BY YARA OMER
I do not remember how young I was, nor do I recall where we were going. Maybe somewhere between the cities of Riyadh and Kharj? We had a flat tire and my father drove slowly. I was not afraid. I remember trying to hold on to every morse of feeling I had that day. We were in the middle of the desert, it was quiet, and the sky was magnificently lit.
This was not the only time we took a road trip.
We lived in Saudi Arabia and every family member we knew took their summer vacation in Amman, Jordan. Airfare seemed a waste, especially when a road trip guaranteed having a car for the summer. Whenever my parents were able, and willing, we would load the car and take the road to Amman to escape Saudi Arabia’s heat.
This would repeat for a few summers. Sometimes on our own, other times with company. My dad would drive with little stops, Umm Kulthoom singing on the radio, and my mom providing a never ending supply of tea, water, and seeds to keep him awake. There was one time we spent the night at a hotel. Later, we learned to cargo the car and take a bus to cross the borders.
While they lasted, these long trips brought exposure to borders, security, and road fatigue. However, they also brought valuable opportunities for daydreaming, creativity, and contemplating. How stunning the sky looked and how lost I was under its shimmering majesty!
I once read that the Arabs, for centuries, used the stars to guide them. I am an Arab and I can't tell directions, even when the sun is up in the sky.
On the day of the flat tire, my father traced the sunset for the west, placed his prayer mat on the sand and prayed Al-Maghrib facing the direction of Mecca. Afterwards, he mentioned that Aldub Al Akbar, the Great Bear (in Ursa Major), can be used to locate north. He also said that it looks like a flipped letter Seen in the Arabic alphabet, or like a meghrafeh, a scooper (or a bowl). I could not recognize anything and I do not remember how that whole ordeal ended. The look of the sky remained a mystery and my interest in it hibernated for three decades.
In 2001, I left both Saudi Arabia and Jordan and headed west. I made a new home in Minnesota, United States. My fascination with the stars presented itself shortly after I moved. I was not only an Arab; I was an American too. Both identities got infused together to make my infatuation with astronomy unavoidable. At the time, I considered taking Astronomy 101 at the University of Minnesota as an elective for my master’s program. However, this did not happen since the course was not even remotely related to my major. So, the dream to tackle the secrets of the heavens took a slumber for a few more years.
Sometime after 2009, during one of my annual summer visits to Jordan, my father decided to take us, and many other relatives, on a two day trip to the desert. To Wadi Rum (roughly 350 km drive from Amman). We, alone, almost filled a bus! How the trip went in its entirety will remain in the past, but how I felt gazing at those stars that night will be engraved in my heart forever.
Wadi Rum was something!
There I was, an Arab in a desert and the decorated sky was my roof. After our caravan of relatives retired to their tents, my father and I sat outdoors in a semicircle, Arabian seating, and went quiet. He had his portable radio. We listened and remembered my uncle, his brother who passed a few years earlier. Memories of him in Riyadh, Jeddah, and Amman were overwhelming. It was his favorite song. The sky was crowded with stars. We both wept.
About three separate times, between 2009 and 2019, I tried to learn about the stars. On every attempt, I read, and reread, then hit a roadblock with my limited scientific background. I never understood much, but I never quit either. I was too proud to quit. I was too much of an Arab and an American to quit!
Being an Arab and unable to find my way in the middle of the night despite the mapped out sky, and without depending on artificial technology, offended me. Being an American, especially Minnesotan, and unable to locate the North Star was an insult to the legacy and the history of my new home.
During that time in Minnesota, I met a Turkish couple who became my close friends. Their enthusiasm about the universe was only second to mine. The difference was that they lived their interest instead of fantasizing about it. They were members of the Minnesota Astronomical Society and had their own telescope. It was only after they left the states to live in Turkey for good, that I started looking into more structured ways to connect to the celestial realm.
I found out that joining, and following, the Minnesota Astronomical Society (MAS) was easier than watching a YouTube video! The MAS is well established, very approachable, and has monthly star gazing parties open to the public, only eight minutes away from where I live. In addition, they have bimonthly, also open to the public, astronomical lectures at a public library.
And with the flat tire trip imprinted in my heart, I started finding my way above the clouds within the astronomical community.
It was September 13th, 2019. I will always remember that as the day I paused to look at the skies, not just dream about doing so. I had a long, tiring week and even my kids tried to get out of it, but I played that “I do things for you, you need to do this for me” card. They apprehensively complied. I dragged another Arab American friend with me, she dragged her reluctant kids, and we made it to the Metcalf field in Afton, Minnesota. I could not wait. I was ready for my first star watching party determined to tap into my spirituality. I might be an inhabitant of the earth, but my soul resides among the stars.
We both sat on our lawn chairs, looking at our boys racing and our girls getting in and out of the car to pass time. We, skeptically, observed a few excited astronomers setting up their large telescopes ignoring the gloomy sky. Grey clouds filled the sky that was not only out of reach, but also out of sight. Nonetheless, these astronomers kept setting up as if these clouds did not exist.
I tried to distract myself by observing the sunset, in vain. The trees met the sky too early to reveal anything worth seeing. I was disappointed, but not surprised. I have not been having much luck with Minnesota sunsets. I have been enjoying the stunning sunsets my friend sends me from the shores of Casablanca; where the sun hugs the sea and both the sky and the earth celebrate. Not a single sunset she sends me resembles the one preceding it, nor will it spoil the one that follows it. I realized today that I am content with my Moroccan sunsets. I am no longer chasing a sunset anywhere in the world. I am only after the night sky.
True to the astronomer's predictions, in an hour, the sky cleared and we started looking at it through the telescopes. These men were having a blast. They were happy sharing their equipment, their knowledge, and (for some of them) their lifelong passion. They were welcoming, vibrant, and fun to be around. An astronomer shared his excitement about having a “person of color” - that is me - interested in the skies and how it warmed his heart. I smiled at his kind and sincere welcome, but I burned inside. I am an Arab American; an interest in the skies should be in my blood. It is overdue for me. I should have been among these people long ago!
That night, I pretended to understand big words (and numbers) when they explained things. I got to see Jupiter (and its moons) and Saturn (with its rings) up close. And when I went home, I felt important. I realized that the sky is a mine of science and secrets. I felt more informed. I felt light and centered. I am no longer deferring a dream; I am living it.
That was the one and only star watching party I attended to date. It was the last one for the season and, in Minnesota’s harsh winter, I was content with the library lectures. I stood out in these lectures; I sat in the back rows with my scarf on my head and my pencil in my hand feverishly writing notes and asking questions. Faces started to become familiar and a few people were greeting me by my name. I learned that astrophotography was a field.
All went on until COVID-19 hit our world. Not only is the earth isolated from the other celestial objects I am learning about, but we became isolated in our own homes from our fellow humans. “Social Distancing” and “6 feet apart” will go down in history as the most frequently used phrases internationally uniting the human race against an invisible common enemy. With that, March 2020 marked my last “normal” outings and the birth of my official astronomy self-directed education.
Confined in my home, I felt a special connection to Isaac Newton after learning that he was able to improve telescopes, write, and refine many of his laws about the universe when he was sent home from college in lieu of the Black Plague in Europe. Escaping Covid-19 worries, I found refuge in a 1999 astronomy textbook I saved from its fate to be recycled. I was put off a bit by the publishing date. In the field of astronomy, this is old; Pluto is probably still considered a planet and has not been demoted yet. I took the thick book anyway because old knowledge is better than no knowledge at all.
With the guidance of an astronomer I met at the star watching party, I gifted myself a pair of binoculars for Eid Al-Fitr. I will always remember how pretty the face of the moon looked as I was able to see its uneven surface up close. I have to admit that through a pair of binoculars, the moon looks so lonely hanging there alone, following us, but never getting invited.
I also learned to recognize a few constellations and asterisms. The star Vega, along with Altair and Deneb (the bird and the tail, respectively, in Arabic), became my reference in the summer sky. As I learned more about the names of stars, I could not pass on spending hours tracing their Arabic etymology. The more I read, the more I felt home. The highlight of my astro studies was my childhood dream; Aldub Al Akbar, the Great Bear in Ursa Major, which I can now locate. I can find the North Star wherever I am standing, and that seems to be all I need to feel grounded.
YouTube became a rich library of astronomy and astrophysics. Phone apps have never looked more appealing as they helped me navigate the night sky. A dear friend of mine sent me a skywatching guide that quickly replaced the outdated astronomy textbook. My personal calendar now has mini figures of the moon phases and they are tagged with days I have intended to voluntarily fast to better strengthen my spirituality and my connection to the heavens. My binoculars are in my purse whenever I leave the house, or sit on my deck. I take pride each time I correctly name a star. My breath is taken each time I witness a sunset or a moonrise.
I still have a long way to go and so much to learn, but it brings me pleasure to await a planet and to see it shine in the southern July sky. Looking at the heavens taught me to appreciate the earth under my feet and everything around me. What would I give now for a night at Wadi Rum, with the people I love, and Um Kulthoom’s voice singing in the valley! What would I give now to be that little girl in the desert with my family and be able to read the sky!
Yara Omer holds a BA in Journalism and Masters in Deaf Education. She is fluent in Arabic, English, and American Sign Language. Yara writes in Arabic and English and enjoys reading and Astronomy. Published (Mizna - Saint Paul Almanac). Participated in “I am Deliberate and Afraid of Nothing” sponsored by the Poetry Coalition.
Process Note: My nonfiction personal narratives stem from my "I paused to write" personal journal that I started in 2019. In it, I jot down events and thoughts that seem to pass by unnoticed. I don't do it daily, but almost everything I wrote in that journal, through rewriting and editing, took a life of its own and taught me something new about myself. I never regretted pausing life to write!