The Becoming of Appreciation

My buoyant ambiance is dampened with the culture shock of this unknown <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">territory</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Egypt</st1:placename></st1:place>. I am sitting in the back of this archaic taxi, catching snippets of anxious eyes in the rear view mirror. For the first time I can see the resemblance of my mom and me in that mirror, the fact that has been pushed away for so long. I turn and look out the window to find people lined on the streets, thinking maybe something special was happening, but found that it was common. I smile at them, hoping to give them some certainty that there is still love thriving in this world. I give them a small act of compassion, but I hope to change the person’s mind that graphitized “No Love in This Life” on the wall behind them. It is irresistible to give them this smile, everything I can possibly give from inside of this taxi. I give them this smile, knowing that they will go home to those houses that we look at with a tear in our eye; making the poorest of us Americans seem rich. I hide my face in embarrassment. Our suitcases on top of this taxi are more than these people own. I feel guilty standing shoulder to shoulder with the same people going home to an uncertain mean and a room to share with four others while we have spare bedrooms in America; to cold showers and no bed. They flash me a pained smile in return, but I can tell from their eyes that it is out of politeness. Those dark, sad eyes have seen more than I can fathom. I want to tell them that everything will be okay, but they know this better than I do. I take a breath in, feeling the pollution churning in my lungs. My nose starts to burn, but there is nothing I can do. There is smog over the whole city of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Cairo</st1:place></st1:city>, telling you the story of the million people in their cars with the expected cigarette hanging from their mouths. Each day I spend here, I remind myself that I have a mansion comparatively awaiting me at home. Returning to the airport in our archaic taxi, I catch snippets of sad and experienced eyes in the rear view mirror. I see the alike faces of my mom and me, and feel a sense of maturity. I am eager to leave this mess behind. But sadness overcomes me, knowing that I will leave these people here to live in chaos and poverty, and all I can give them is my smile.

Sara Hamza

2008-08-27T02:04:06Z

2007-12-23

6351 417 Scholarship

active Honorable Mention 2008 FTF Teen Travel Writing Scholarship The Becoming of Appreciation

2010-02-09T16:09:01Z

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