A Journey, Part 8. Facing the Fear
June 4, 2013
In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best idea to slip into Saudi Arabia on an invalid visa, but sometimes one needs to be bold to move forward. From the outset, I found the general feel of the country to be quite repressive. We were stopped twice by police on the way to Jeddah, each time because they assumed that Hayley, seated in the passenger seat on the left, was driving. It’s against the law for women to drive in Saudi Arabia.
Reaching Jeddah, we set about making arrangements to get ourselves and our car shipped across the Red Sea to Eritrea, and the mood persisted and intensified. Ever present, the Mattawa cruised about in their cars, keeping a watchful eye on the public to ensure adherence during the five-daily prayer times and suppression of all spontaneous and human outpourings of joy and affection in between. To me, it felt almost as though someone had put burkas over not only all the people, but over society itself, leaving us feeling inhibited and obscured while peering out at our other similarly suppressed fellow beings in the swelter of a smothered city.
To start with, Hayley wore a headscarf outdoors, but soon decided to defy the law, tucking her plait into the collar of her loose fitting shirt in order to pass for a boy and avoid the covert lewd behaviour and the stifling heat. Our Sudanese travel agents told us that we were referred to by locals as the khawagga (tourist) and his brother. But our troubles started when we decided to challenge Mr. Baboud, the owner of the only ferry to Massawa, who had trebled the price for ferrying the car on hearing that we were Westerners. Face to face in his office, his loathing and indifference was barely concealed and we left after a pointless and increasingly heated exchange, determined to ship the car on a freighter and to warn all the travelers we could of his shenanigans.
The fear started to rise in earnest a few days later when our Sudanese friends, having arranged alternative shipping for the car, weren’t allowed to take it into the port. The port officials told them that we were a security risk, that we had overstayed our welcome, and that the only way that we could leave was on Mr. Baboud’s ship. Now convinced that there might be something sinister going on, we returned reluctantly to the shipper’s office only to be told by him that the cargo space on his ship was full for the next three months.
On the Friday before the Sunday that we had arrived in Jeddah, they had beheaded four people outside the mosque, a block away from our hotel. All were foreigners and all executed on drug related charges. A long way from home, I couldn’t help wondering what would prevent somebody well connected from having something planted in our car or trailer. It would be so easy. If it happened, could we rely on a fair trial? As the days were passing, the tension was increasing and I was becoming more and more aware of the growing knot in my stomach. I knew we had to get out soon by whatever means we could.
Even though we aren’t always exposed to it and don’t always feel it, I think that fear and its avoidance plays a huge part in our everyday lives. While established protocol and behavioural norms may be vital for retaining a semblance of order in our lives and in society, they can also provide a means by which we avoid challenging ourselves and awakening the fear that naturally results when we do. Even when there is a clear moral imperative, countering the flow can sometimes take tremendous courage; Consider the soldier who witnesses an atrocity that is morally reprehensible. On the face of it, his decision to become a whistle-blower is a betrayal of the military code of unity and may even be seen as treason, but he realises that his silence makes him complicit and is a betrayal of a deeper morality. He knows that he will be called a pussy and be vilified by his fellow soldiers and citizens, but he also knows that as a human being his inaction will forever damn him. So he chooses to commit to a moral course that moves him in the direction of his own vulnerability. This for me is the essence of courage. It cannot exist in the absence of fear and is always a choice to act despite fear.
Although this may be a dramatic example, I think that life offers each of us times at which we must choose to overcome our fears in order to honour the truth that’s written inside us. It could be a career that has become a dead end, or a relationship that’s no longer able to fulfill the way it once did. But there is comfort in the known and fear in the unknown and in disruption. Fear of rejection or failing at a new endeavour. Fear of disappointing or hurting others. Fear of being seen as a failure, or as insensitive or selfish. In reality though, we only have this one life and somehow we have to be true to ourselves, take it in both hands and live it for all it’s worth. To make it count. Life is just too short to force it or to fake it. It can be hard to let go of dreams that we might have invested our hearts and lives into, but if they no longer align with our internal compass, what choice do we really have? After all, if we are not true to ourselves, how can we possibly be true to others? Somehow, at times like this, we have to call on the strength within to help us overcome our fears and to change course, doing so with all due care while investing faith in the unknown and the uncertain, daunting and terrifying as it may be.
On this evening of this day, 16 years ago, we were on Al Rasheed, on route to Massawa. We had left Jeddah the previous day, leaving the car and trailer behind and trusting our Sudanese friends with the task of getting them to follow us to Eritrea. Although feeling torn and anxious in dispossession, I also felt happy that our time in the Middle East was finally over. As I stood by the railing of the ship and watched the phosphorescence dancing off the dolphins as they surfed the bow wave, I felt the rising of the African blood in my veins and the mounting excitement and anticipation of the journey ahead. I was going home at last.