My rustication was far from expected, and much less smooth sailing. I began my second Hilary term in 2025 with high hopes; which term cards, horrendous essay titles, new friends and newer stresses would arise over the next eight weeks. The unfolding of a new term gave me adrenaline. I always considered Oxford a home away from home. A place free from curfews, isolation and the dull daily nothingness of my East London.
My heart was set on the stability of my beloved dorm room — stability of my mind and my studies followed suit, in contrast to the emotional chaos of my home that I felt blessed to be able to escape from. But I was dissatisfied with my studies, and in order to feel more at peace with my future, I wanted to switch courses. That decision came with an unprompted and undesirable suspension.
After just a few days’ notice from my college (typical Oxford, asking more out of you than what you are capable of delivering), several boxes, laundry bags and suitcases became heavy with my belongings once again. My next move was certainly seen as unconventional to most, but to me it felt like the only right move; I booked a flight to Jordan the very next day with a friend who was on the course I was transitioning to. It overwhelmed me, facing the emptying prospect of doing nothing, whilst my friends cramped together in libraries and worked towards a certain goal. Whether I was escaping Oxford or my hometown London, I was relieved. I accomplished switching my degree in the middle of an academic year, and most students struggle to even do that.
One of the first books I read during my rustication was “I saw Ramallah” by Mourid Barghouti. I sympathized with Barghouti’s exile and his attempt at finding solace in the cities he stayed in whilst he could not be in Ramallah. Amman, where I spent most of my time during my rustication, was one of those cities. After I returned from Jordan, having spent two weeks cafe hopping, socializing at bars and watching rubbish movies, I graced my London home again. In London, I was holed up in my room. Entering a stubborn state of refusing to speak unless spoken to did not help matters either. My only escape was a friend from Whitechapel, who like me often spent time at work to avoid home. We convened at her workplace — a bubble tea shop, a welcome interruption in our lives. Ramadan came and went; I fasted, prayed and booked another flight to Jordan — this time for one month. I missed my friends, the feeling of being busy and having a home away from home.
Just like Barghouti, I stopped at Budapest en route to Amman. Budapest was beautiful, but painful. The city’s skyline opened up to me, as well as the greenest grass I ever laid eyes on (out of my very few travels), but I had limited time to adapt to the local behavioral customs. I stood out as a brown girl, and couldn’t blend into this faceless mass of people. The frequent trip ups and elbow shoves were new to me. Not to mention staying up for an overnight layover which creates an inevitable air of hostility in any airport.
With my Burger King in one hand, and an unstable suitcase in another, I struggled to move, but a friendly Dutch man gestured to me to sit with him. He asked me where I was going and where I had come from; my life at this point felt like an irritating metaphor. “London to Jordan” I said. “Hungary to Spain”, he replied. This started a conversation that flitted from race to religion, an admission of being a former Olympic swimmer and competing for the Netherlands, conflict to liberation, and, to top it all off, technological warfare. He offered me coffee and tea, an act that made me feel safe and stable for the first time in a while. I wondered what I did to deserve that sort of kindness from a stranger. “I hope to talk to you again”, he said with a smile before rushing to his gate. As he left, I noticed his Gant jacket; the same as my father’s.
I finally landed in Amman. I saw my friend for the first time in nine long weeks. Their house sat on a stepped incline above the all too familiar bamboo workshop. Everywhere I have lived this year was temporary, each place a momentary stop before my next destination. I tried to find anchorage, but I have only been a guest. People often ask why I chose Jordan; I think the country was embroidered into my life when I needed it. Barghouti once said: “In that room I found myself retreating to ‘there’; to that hidden place inside each one of us, the place of silence and introspection”. I flew from a sheltered cage to another city, still dependent on the kindness of others, still nodding towards a place called home.
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