Write a different phenomenology.

Phenomenology is a psychology term that deals with viewpoint, but it's used sometimes in writing to denotate looking at something from a specific point of view. Essentially what this prompt asks is for you to write something with a point of view different from your own.

For example:
Write about 9/11 from the perspective of one of the hijackers
Write about America from the perspective of an anthropoligist who considers Americans much in the same way Americans consider Native American culture.

I like it. I'll try and get something together in the coming days.

This is something I've been working on...well...I worked on it once when I had a spark of inspiration at 1 AM. I want to add more, but I'll just kinda throw out what I've got so far.

*****

6:00 in the morning.
Muhammed awoke, rolling over to look at the clock. His hotel room was dark, and Ziad was asleep in the other bed. Outside, Newark was waking up.
Stumbling into the bathroom, he awkwardly fumbled with the lightswitch. The room stank of mildew and the tiles in the shower were all rotting. Someone had written "fuck you" under the plastic sign on the wall that read, "Ice and extra towels can be found in the lobby on the second floor".

Muhammed hadn't shaved in two days, nor eaten, and he wasn't sleeping much. The shower's water scalded his back. He could barely feel it.

Ziad was awake and dressed when Muhammed got out of the shower.
"What, you're not going to shower today?"
"No."
"You're revolting". Muhammed was not altogether joking.
"What does it matter? No one in the airport cares. We have no one to impress"
"You could at least clean yourself up so I don't have to smell you"
Ziad went to the small table and turned on the coffee machine. He didn't drink coffee when Muhammed first met him four years ago, back when Ziad went to college.

Light began to creep through the curtains into the dreary hotel room, revealing the moldy dull, worn carpet and the raggety beds. Ziad sat on the edge of the small table, staring blankly at the wall. His eyes were dull. Muhammed could tell that he wasn't thinking about anything. It had been a long time since Ziad had thought about anything. Back when they first met, Ziad had been 22, and an engineering student in Hamburg. He always had some sort of book on his person, and he used to keep a notebook in which he scribbled his thoughts. The notebook had been small and bound in black leather. Muhammed had not seen it since they left Germany.
"Do you think this will work?"
Ziad was silent.
"Ziad. I asked if you think this will work."
"Of course it will. Everything will work out fine. Your family will be taken care of"
Silence again.
"But what if--"
"Look, just shut the fuck up, please? Everything will be perfect. It's almost seven, the others should be up by now. Let's go"
Muhammed and Ziad silently gathered their papers and their bags and closed the door of the sad hotel room. Outside, the carpet sobbed with every step, holding the tears of a thousand prostitutes who had lay on these floors. A thousand sad, lonely women finding comfort in the only thing they had ever known to be completely good.

*****

The car ride to the airport was tense. Muhammed sat in the front with Ziad while the Ahmeds, Ziad, and Saeed squished together in the back. The seats of the rental car were dirty and stained.
"Did everyone pray this morning?"
Nods of agreement came from the back to Ziad's question. Muhammed stayed silent.
"Mu? Did you?"
"No"
"What?"
"I said no, Ziad." Muhammed's voice rose, and he could feel the acid in his stomach shifting. He slid uncomfortably down in his seat.
"No? What the hell do you mean no? You didn't? This isn't a fucking joke Mu."
"Shut up, Ziad. Shut up. You're not my fucking parent." Muhammed was nearly yelling now, and he could sense that the three in the back were moving uncomforatbly.
"I'm in charge of this! You are expected to pray every day! It is not an option, it is an expectation. When we get to the airport I want you to find a place by yourself and do so, and that is a order"
"By whom? I should pray because I feel devotion to my God, not because you tell me to! My prayers are my own personal business". Muhammed's face was now red. He knew that he was inciting Ziad, but he was far too involved in the debate and could not back down now. "When did you lose it, Ziad?"
"Lose what?"
"You heard me. When did you lose it? Your idealism? Was it when we left Germany? When did your religion become so militant? What happened to the Ziad I used to know, the one that loved philosophy and Allah equally?"
"That Ziad is dead! He was a fool and a blashphemer!"
"Oh really? I remember not three months ago you were threatening to leave this! You were having the same doubts that I'm having right now, but you just buried them with more fanaticism! Come on Ziad, tell me, what the hell are we doing this for?"
The car fell silent immediately.

Ziad spoke slowly and calmly. Muhammed had clearly crossed the line, and Ziad was taken aback. Now he reassumed his role of guide.
"Muhammed, you know what our objective is, and you known whom we serve. Do not think about this world"
Muhammed was not done. "How can I not think of this world? How can I not see the children in the room next to ours, playing, yelling, talking about their trip to New York. You heard them laughing too, you must have. How can you not think about what were doing to them?"
"What we're doing is far greater than any one person. This is your chance to secure your place in the sun, to be something bigger than yourself, Muhammed. Remember what you have learned". Ziad's voice was still low, but his tone was harsh. "If you do not, remember then what will happen if you do not follow through".

Saeed coughed in the back as Muhammed fell silent. The threat Ziad levied against him certainly had weight, but he could not push from his mind the faces of the children he had seen in the sad hotel, that despite their surroundings they were so overjoyed to simply be in the halls, running free. Ziad had cursed them for being so loud, but Muhammed saw them run to their father as he came out of the room to herd them back in. He had seen the little girl jump into his arms, and the smile on her face. And he had heard her ask:
"Daddy, when can we go back to New York?"
"Well, honey, Daddy has to go back tomorrow to go to work in that tall tall building we saw today, and you and Mommy and Jeffery have to go back home. But I'll be back home on the twelfth, and we can talk about having another trip then."
"Daddy, when is the twelfth?"
"In two days, sweetie. On Wednesday."
"Can we go to the park that day?"
"Of course, and we'll bring Mommy and Jeffery too" He kissed her on the forehead and turned to walk into the room.
"I love you Daddy" she whispered into his ear as she curled up on his shoulder. Muhammed had gone to get ice, but was now stopped in the hallway watching the father. The man nodded politely and wished Muhammed a good night.

Ziad drove on. The car was silent still, and the mood was somber.

*****

8:00 in the morning.
They pulled into the airport, and unloaded their bags.