A singular memory, rendered unlikely in time

(August 2001)

The assembly was boring (the assemblies were always boring), so i went outside. An elder's voice droned on inside as i let the door slam (those doors never slam loud enough) and inadvertantly walked right into a mud puddle. No, not a mud puddle. A field of mud. Damn.

Rochester, Minnesota, is not a beautiful place. The downtown there redeems it slightly; i'm admittedly a sucker for skywalks. The Civic Center (where the aforementioned mountain of suckage was taking place) was built by rich doctors right on the river, and i headed to the dock to rinse my very very dirty very fine shoes.

Rinsing my shoes in the polluted river wasn't working as well as i had hoped. Crouching on the cement dock made me feel better--it's a familiar place. We had come to Rochester for many years by that point, and the dock is prime location to hide from the assembled Witnesses and their preprogramed comments. I felt sick in comparison to my friends who had courage not to come anymore, and i felt sicker for my friends trapped inside. The cement weirds me out, though, like rivers in Japan. Flow forced through narrow channels. I considered going for a long walk, or returning inside. My mom was probably beginning to wonder what was taking me so long in the bathroom.

A girl approached, and she was friendly through her shyness and her unplaceable accent. She just wanted to make sure i was alright. I said something mildly witty (i am not a very witty person) and she laughed easily and loudly, like it was something she wasn't used to doing, like she was checking if it was okay with me (it was; i love easy laughter). She had perfect curly hair, slightly exotic features, and dressed modestly even for a witness.

Her kindness startled me. Forthright. And i have known many kind people. But i knew, if only for that one quality, she would stand alone in my memory. She was different from everyone else in that building--that building housing six or seven thousand of my 'brothers.' She was a recent emmigrant from Afghanistan; still uncertain about her midwestern home. Her nationality wasn't the only unique thing about her; her whole approach was visible from only knowing her for minutes. It was the strongest evidence i have ever seen for a soul. She was used to being afraid of life, but her ebullient vitality shone through dimly, promising everything if polished. She gave unprecedented kindness through accostomed fear.

It was her first assembly just as it was my last.

She was eager to make Witness friends just as i was weary of finding more. It's a matter of perspective, i suppose: coming from the Taliban a lifetime in the Watchtower Society is ultimate freedom, true? But for me, coming from the WS and seeing this secular world, i could not fathom more constraint.

We walked back towards the arena; i desperately wanted to go anywhere else, to capture her in conversation and make her realize that a Jdub life is not the one for someone as gorgeous as her to lead. I should have been daring, but i was not. Logistically (how i do love logistics) it would have been unfair to ask her to consider a way out; some very lucky events and some very kind witnesses had helped her to Minnesota. (Or, conversely, i wanted her to convince me to change my deviant ways. I was tired, then, of being solitary in redemption. It's a long road.)

A sinking feeling when we were inside again. An elder's wife, seated next to a donation box, shushed us. Scolded us. As if we were not two young women who knew our own mynds (and appropriate volumes). I was furious, but mostly with myself. We exchanged congregations, phone numbers, last names (she had beautiful, fluid handwriting, with obvious Arabic tones). I lost the slip of paper immediately.

I believe she is happy. Because what else can i do? It's not a lie to suppose joy can be found within a narrow, closed society. Indeed, it is often the case that it is easier there. My own deliberations prove it enough to me (and Erich Fromm's Escape From Freedom backs it up psychologically). It's odd how subsequent events have all shone through that afternoon; 9/11 and the Afghanistan war; all i could think was at least she got out... but her family is still there. Selfish of me. She liked that i knew, pre-9/11, where Afghanistan was, and nodded appropriately when she told me her region. Which is to say, i was less of an idiot geographically than most Americans, and probably all Witnesses she had yet met.

My wet, mudless shoes squished too loudly under the bleachers, and i got several dissapproving looks. She didn't care, we whispered quietly for a few minutes over the ongoing drone of the speaker. I wondered if she really cared or loved the words he was offering. It was very odd. I knew she liked me though i lacked soothfulness. But i'm not sure if she knew that, there were some major linguistic/cultural boundaries.

In all my years, i have never gone to any Witness and told them why they are wrong. I believe i do this out of respect for them, the life/religion they have consciously choosen.

If my respect is greater than my love, do i really love? (i have my doubts.)

I remember her name only because of its syllabic similarity to my own; Samah.

  ¶ 11:14