Henna Heart, Episode Two: Freedom From

I felt like some magical bus attendant in my head had convinced me to come to Bahrain, but on arrival, I looked around and said, what the fuck am I doing here? Is this where I was trying to go?

"There is more than one kind of freedom. Freedom to and freedom from. In the days of anarchy, it was freedom to. Now you are being given freedom from. Don’t underrate it.” 

Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale

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I landed in The Kingdom of Bahrain at 2 am. My bleary eyes watched stairs roll to the exits, and I stumbled off the plane, buoyed up by the humidity thick in the air. The smell of jet fuel and the whirring of engines woke me from my stupor, and I looked into the darkness at my new home: a few lights flickered out in the distance like fireflies on soft summer nights in Kansas. This is the farthest I had ever been from home, and I now live here. This is my new home.

I let that sink in as I fished for my passport in my backpack and followed the signs to customs and onto arrivals. People crowded the arrivals area despite the late hour, but I instantly saw my name on a sign along with Bahrain Bayan School. I bee-lined for the middle-aged Indian man and introduced myself; suddenly, several other men surrounded us and started piling my bags onto a cart while he spoke to them in what I guessed was Hindi.

Jacob, my new Indian friend, worked for Bahrain Bayan School, my new employer/sponsor, and he was on the welcoming committee. Driving through Manama, he pointed out landmarks and dropped casual questions about my life. My thoughts formed and swirled, but only a few words emerged like the shadowy figures we whizzed by in the night. When we finally pulled up to Rabya Towers, he helped me with my bags, smiled, and waved goodbye with a head bobble. I turned to my new home, a six-story apartment facing a busy highway. I was on the fourth floor, with my bedroom window close to a mosque minaret. I learned later that mosques were on practically every street corner, like the neighborhood tiendas or corner shops in Ecuador, where I had last called home.

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As I settled into the apartment, the 4 am prayer began, “Allah Akbar” rumbled through a grainy speaker. It was an old speaker, or maybe just of poor quality. I peered out the window, and could see the outline of the tall, slender minaret, that adorns most mosques, it stood out against the night night sky, “Allah Akbar,” it repeated. I had done some research about Islam, too, so I knew the basic translation:

Allah is the Greatest,

I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship except Allah.

I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah.

Come to Prayer.

Come to success.

I felt the emotion in the call as they chanted each line multiple times like a mantra. It was inexplicably soothing, and the questions and emotions that had been bubbling madly in my heart: Why are you here? You don’t belong here! Why have you ruined your life? Simmered down for just a moment. I took a few deep breaths and thought about how I had arrived in this place, a gazillion miles away from my homes, both in Kansas and Ecuador. My international life started only two years into my teaching career at the age of 25, when I took a teaching job abroad and exchanged security for liberty. I was a freedom seeker, and I thought escape was the way to get there – and it worked for a while.

My dog, Gaby, and I moved to Guayaquil, Ecuador, in 1996 to work at an American School. The atmosphere was drenched with humidity and music that blared out of buses and street vendors selling everything from brooms to my favorite, “humitas,” a kind of sweet corn tamale steamed in the corn husk. When we first visited the Guayaquil bus station, the chaos and the young bus attendants' system of "selling" their destinations shocked me; they used megaphones to make competing calls and attract travelers to their buses. I listened with fascination. Don't people come to the bus station with a specific destination in mind?

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With that memory, I laughed out loud, and it echoed in my present moment and my, empty apartment. I had so many random adventures in Guayaquil that somehow led me here. I felt like some magical bus attendant in my head had convinced me to come to Bahrain, but on arrival, I looked around and said, what the fuck am I doing here? Is this where I was trying to go?

I got up to use the bathroom and had a good look at myself in the mirror. The bright fluorescent light exposed the dark circles under my eyes, but they still looked bright and more hazel than brown. Even though I was 32 years old, I looked young, as if I could pass for a 20-something; maybe it was my curious eyes or the ponytail that held my long, brown hair. I noticed a stain on my sweatshirt, lifted it up to loosen my belt, and released the muffin top. I had gained weight in the last few months in Kansas. Stressed about living in a kind of cultural limbo since I moved away from Ecuador; I was in Kansas but didn’t live there, and I was anticipating my new home in Bahrain.

I went back to my perch at the window. Still lost in my Ecuadorian thoughts. Gaby and I left Guayaquil in 1999, partly because I was more partier than a teacher; most of us were teaching was an inconvenient reality in between our alcohol and cocaine-fueled parties and trips to the beach town of Montanita. I half-assed my job and, sadly, even my role as dog mom. I left Gaby outside with enough food and water one evening, but the party extended all night and into the afternoon of the next day, I returned home to her dry water bowl and realized I had neglected my dog, my constant companion, my best friend. But instead of that being the moment I checked my hedonism, I just got int the habit of taking me with her everywhere, which sometimes meant I was riding on top of the bus with the chickens. I finally realized I could just buy her a bus ticket, and we both rode first class.

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After a few years, I moved to Quito, still in Ecuador, but another world culturally and geographically. I traded sweaty salsa nights for classy colonial walk-abouts in downtown Quito. I often rode the trolley to the old city and wondered through the streets, taking in the Spanish architecture in Plaza Grande. From almost any point in the Plaza, one could see contrasting images: palm trees and the statue of Simón Bolívar, Ecuador's hero, and ornate Spanish architecture against the backdrop of shanty houses climbing up Volcán Pichincha. Most of the city settled in a valley, but El Centro lay closest to this active volcano.

My neighborhood was modern, and my neighbors were a mix of wealthy Ecuadorians and other ex-pats who chose Quito as home. At first, the city and all its charm seduced me, but eventually, I circled back to party mode and spent most of the weekend at La Mariscal, the touristy center that catered to expats, tourists, and expat-curious locals. I soon slipped into default mode and was back to Guayaquil levels of hedonism until Jan of 2003, when I ended up in the hospital after a particularly indulgent binge of drugs and alcohol. I thought I was having a heart attack, and insisted on tests and more tests, but they had seen my type before and released me after a few hours with pleas to “Cuidate mejor,” take better care of myself.

Not long after that, my dog Gaby passed away, and I had a personal reckoning. I promised Gaby and myself that I would change as I released her ashes in Quito, our favorite spot to walk in Parque Metropolitano. This was the final straw—the moment I realized I needed to move on. I wasn’t ready to go home, but I wanted to escape the temptations of Ecuador. I saw the job offer in Bahrain as a chance to outrun my addiction issues by blaming Ecuador. If I could just change my surroundings, maybe I could change myself.

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My gaze drifted back to the window in my new country, Bahrain, where the mosque stood silhouetted against the fading night. It was that in-between time, not quite night, not yet morning, when the world slept, but something unseen stirred awake. My life hovered in that same transitional space, partly unconscious, but still moving through familiar patterns, while some hidden part awakened.

In those moments, with no firm footing, it was easy to question my motives: was it freedom I sought, or was I trying to reinvent myself? I turned toward my bare apartment, its emptiness echoing the blank slate I was trying to create. Outside, the city stirred and the muffled sounds floated through the quiet dawn, a reminder that no matter how lost I felt, the world continued to move. I wanted to believe that meant I could, too. But with the first light of morning came the creeping pang of regret, but also hope, as the sun rose on my first day in Bahrain.

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Thank you for reading this excerpt from my memoir: Henna Heart. In the episode, the second half of this chapter, I explore Manama and the difference between freedom to and freedom from. Hope to see you there.