Saudi Arabia: under the desert moon

People often say that you make a trip to the holy cities of Madinah and Mecca to find God - you don't. God is everywhere and endless. You make this trip to find yourself. To know your self, to know the very core of your being. You go to these places to know what real peace is like, the kind of peace that stems from the inside walls of your heart. You go to feel what it is like to return to a home you've had all along. You go to these cities to leave behind your life, to realize the insignificance of so many problems, the mundane, to realize your only needs. To realize that all we have are the prayers in our hands. You go to meet people from all over the world, to not speak the same language, and to realize that that is okay. To remember that emotion is the universal language and devotion is just love by another name.

One of the most perfect moments I have ever had was in the nighttime, while standing on the roof of Masjid al-Haram in Mecca, assembling in lines for isha (nightly prayer). The sky above us was effortlessly clear, without many visible stars, and a moon that was too perfect for words but quietly humble in it's own beauty (as always). The air was dry and there was a cool, light breeze that is frequently invited by the desert in the nighttime. The iqamah (call to prayer) was called and the entire city grew quieter as if by habit, and the children playing behind me on the roof quickly ran to find their place next to their parents. I stood behind rows of women, some from Indonesia, Sri Lanka, Pakistan, Algeria. The woman to my left was from Sudan and she carefully placed her beautiful, curly haired baby on the ground in front of her as she stood to pray. Then, in one of the most incredible acts of discipline the world may ever see, literally thousands of people around the Kaaba and at every level of the mosque raised their hands in prayer behind the voice of the Imam (leader of prayer). He begins to recite the chapter of the Quran entitled "Ar-Rahman" or "the Most Merciful". Allow me a moment here to discuss the structural beauty of this chapter. Those that know this surah (chapter) know how beautiful it is just to hear, even without knowing any of it's meaning. It is written in the style of early Arabic poetry, with rhymed couplets and it's beauty is such that this chapter itself is often referred to as the beauty of the Quran. The imam begins to recite the verses of this chapter, the especially iconic one being "Which of the favors of your Lord will you deny?". Imagine. Thousands of people in complete silence, standing shoulder to shoulder, listening to the verses of this beautiful surah, contemplating the concept of gratitude or perhaps the lack thereof. In the most heartfelt and natural way, the imam begins to softly cry during his recitation. Only the moon could witness how many more followed suit in that moment.

A part of me never wants to share these experiences with anyone, for fear of any of it leaving my heart in their perfect state. The fear of speaking too often about memories is that they can transform, they begin to sound and feel different - and maybe they begin to make you feel different too, or worse, nothing at all. But maybe not. Some memories are already in the most protected abyss of my heart and my mind will hold them the way thirst holds water. So much so that I could never forget them, despite my hardest efforts. *Nervous chuckle*.

Beautiful white architecture of Masjid al-Haram

Stunning 

Qiblatain Mosque

Qiblatain Mosque

Beautiful Miqaat Mosque in Medina 

how lovely are these fresh dates?

Masjid an-Nabawi at Sunrise.  

Perfection 

Prayers on the roof; chill, I didn't take this photo, fam did

I could stare at this architecture all day

The only portrait; white turbans against tanned skin and lines is such beauty 

all the feels in the desert

Till the day I'm lucky enough to go back. 

"For the past week, I have been utterly speechless and spellbound by the graciousness I see displayed all around me by people of all colors.I have been blessed to visit the Holy City of Mecca." - Malcolm X, in Letter from Mecca

Wishing you all the light and peace, 

- S 

The Dominican Republic: Plantains & Sugarcane

Some people say that the entire world lives in New York and in the last year, I've learned that there is a lot of truth to this. I'm learning every day about a part of the world that loves plantains, that loves to bachata, that loves to kiss on the cheek, that loves to live life without shying away from it. A part of the world that calls me 'mi amor' every day. The Dominican Republic, for as much as I had been concerned in years past, was a tourist destination for cruise ships. However, the quisqueyanos will quickly tell you that the real Dominican Republic - the raw beauty and true flavor of its country is in the center of the island, miles from the sandy, blue beach resorts.

Almost a year ago, I had the opportunity to not only see a glimpse of this beautiful country but also to learn much about it's rich and troubled past with Haiti -- and the downstream effects of that on the healthcare provided today. As in many countries worldwide, there is a huge lack of resources and poor access to these resources especially for the poor. Despite this, there are still lots of beautiful individuals and organizations working to help the neglected, whether it be orphans, the HIV populations, or undocumented civilians working in the sugarcane fields.

The part of New York that is often called "Little Dominican Republic" has much of the same essence of the DR and often the same types of beliefs/perspectives when it comes to healthcare. There is a ton of air traffic from NY to the DR, so seeing the health system in the DR sheds a whole new light on our patients' beliefs/perspectives here at home. Hasta la proxima vez!

Santo Domingo

Men sit around and play chess or dominoes - both in NY and DR

Blurry but perfect

At a school in the Sugarcane plantation

this little doll 

Till next time, 

-S

India: the lines in your hands

I don't know how to read palms, but I'm learning to read hands. I'm learning to study the wrinkles of skin, the colors on a finger, the hands that are so worn that it's a wonder a fingerprint still exists underneath. I'm learning to study hands but not in a medical way. In a way that tells stories; stories about time, stories about life, stories about love. There are so many stories that hands could tell about a person's life: the first time they held their mother's hand, the first time they broke a fall, the time they took a test, the time they picked up a first paycheck. The time they consoled a friend, the times they clapped with happiness, the time they were sweaty from being around a crush, the time they brought a love closer. The time they cooked a meal for a spouse, the first time they held a baby, the time they held your grandmother's arm while she walked, the time they wiped away tears. And the time and time after that. All of the times they turned towards God, open-faced and vulnerable. Hands are the most tangible interface to life, they become our livelihood, the way we connect with people and how we manifest emotion. How can they not be beautiful?  

During my brief visit, I asked some people if I could photograph their hands to which I was almost always met with a puzzled look. But I got to hear some beautiful stories about lives in India that I would have otherwise never had a chance to encounter. Older women told me stories about how they married, how they built lives with their husbands and how much they struggled to raise their children, and some that are still struggling. Many of them spoke with a lightness of heart that I found endearingly captivating, never letting any one thing bother them for too long. They told me about how much India had changed, but they also spoke about how much harder young people make life for themselves. These women had an awareness of the cultural change that has been occurring over the last several decades that you can't read from any history book. They told me that while they had different hardships than people do now, they also had a simpler life, a simpler happiness. Many of them held my hands when we spoke, an universal act of love and respect. Younger girls were often shy as magnolias, but left me with at least a smile and if I was lucky, a hug. A young boy told me about his daily ride to school, who he is friends with, and how sometimes his teacher beats him for not doing homework, how he'd like to go see America.

There is much to be said about what some of these stories say about the fabric of India: the poverty that still exists, the scarcity of resources, the vast need for change in political infrastructure. But, there are many articles and authors more qualified to discuss those issues. If ever you find yourself in India, and I really hope that you do, I hope you'll meet some people to tell you stories about their lives. Beyond the endless beauty of the physical spaces in India, there is the infinite beauty of the people. Starting with the lines in their hands. 

Be easy, loves

- S