DIRT: the grunge diaries (𝒱𝒾𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇𝒾𝒶'𝓈 𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃)

entry #101- patience

⚠️ lame, potentially offensive jokes all along ! ⚠️

'Your wishes, your ambitions, your dream job... Tori, you know you can't go back to a place where they want to take everything away from you'. Bessie chimes in, rolling in bed right next to me, and poking my cheek in the hope she's gonna cheer me up a bit. But my eyes, tearful and stingy already, can barely hold back the tears, after her words. And I cry, uncontrollably so, when I reckon that, after all, Bessie isn't totally wrong. And she's extra empathetic and smart, because the average white, privileged person from the US would never be able to understand the way I'm feeling inside right now. But she is thoughtful and caring, and I appreciate her a lot because she's daring to understand.

Here at these latitudes, people take pace and freedom for granted. In my country, beautiful but occupied by evil people, you aren't allowed to have wishes of your own, projects for the future, ambitions or anything. You aren't even allowed to have a life and basic human rights... you just fear that someone's gonna break into your house, steal it, tear it down and either break your jaw, or flat out kill you. I am young, a little bit of a dreamer, a little bit of a romantic and a little bit of a daredevil, and I don't want to live the rest of my life in vulnerability and fear. I just want peace, happiness and all the normal things from this life, like locking my door at night, and knowing I'm gonna sleep safely, for instance. Or like being able to go to the University without having to go through three different checkpoints and barb wired fences, risking to be shot and/or spat on and/or clotheslined on the floor by colonisers at any given time. All of the above things have happened to me, at some point, on multiple occasions, but my self determination wasn't affected once. Hurt and mistreated and dehumanised by a bunch of pricks ruled by sense of entitlement alone, I'm still Victoria the Palestinian girl, proud, set in her ways, and with a pocketful of ambitions and a good heart to herself. And here I am, in the vest of an exchange student in the US, cultivating my ambitions miles away from home, and hoping that things will work out for me in this life. I want to become a pupper doctor, and I'm studying hard to make that happen ! I want to become a professional sprinter, and I'm training hard and running fast to make that happen, too ! I will have to go back home to have these two dreams and many other dreams of mine shattered... but what can I do, if home is where the revolution is?

'You're mine and Chrissie's best friend ... you have a guy who loves you ... you can't leave us, and most importantly you can't give up on your dreams'. Bessie speaks, reminding me that there's other stuff to worry about, besides the revolution... and that it's inner peace. With a little bit of wholesome selfishness here and there, because I apparently have all right to claim some. Being in a place that feels like home but that isn't home, surrounded by people who genuinely love me, care for me and support my dreams and ambitions seems pretty fucking amazing to someone with a hard life back home like me. Here in the US, I'd be having everything a hundred times more easily than in Palestine, and that's for sure. I'd get my dream job straight after finishing University, because vet nurses are in high demand ! There are even track and field circuits in this country, you don't have to run in your backyard through lanes drawn on the floor with chalk. I'd be safe, sound and very loved, here ! I'd always be with my girls! I wouldn't have to worry about having to say goodbye forever to them, and to the guy I love and could easily see myself with for a long, long time.

Oh, my beloved Sean. He loves me, I love him, a lot... but sometimes the fear of separation overrides the joy of loving and being loved back. I sometimes can't look at him in the eyes without feeling the buildup of the biggest heartbreak of my life... and without feeling a little too guilty for the way I'm handling him. Because, too scared of his reaction, I'm choosing to deliberately have secrets with him. He doesn't know where I'm from and what my life back home is like, mostly because I don't want another pitiful reaction à la Ben Shepherd. He doesn't even know that I'm gonna head back home in a few months from now. And I would like to tell him the truth as it is, but I... I just can't. Because I love him, and I'm pretty sure he'd crack all shits and leave, if I opened up. Or he'd handle it à la Ben, he'd ask me to marry him for the sake of pulling me out of the West Bank... and I would never say yes. For as much as I love him, I'd have the same reaction I had when Ben told me he wanted to marry me: I'd say no, I'd lock myself in the toilet, and I'd escape the condo by swinging from the rafters... before crash landing on a bush, and riding through the night on my Bonneville. What a Palestinian way to handle shit!