But in Istanbul, I felt adored in the company of women, and it felt nice—minor as it may seem, it helped me break my existential fall. I did get some mild young male attention, but I ignored it. Once some young girls in headscarves came up to me, speaking no English and gesturing to have their photo taken with me in front of a historic building. I felt honored, respected, and protected. Like James Baldwin and many black Americans before me, I found an unexpected joy and freedom in being outside America and its race-based lens.

  Next, we boarded a plane for Budapest, the capital of Hungary. When we landed, the statement “You are protected” echoed in my mind. Having my one carry-on bag allowed me to get out of the terminal quickly, before the rest of the group, and gave me time to sit in the waiting area. To be able to sit and wait in a new country and observe my surroundings gave me back a feeling of being in control, which was important to me, since the last twelve months of my time in Atlanta had felt so out of my control.

  While sitting, I noticed a maroon Harvard sweatshirt. Inside that sweatshirt was a man, five feet ten inches tall, with a medium athletic build and dark straight hair. He was about twenty years old, with very pale skin. He was sitting two or three empty seats away from me.

  “Do you go there?” Turning my head towards him, I asked the question in my most unaccented American English, disguising my city and state of origin.

  “Where?” he said, with a Hungarian timbre to his voice.

  I leaned the top half of my body over the armrest and pointed to the white letters on his sweatshirt.

  “I was there over one summer for a six-week business intensive,” he said. “Are you a student?”

  I returned upright in my seat then, worried that my gesture would be misunderstood as flirting.

  “No. I am here with my group visiting Istanbul, Budapest, and Cyprus. Are you going somewhere?”

  “No, I live here. I’m waiting for my mother. She is coming home from a business trip.”

  “What kind of business?” I asked curiously.

  “She sells steel to other countries,” he answered. Then he said, “My name is Gabon. What’s your name?”

  I told him my name. I got up to shake his hand and sat down next to him. I imagined that his mother was probably selling steel to the United States, since Hungary was moving from being a communist country to being an industrial power of sorts.

  “Where are you staying?” Gabon asked me.

  “The Thermal Aquincum Hotel. I am here for only six days.” I told him that I would be visiting specific sites with my group.

  When my friends, my new spiritual family, finally exited from baggage claim and customs, we boarded a bus that would take us to our hotel. I told them that I had met a young man at the airport and he wanted to know if I could meet up with him. Some members of the group had noticed me sitting in the waiting area with Gabon, and they encouraged me to go and meet him for lunch. A few of them commented on how cute he was.

  The next day, Gabon picked me up at the hotel. A few friends waited with me in the lobby; I was visibly nervous. As he and I left the hotel, a few of them said, in unison, “Be careful.” They hollered out, “Just meet for lunch and come right back.”

  It was nice to have someone display concern and worry about me.

  I got into Gabon’s car and we drove to a Chinese restaurant. I was not expecting that. He said the Chinese were immigrating to Hungary for better financial opportunities, and many of them had started restaurants. We talked about general topics: school, work, friends, and social interests. We were similar in many ways. We both had an interest in business and seemed to have good networks of friends. Then he said, “What does your dad do?”

  I didn’t really have an answer that I wanted to share, but I said, “Uh, he kinda does whatever he wants, whenever he wants to.” I felt a pang of embarrassment, but I continued, “He used to work in the steel mill. He also had a cable job, and then he ran a bar business for many years. But he destroyed all that.” I think Gabon saw the pain in my face. He said, “What about brothers and sisters?” I felt my shoulders round down as if a heavy yoke was placed around my neck. I told him that my siblings were addicted to drugs and alcohol. And that my sister had been missing for about a year.” I exhaled, feeling the weight of my family’s plight traveling with me in Hungary.

  Then he said, “Hmmm. Sounds like a typical black American family.” Immediately, my stomach concaved as if I was being punched in the gut. I wanted to go back to the hotel. I had lost my appetite. I barely sipped my cherry soup waiting for him to finish, trying not to show my hurt.

  Gabon returned me to the hotel in one piece, but my heart was broken by the truth of his statement regarding my family. This was what Gabon had seen in American movies and media, and my family confirmed his observations.

  I went to bed that night knowing that what he said was painful, but that he wasn’t trying to be malicious. He seemed to be genuinely friendly. So, I decided to put my hurt feelings aside and discover what else the trip had to offer.

  The next day Gabon called again asking if I could get away on Saturday. He said that he wanted to introduce me to his girlfriend, Edit. “We can all have dinner and go to a dance club.” I was surprised. He had not given any indication that he’d had a girlfriend, but it still seemed like it would be a fun night out.

  When Gabon picked me up this time he arrived with his girlfriend and a slightly older man, who turned out to be a Hungarian rock star. It was late afternoon. After we had been riding in the car for about fifteen minutes, Gabon announced that the rock star wanted to know if we wanted to take a helicopter ride over the city.

  Edit and I, sitting in the back seat, looked at each other and giggled like we were childhood friends. We both said “Yeah,” almost in unison.

  Neither of us had been in a helicopter before, and as we approached the local airport, I was concerned that I was not dressed appropriately for the wind. We got into the helicopter, a man outside the aircraft closed the door behind us, and sounds from the motor and wind became harsher. We lifted off and up, and at that moment I felt like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory, in the glass elevator, going up and up, surpassing all the floors in the building and breaking through the glass ceiling. I felt both the fear and excitement of it all. The sounds inside the helicopter seemed to be muted as I gazed out over the city. The historic architecture of Parliament, the Danube River, and the stone towers of Budapest seemed magical.

  After the helicopter ride, we all went to dinner, and another one of Gabon’s friends met up with us. She was a woman from Cuba who taught Latin dance. Gabon really wanted us to meet, misguidedly thinking we would have so much in common because we were both black. But there was a problem. I didn’t speak Spanish, and she didn’t speak Engl
ish. Gabon was amazed that he had to translate her broken Hungarian into English and my English into Hungarian.

  Later that night we went to a dance club, where the rock star got us all in for free. On the dance floor, Gabon didn’t need to translate for Harriet, the black Cuban, or me, the black American. We were both descendants from Africa dancing with the same rhythms that survived the Middle Passage. Dancing with her and with the Hungarians, I felt like the music of life would help me survive my rites of passage.

  I made it back to the hotel, and with the success of the night, once again I started to feel more protected and more trusting toward life. And because of the love that I felt from my spiritual traveling companions, I started to feel love and care as if from a family. I participated in many prayers and rituals with my group as well as social outings, and we had most of our meals together. Another highlight was going to the opera to see King Lear in Italian, which was then translated into Hungarian. Even with my limited Shakespearean knowledge, I still understood what was happening. The story of a father and his complex relationship with his daughters was universal. I left Budapest with a good feeling: Maybe life does work out.

  * * *

  I had never even heard of the island of Cyprus before this trip—again, I felt my ignorance was due to another gaping hole in my primary and secondary education. Divided by a ferocious war in the 1970s into a Greek side and a Turkish side, it was now a largely peaceful place. We were to fly in on one side and travel by bus across the island to the other side, linking East and West together. According to legend, this was also the birthplace of Aphrodite—the goddess of love.

  We landed in Cyprus before sunrise. Blue water surrounded our hotel. I checked into my room and, instead of lying down to rest like I usually do after a long trip, I headed for the beach. I was wearing white cotton pants and a shirt to match. The loose fabric billowed in the wind, kissing my skin. The slow sunrise was beginning to reflect the warmth of the Mediterranean Sea. I wondered if the goddess of love rose out of these waters with the same grace as this sun. I held prayer position with thumbs touching my heart, my palms pushed against one another. I wanted to salute this Cyprian sun.