Heatmap 10: Amal
On cars as memory vessels, thermal relief, &&&.
Salt, water and heat, punishing when uninvited, can also soothe intensely in the right place and time. For
, that means trips to the Dead Sea, lingering hot baths, and warm olive oil. Writing from the eastern edge of the Mediterranean basin (Jordan), while layering in her Palestinian heritage, Amal offers a bittersweet meditation on pain, relief, beauty and injustice to close out the Heatmaps interviews. I wanted to end the series on a note of solidarity—to Palestine, to those living through unrelenting heat, to those bound by the destinies of the Mediterranean. I hope to have traced those threads a little bit with these summer journals. Thank you for travelling with me, and without further ado, here’s Amal’s edition:
جو
Q1. What scents, sounds, tastes, or places spark a feeling of summer, before memory even kicks in?
There’s a smell that collects in cars when they sit in the sun for too long; a mixture of leather, perhaps, and plastic. To me, this is the smell of roadtrips, of drives to the Dead Sea, of eating in the car by a hill, watching the scenery. This is where most of my summers were spent: sweating and laughing, so alive, in a friend’s car. The wind in my hands as they sit out the window.
So many of my memories, from summer or otherwise, are tied to a vehicle. Usually older ones; hand-me-downs; well-loved and noisy. The sound of the blinker. The whizz of a window opening. The air sputtering out of the AC.
As for musical sounds, Lorde’s “No Better” captures the feeling of my summers here in the Middle East:
ذاكرة
Q2. Tell us about a summer memory that’s stayed with you. Something joyful, ethereal or bittersweet. Why do you think it stuck?
My two best friends and I once visited Salt Beach. It’s a little deeper than the usual Dead Sea, and once you get there, it opens up around you. White salt, like a painting, and water that reflects them. It felt ethereal, and one of my favorite memories despite the heat and sweat—summers in Jordan can be overwhelming. But there is a strong smell in the air, though, that I enjoy. Salt Beach’s stench is clouded by sourness. Visually, it contains a beauty that cannot be captured in something as human and flimsy as a photograph.
The sun goes down and it feels like years—you’re just transfixed by the view, the colors, the smells. My friends and I each smoked a cigarette, and we repeated the famous saying “There’s Palestine,” while pointing at the blinking lights on the other side. “Our land.”
The salt hardened against our dresses, my strap broke and I was holding it onto me. As we drove home in the pitch black, I could taste the salt around us. Of course, we listened to Taylor Swift’s August. And yes, it was indeed an August day.
حر
Q3. What’s your relationship to heat? Do you crave it, escape it, endure it?
It depends.
I crave heat occasionally: the scalding hot of my bathtub when I first fill it. But heat that eats the air is one I dislike, and these days, I keep running from it. I like heat when it doesn’t fill my lungs; when it envelopes me like a blanket. It’s okay if my skin burns, so long everything else stays intact. I have fibromyalgia, so very hot baths are my go-to for days of flare-ups.
لغة
Q4. Is there a word or expression in your language that captures a unique aspect of the Mediterranean? What does it convey?
حر which means "hot"—it is pronounced “h-a-r-r” with a hard H. All of my childhood memories are haunted with the sound of my maternal grandmother’s voice, announcing whether it was hot or cold. I didn't really get to connect with my grandmother when she was with us. By the time we moved to Jordan I was only six, and she was already in the depths of illness. Our summers, growing up, revolved around her. Either we gathered around a fire at my uncle’s farm or spent it eating and laughing and playing at my grandfather's house.
Because we loved her, would always make sure she was comfortably warm. When I feel hot these days—when I feel that overwhelming faintness that sticky heat brings— her voice comes to me. حر!
Interestingly, with the smallest change, the word can mean "free”. That would be pronounced “h-u-r-r”.
توتر
Q5. What’s something about heat, and how it’s experienced in your country, that you feel conflicted or jaded about?
In the midst of this heatwave in Amman, I’ve realized how unresourced we are for keeping cool. I am lucky to have an AC, but many of the people I know rely on a fan. And as you may know, fans are usually just moving hot air around in circles.
This is perhaps just my view, but sometimes it feels like we in the Middle East are being punished more by the effects of global warming—more than others in the world. The heat must be truly devastating when, in Gaza for example, people have to cope with that on top of the mass starvation.
مودا
Q6: Is there a summertime trend or behaviour you feel needs to cool off?
It’s been a slow build over the past few years but I’ve found that resistance and human rights activism have become sensationalized and aestheticised, an accessory of sorts.
After working in the non-profit sector, and closely watching the Middle East crumble after October 7th, I realized how much of our political passion is purely digital. And how much of it is about surface-level optics. Even with humanitarian workers, even with the higher-ups. So much of our lives have turned into curations; our beliefs into badges; or freedom into emojis. It has been nice to see an uproar for human rights through the Gaza movement, to see the youth band together for change, for a better world. But this summer I’ve witnessed an influx online of “cute” political stickers, and Hello Kitty Says ACAB posters. And kuffiyehs mixed with pinks, hearts, peace signs, when they are the very same fabric that children in Gaza are bleeding all over.
I can’t bare to make my grief for my homeland a part of an aesthetic and personal brand curated for social media.
مستقبل
Q7. If you could preserve one Mediterranean thing for future generations to inherit, what would it be?
An appreciation for the land, and the cultural wisdom born out of it.
I struggled with ear pain for my whole life. No doctor, no specialist, could give me an answer, a reason. My aunt suggested I try a little drop of warmed Palestinian olive oil, and the pain subsided. My grandmother also struggled with ear pain, and apparently this remedy also gave her relief on bad days. I hope future generations stay connected with our planet—and appreciate how she can look after us when we look after her.
The more we stray towards a future dominated by technology and capitalism and and and, the more we lose our sense of self. Of what came before us. Of our ancestors. I always wonder, when I start heating my droplets of olive oil, how many women in my life have struggled with this same pain, and how many of them have found relief from something from the land, from our farmers, from our people. I have this fear that the more consumed we become by our digital spaces, the more we move away from longstanding cultural practices, which means that—maybe—future generations will not care as much about preserving the land.
Thanks for reading!
I’ll be posting a recap and learnings from the entire series on Sunday, 31 August. Be sure to…
Transliterations: جو : Jow • ذاكرة : Zakra • حر : Harr • لغة : Lougha • توتر : Tawattor • مودا : Moda • مستقبل : Mousta’bal
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Thank you so much for this chance to reflect in this summer heat! 🤍