Aside from the planting blog, I haven't written new blog posts in a while - aside from editing and retroactively posting old drafts. Part of this centres on wondering what good it would bring when there are far more important things going on in the world; what do I actually have to add?
Last July, I read Omar El Akkad's "One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This," which came out that year, and offered sharp and damning pieces on injustice, fear, and moral contradiction in light of Israel's ongoing genocide in Palestine. The chapter on fear stood out especially strong for me. He writes about the West's catering to certain people's fear at the expense of other people. One paragraph stands out:
About the same time Democrats and Republicans argue over the bill, New York Times columnist Thomas Friedman writes a piece comparing Iran, the nation of more than 87 million, to a wasp. What laces the entire racist, nonsensical premise is fear. Everyone knows, instinctively, the recoil the sight of a wasp induces. But fear is no end in itself; its function here is to allow for the abdication of restraint - nobody has ever been blamed for wanting to swat at a wasp. It might have stung. (p. 133)
This paragraph caught my attention because (1) it's about writing, and entire opinion pieces being granted space to harmful views, (2) the wasp metaphor came right after I'd finished a season of treeplanting and was far too familiar with goddamn wasps, and (3) the concept of fear is something I've written about before and yet, I can speak directly with many of the things the contemporary conservative right chooses to monopolize fear of. Most of those things are fundamentally misunderstood and not dangerous at all. The fear of the unknown/uncomfortable that I wrote about a few years ago is something experienced by everyone but can only be overcome by directly facing it head on - not by weaponizing it.
In the West, one of these deeply-rooted fears of the unknown is historically Muslim-dominant societies. Even in the most well-meaning (often white-dominant) progressive circles, you'll often find an unspoken fear of these countries, and the people living in them. I'm not about to discuss corrupt governments, Western or Eastern, but I am going to talk about the value that comes from facing those fears of the unknown rather than letting corporate and military interests capitalize off it.
We've all heard some variation of the claim "These bleeding heart liberals - just try going to a Muslim countries and see how you're treated there!" The thing is... I do. Most recently, I traveled solo through Turkey, Iraq, Azerbaijan, and Morocco. Before that, I've been to Palestine, Egypt, Malaysia, Kosovo, Albania, Bosnia, and Indonesia. All of these are Muslim-majority countries.
Talking about these experiences is important because, fundamentally, I am from the West and my voice reads as such. The people most likely to relate to my perspective are also from the West - and that's where this kind of writing might matter most. Most people from my conservative hometown haven't had the privilege of backpacking these countries and, furthermore, even if they did, the information and media bias we have no control over has painted many of these countries as places many wouldn't want to visit. With the information most people in the West have been fed, why would they want to visit Iraq?
I prefer traveling solo because that's the easiest way to meet someone local, to get a taste of what life is really like there. In Istanbul, I spent multiple hours at a mosque talking with a conservative Muslim because, despite obvious disagreements on some important things, we were fundamentally able to connect through deep, meaningful conversation. While waiting at the border crossing between Turkey and Iraq, a Kurdish woman held my hand for a long time, as if trying to protect from anyone who might pester us.
In Cappadocia, I met a young Saudi couple from Jeddah while on a bus tour. They were on a "second honeymoon" and defied pretty much every Western stereotype created about Saudis. The woman, wearing a strapless mini-dress, was the most scantily-clad of anyone in our group. After learning I was solo backpacking, the husband approached me and started asking questions about my trip. When I told this story to a well-meaning friend, they immediately made a face - thinking I was about to describe some creepy encounter. I'd inadvertently set up the story to cater to negative stereotypes of Arab men. I hurried to say what the man actually wanted from me: "Here, come speak with my wife." He'd wanted to go backpacking but she was hesitant; he was hoping I might be able to help change her mind. In the end, they were kind and generous, inviting me to dinner after the tour. We talked about traveling, backpacking, hostels vs. hotels, Saudi Arabia, Canada, Turkey, etc. The woman mentioned she was mildly Instagram-famous (an understatement - she had hundreds of thousands of followers) when I asked to keep in touch. Noting she wore a burka in her Instagram photos and reels, I asked what seemed a reasonable question - why, if she's in a mini dress now. She looked surprised at the question and answered "Because I'm on vacation now. Instagram is professional." Wearing a mini dress on Instagram for her would be like showing up to the office in a bikini.
What's been consistent across all my travels is this:
Everyday. People. Everywhere. Are. Just. Like. You. And. Me.
It's cheesy because it's so obviously true, but industry and media and politics invest so much energy into creating artificial divisions and capitalizing on people's fear of difference.
When telling these types of travel stories, there's invariably someone keen to remind me how "lucky" I am that nothing bad happened. As if people in those parts of the world are inherently violent or dark and I should count my lucky stars someone didn't abduct me. It's true that I wasn't unlucky - in the same way I've never been randomly abducted off the streets of Toronto or Geneva either. But if it's actually pure luck I was able to survive these countries unscathed, then damn - I should probably start buying lottery tickets. Apparently I have a 100% chance of success.
Or maybe the world isn't as scary as we've heard.
