The male airline ticket agent for Royal Jordanian airlines looked at me questioningly. "Queen Alia International Airport in Amman?"

"Yes." I smiled warmly as I mentally prepared myself for an interrogation. My stomach grumbled. I hope he doesn't ask too much. I came to New York's JFK International Airport two hours ahead of my flight time so I'd be able to grab a bite to eat here, not to mope around answering people's questions.

"Miss Hayat Janaan, uh, Ishfaq," he said slowly as he took a quick peek at my passport while I looked around with embarrassment. My face in any sort of photo identification always looked ridiculous. My passport photo had been updated just a few years ago when I was still in my 'half pubescent teenager-half adult' phase. In other words, acne had scarred my olive skin, my black hair was a wild mess even though I had tried to tame the mane, and I had not put in my contacts. Basically, I resembled a stereotypical squinty librarian.

Replacing that horrid picture would take too much time and effort, especially with having to make frequent trips to the passport processing center, so I let it be. Now, the ticket agent darted his eyes from the photo to my actual presence, in a blatant attempt to ensure that it was the same person. "What is the purpose of your stay in Jordan?"

"It's an unpaid internship. I'm an Elementary Education major and we're required to do student teaching either in-state, elsewhere in the United States, or in a cooperating foreign country," I explained to him. I shifted my feet as I waited for the assistant ticket agent to double check the weight of my luggage.

"I see." He pursed his lips. "Where exactly in the country will you be staying?"

"A town near Umm Qais," I told him bluntly.

"Umm Qais?" His eyebrows shot up. "But that's near the Jordan-Syria border. You chose to go to Jordan?"

Trying to be as nice as I could, I stopped myself from a necessary eye roll. "I did."

"Were there not any other locations for you?" He asked abruptly.

"Mister Saleem," I addressed him as my eyes fell to his name tag. "Can I ask why you're asking me all this?"

"Ma'am, I don't know if you're aware, but you will be very close to where there are a number of extremist groups. Not to mention, there is still the Israeli-Palestinian conflict near Jordan's western border." He seemed flustered and I noticed his assistant muttering something about being too inquisitive. "It's not too late to cancel your tickets; I'd still be able to give you a partial refund."

The man behind me clicked his tongue with impatience and tapped his foot loudly on the tiled floor. I chewed the inside of my lip, trying to keep my cool.

"I appreciate the concern; however I am fully aware of what is going on there. The town I will be staying is literally of no interest to those extremist groups: it is an impoverished area with a small population; those mad men would not want to have anything to do with the place." I relaxed my shoulders a bit and spoke softly. "Also, my mother is from Jordan and I've never been there myself, so that was another incentive."

"Hello!" The man shrieked from behind me. "There are other people waiting in line too! How about you do your job more efficiently! Where's your supervisor? I'd like to have a word with him!"

I turned back to the Mr. Saleem, just in time to see him mutter a few things under his breath. He gave me a soft smile and handed me my passport and luggage. "I hope you have a pleasant journey and a very safe stay."

"Thank you," I smiled, giving the man behind me a smug look before I cheerfully strode off to the food court.

***

I leaned back in my seat, creepily observing the passersby in the waiting area. Each person in the sea of faces was flowing like water up and down the aisles. Everyone was in a rush; no time to apologize for running into someone, no time to stop and breathe. I chewed on my pizza crust slowly, savoring the last bit of American food I would have for the next two months at least. I thought about what the airline ticket agent had said. It may be incredibly dangerous since I would practically be on the border to Syria. Every bit of courage I had was suddenly being drained out of my head.

Now I wished I wasn't alone on this trip. My friend and apartment roommate, Natalia, had the same major as me coinciding with a Psychology major, but she chose to go to Indonesia instead; maybe I should've done the same. Though I never looked into details, there were lots of circulating reports of people being brutally murdered all over the Middle East, especially in Syria.

I'm an idiot.

Even though I had moved out of the house last year in my sophomore year of college, I still went to my parents to let them know of my decision. They didn't take the news so well.

Frankly, they never approved of any decision I took.

I hated to come to terms with the fact that I was the sole anomaly of my whole family, especially when it came the time to choose a major. At any rate, I was dead-set on having something to do with education. I loved kids.

"If you love kids so much, why don't you become a pediatrician?" My father, a surgeon, had asked me once. He was a fairly stern man who had great pride in his career, clearly.

"Baba, I don't like medicine at all." I hated the sight of blood.

"Why not?" My mother, a professor at a medical school, had asked. "It pays very well!"

Then came the comparisons, which had been considerably unbearable due to my dual Arab-Desi background. I had to keep up the expectations of my family, my family-friends, my relatives, my distant relatives, blah, blah. My older brother, Hydar, was in his third year in medical school and my younger brother, Hamad, would be entering a seven-year medical program at NYU this fall.

And on and on that went.

For a while, my parents didn't speak to me or invite me to family events that they were hosting. I worked three jobs to help pay off some of my college dorming fees. Thankfully, I had received a full-ride scholarship at Columbia University that covered all of my tuition, books and part of my dorming expenses. That had eased my mind.

My parents were extreme workaholics, so much that they barely had enough time for the three of us as we were growing up. We had a frequent exchange of babysitters instead. If I was ever going to have a family of my own, I'd make sure I wouldn't become an invisible parent. At the very least, I'd want to be emotionally available for my children.

Being isolated by my family wasn't completely horrid. I attained a sense of independence and responsibility. And I'm glad I did.

Part of the reason I wanted to teach in Jordan was the feel-good aspect. I used to volunteer at a run-down public school in Boston where the students had very little access to resources. The school wasn't getting enough government funding, so teachers had to be resourcefully creative to make sure students didn't lose interest in academia. It was difficult; many of the students came from broken homes where family and social issues would often take a huge toll on their concentration. They were rather intelligent, but didn't have the motivation or encouragement from home to pursue their goals. That is where we came in.

To be able to see their eyes lighten up as they grasped the material - that was what I aimed for, that is what made the struggle worthwhile. An impoverished town in Jordan where children just needed an extra push in the right direction would give me just that, given that I put in an enormous amount of effort. It was a type of reward that needed to be felt to be understood, and certainly something money could not buy.

My other reason to go was less realistic: I wanted to spend some time, far away from home, adventuring my mother's homeland where I have never been to.

Yeah, Hayat, an explosion-prone war zone is definitely a perfect place for adventures.

I broke out of my reverie as an announcement came through on the loudspeaker, and was transcribed on the large TV in the center of the waiting room.

"Attention all passengers," said a monotone female. "Today is the eleventh of January; local time is eight in the evening. Royal Jordanian Airlines, Flight #263 will be ready for departure at 20:30. Please gather all of your belongings as you prepare to board the aircraft. Thank you."

The usage of the 24-hour clock reminded me to adjust the time settings on my phone since nearly every country, besides America, used it. I had half an hour left for departure. Brushing my dark, flyaway hair out of my face, I decided to ring up my parents.

Eventually, my mother's voice came through. "Hayat?"

"Mama, the flight is in half an hour."

"Oh, okay," she said. "Your father is at work. He's working overtime today."

"Oh."

"I'll let him know you called," she paused, probably realizing the reality of the situation. "Be safe, Hayat. And call us the moment you get situated there."

"Yes, ma. I will." I thought of what else I could say. "Ma?"

"Yes?"

"I love you. I have to go now, bye."

The tone of my mother's voice dropped. "Bye, Hayat."

I bit down on my lip. I was hoping for something more emotional. When it came to expressing feelings, my parents were very flat. I had no idea why this continued to shock me after all this time.

My biggest crime was that I wanted to be a teacher. Did I do something unforgivable?

Well, there was another crime, for lack of a better word, but it had been out of my control...

Oh well, I tried.

I took a deep breath and straightened out my thoughts. I wasn't going to let this ruin my mood.

"Attention all passengers," said the monotone female yet again. "Royal Jordanian Airlines, Flight #263 will be departing in fifteen minutes." I took this as my cue as I pulled my crossover bag over my right shoulder and grabbed the handle of my carry-on luggage, strolling towards the exit.

Putting my past behind me, I think I'd be able to adjust to Jordanian life for the next two months quite well. All this talk of bizarre things happening in the Middle East was most likely the result of the media unnecessarily stretching the truth. My mind relaxed and I chuckled to myself for being so stressed over nothing. I was going to Jordan to help teach unfortunate children in a nearly-desolate town for two months.

Why the hell should I be worried that I may cross paths with an extremist group?

Glossary:

~Hayat Ishfaq (Hi-YAHT Ish-fakh)- Hayat: life ; Ishfaq: compassion, sympathy, pity

~Jordan- A country in the Middle East that is surrounded Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Syria and Israel/Palestine

~Islamic school- Islamic equivalent to Catholic, and other parochial, schools