I thought I’d walk away from my experience traveling the world knowing more, conquering more, accepting more, and having answers to everything in life but instead I come back with more questions than before I left. Why are groups of starving people still donning smiles and waving to me as I pass them in my big governmental SUV? Why do people in poverty not work longer hours so that they may begin saving money to help their family out of this impoverished state of living? Why do some people support wars against countries that challenge their beliefs, when they can easily accept me and my differing values? Why do cities and countries not work towards more developed and less harsh systems for technology, transport, building, energy, etc? Why do so many people die each year from diseases like malaria when it costs close to nothing to get tested and cured? Why, why why???

That’s when it hit me like a heavy weight. It’s a mindset that people all over the world have adjusted to. Why be angry and hungry when you can be happy and hungry. Why kill yourself working when you could enjoy the time you have with your family instead? Why change what already works. Why buck the cycle of life. I have punished myself ever since graduating from university because I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life. I didn’t know what would make me happy and while my heart lead me one way, my mind would refuse to let it run. The one thing I’ve realized is that Americans in general are so focused on materialistic goods that we can never be truly satisfied because we won’t allow ourselves to create a healthier mindset. Societal norms tell us that we must have a certain salary, accommodated by a posh office, a fancy car, a beautiful house with a white picket fence and high-end designer goods. Yes, I agree, it’s healthy to have giant ambition but at what cost? It’s ironic actually. In Africa, I told a young local guy where I was from, and he said: “America! Where you can be anything you want to be and dreams really do come true.” Yes this is true to an extent but at what cost? People will never have enough material goods, because as we acquire more, the standard of what is acceptable rises to even greater heights, making us strive for something that will never satisfy our basic human instincts.

I’ve recently realized that I’ve been looking in all of the wrong places to find some of the answers to my personal questions. Diverse people around the world have taught me that all it really takes is a roof over my head, food in my stomach, and family and friends to make me happy. Everything beyond that will compliment the basics, not overrule them. Because at the end of the day, it’s all about mindset.

As I walked home, I wondered what a girls sleepover would consist of here in Syria with this conservative Muslim family? Would I need to wear a headscarf all night? Would I not be able to interact with Chris? Would I be required to eat with the women only? Would I unknowingly offend the family from my ignorance of Muslim sleepover etiquette? Where would I go to even find that detailed of information???

The next evening came quite quickly and when I arrived at their door they greeted me and ushered me in giving me tea and food. I was still a guest so I ate with Chris and the girl’s father, but normally, the men and women would eat separately. Once the girls saw I was finished, they signaled for me to come into the next room where all the women were gathered so that we could begin the festivities for the evening. They didn’t dare enter the room where the men were eating unless they were bringing us tea or coffee.

When I walked into the next room, they pointed to a corner where there were several floor cushions on a persian rug saying that this would be my bed for the night. I dropped my small overnight bag and sat down only to have Safa beg that I join her in the kitchen. Amira covered my eyes as I walked through their doorway and into the kitchen. Their mother was trailing close behind us. When Amira finally uncovered my eyes, Safa was standing in front of me holding a beautiful cake. “I made this especially for you” she said with a smile on her face that extended from one side of her headscarf to the other. By this time in the evening I was stuffed but she was so happy to serve it for me that I couldn’t resist acting excited to eat it. We brought the cake into the “sleeping room” and Safa served me a slice that could feed a small army. Their hospitality was so good in fact that Amira pulled out her beloved sweets and piled my plate with chocolate and candy bars after having unwrapped them all. Their mother then got in on the fun and poured two snack-sized bags of potato chips on my plate to ensure I wouldn’t go to sleep hungry. Ugh. Too. Much. Food.

I asked if they would be eating the cake with me but they said no, it was ALL for me. With grins on their faces, they sat there watching me take my first few bites. While I was eating, they began pulling their jewelry out showing me their favorite pieces. When they heard I had two sisters, they willing departed with two necklaces that they insisted I give to my sisters upon my return home. As the night grew later, we changed into our pajamas and the girls took off their head scarves. This was the first time that I had seen their long dark hair. It is common in their religion that all women wear headscarves covering their hair, ears and necks only to be exposed to other women and their husbands. After, we played dress up and I let them decorate me with their jewelry and headscarves. We laughed like we were 13 again!

Finally, we turned off the lights and talked from our places on the floor. There was a sudden stir in the next room and within seconds the girls both had already put on their headscarves. Their father walked through the dark room just as Amira had finished wrapping her scarf around her face. I was shocked at how strict it was, yet very impressed that they could put their scarves on so quickly. After their dad returned back through the room, the girls took their headscarves off again and we all began to giggle. It was a wonderful night! The last words the two Muslim girls spoke to me before I drifted to sleep where “Good night Amy. Hopefully you will dream about Syria because we dream of America. Welcome. We love you sister.”

“Where is the cheapest chicken?” I asked thinking it was going to be at one of the larger grocery stores. There was a moment of silence and then Baraka said with a slight smile, “We will be picking one out at the market and then we will bring it home and slaughter it.” WHAT? Did i hear that correctly?? That’s crazy! Then again, did I really think they bought frozen chickens in the grocery store when most people here don’t even have freezers? Of course they would slaughter their own chicken just before the big meal. Baraka could tell I was intrigued and invited us along for the experience.

The next morning, while Neema visited with her estranged father, Chris, Baraka, and I headed down the road to the market. When we arrived at the chicken coops, Baraka turned to me and said, “Choose the chicken we will eat. And make sure you grab a hen because they taste better.” I gave him a look of horror and bewilderment as I quickly turned my head to my prey. I actually had to grab the chicken out of the big cage? Baraka opened the door and I slowly put my hands in, trying to figure out which bird would put up the least fight. Sadly, I’ll admit that I was somewhat scared that one would turn and bite me and I would come down with an actual bird flu of some sort. Then, when I finally committed to grabbing one, I missed her. They are fast little suckers! Finally, the chicken coop owner became annoyed with my shenanigans, pushed me aside, and grabbed one of the hens by its wing, and shoved it towards me to hold on to.  I positioned both of its wings behind its back to be sure it wouldn’t escape, and I followed the guy behind the chicken coop to the slaughter house. Surprisingly, the chicken squawked but didn’t put up a fight. Thank you Miss Chicken for not making me look any dumber than I already looked.

I knew we were getting close to the slaughter house when the putrid smell of raw chicken, blood and guts roasting in the mid morning sun caught my nostrils. Whoa… it was nauseating! The shack that housed the men working was tiny. The roof consisted of rusted sheet metal and small, aged branches. There were two of four walls built holding the roof up. There was a sign above the shack with pricing on how much it cost to hire the guys to slaughter the chicken. Luckily it was cheap (~ $0.25 USD) so Baraka decided to hire them to do it quickly instead of us doing it at home. Baraka still wanted me to help after he realized that I had never slaughtered a chicken. I was up front and center when I handed the chicken off to the axe man. He took the chicken, threw it down on the ground and with one swift swing of the axe, the chicken was now two. Ugh, there was blood covering the walls and I quickly glanced down at my legs to make sure the blood hadn’t hit me as well. It was creepy seeing the body move without the head but that didn’t stop the guy from grabbing it’s neck and throwing it into a steaming pot of water. He stirred the whole bird (sans head) around with a large wooden spoon to loosen the feathers. After soaking the bird for 30 seconds, he pulled it out of the pot and threw it to another guy who began stripping it of its feathers. I was surprised at how quickly the feathers came out after soaking it. I had to give the guy credit, he de-feathered the chicken in 5 seconds time…no joke. The last guy was waiting for our prized hen, and when he got it in his hands, he showed that bird who was boss. He had the stomach and guts emptied from the chicken in no time and suddenly it was back in my hands once again; this time, in different form.

It was an experience. A true African experience. I am not currently a vegetarian, but after witnessing the kill, it made me want to reconsider.