Exactly, one year ago … I remember! At exactly this time I was sipping on my drink, laughing with some people, appreciating friendships that have expired in a year we all promised to gratify and standby each other. I remember the places, I remember all the faces … everything is set to expire, food, drinks, friends, relationships, feelings perhaps, except … memories.
This year, and not just because I have an exam to study for or because most of my friends are spending new year’s with their “significant others” I decided to remember … to remember Gaza. Am not going to remember the war and the killing and blood and all of the hideous images we saw, and still see every now and then, but the fact that wherever we are … we are blessed with so many things that we forget to appreciate. Every year for many years, the 31st of December would be my day, getting all dressed, gather with all my friends, raise our glasses to a brighter better future that we would see –and in many cases did not- and today I couldn’t resort to anything but my msn account. I signed in and I found an old friend who lives in Gaza logged on and living his new year’s eve with his virtual friends online, living the world through their words … and it ran me down like a train runs down a penny.
I can make the call, to jump out of my chair and run through the streets and enjoy my night. I can call up some unexpired friends and meet them in a different city, laugh the night away, and welcome 2011 with hopes of better economies, less untruthful politicians, lower gas prices, more rain and peace in the middle east. NO, not exactly our wishes … we the spoilt kids of this world do not reallllyyy wish for all of that, but perhaps more money, more comedy, and less drama. Now there is nothing wrong with that, and I wish that everyone’s wishes come true sooner than later but it is always nice to remember those who wish not for money, comedy or drama but to stay alive, and not lose their fighting spirit. I love people who have nothing; I highly admire them … why? Because they have nothing to fake themselves for, and really don’t want anything but good health, more smiles, less tears, and a bigger heart so they can put up with our greed.
May this year bring us challenges to strengthen our souls, tears to wash our hearts, and endless lessons to learn … may we smile, even when we have nothing! May we have nothing but US! :)
Friday, December 31, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Piece of my MIND!
I am having the itch … again. I have wanted to write an article for so long now, and every time I think of something to write about my hands simply freeze. I have written many posts for my blog and got some splendid feedback about it, but that’s the difference; when you are writing for a blog it is very easy to allow your emotions and views to take over the flow of words, but that’s not always the case when you are writing something to be published in a newspaper. Since I got back home from studying abroad and I have been wanting to write about a lot of things, the “usual” occupation, the checkpoints, the low quality of life that Palestinians have to put up with, the Israeli violations in East Jerusalem, the situation in Gaza and how it is affecting our youth there, and a whole lot more than that.
Like any form of art, -besides being a need- writing is there for a purpose, a tool where form follows function to convey a certain message across to the readers and most importantly ; reflect a reality.
I once read that in 1895 the first cinematic exhibition was held in Paris, one year later and specifically in November 1896, the “cinema” moved to Egypt and the first show was held in a show-room owned by an Italian gentleman called Dello Astrulogio in the city of Alexandria. Despite the astronomical price of the ticket many who were very eager to witness this new form of art that captivated the hearts of the Europeans stood in long lines to get a ticket. The show was very primitive and usually lasted for about half an hour showing natural sceneries, little children jumping into ponds, a man with a big fish in his hand waving for the camera, or a speeding train growling through the screen. No matter how naïve the show was, or how simple and basic the filming was people were head over heels with this new phenomena, people would be waiting patiently for the magical moment when the lights are dimmed and the pictures are put into motion on a gigantic screen and only then people would start indulging themselves in this “life-altering” experience by reacting vigorously to the scenes that were shown before them. Perhaps the pleasure the “first-viewers” had when watching simple extracts of life on the screen surpasses the joy and pleasure we experience when dealing with cinematic arts nowadays. This semi astral projecting experience brought about a little problem where people would react strongly to certain scenes, for example when they saw a humungous train marching steadily towards them on the screen with its’ long trail of smoke smudging the horizon people would jump fanatically from their seats and scream fearing that this train would hit them. To avoid this Mr. Astrulogio would take the viewers on a tour before the start of the show and when he gets to the large screen he would hold it with his fingers and respectfully say:” This screen is nothing but a piece of fabric, not different from a bed-sheet, the pictures that you will see are projected onto the screen and not out of it. In a moment you will see a momentous speeding train, Remember ladies and gentlemen this is only a picture of the train, and therefore when standing in its’ way you are still far from any danger …”.
Just like a projector in a theatre we- writers- try to project the reality that we live in on big spreads of white paper for people to read and understand, the only difference between reading an article and watching a film is that the reality projected by the words on paper are supposed to collide with the souls and minds of the reader and make them realize the gravity of the situation at hand, unlike the moving pictures in a silent movie that are meant to entertain the patrons of such an art.
During my quest to find a topic to write about I have encountered a countless number of realities that should be addressed and discussed properly by all means possible, as time passed my view expanded and my understanding started to give in for the vicious attack of these conflicting realities that burdened my thoughts and ability to analyze and conclude. Since it is not possible to show unrelated scenes in modern time cinema it is also unlikely that I would naively pour all these realities, mix them together and canon shoot them on paper because every time I tried to sort my thoughts and put them one at a time, I would fail. One morning on the bus to work, I decided to find that “magical link” between all of these seemingly random facts that run around in our society, and I did.
What Mr. Astrulogio did when talking to his guests at the show room is to make them believe that what they see is a mere illusion, and that the reality they live in the red comfortable chairs at the showroom is physically -and in essence- separate from that they see on the screen. Apparently, today in the Palestinian society, we are in no need for an Italian gentleman to propose that what we read in our papers and hear about in the news about the current situations in Palestine is an illusion and not a reality, on the contrary we took the liberty as young men and women to disengage ourselves from the general Palestinian reality that our ancestors fought bravely to maintain and enhance or even to create in the first place.
Nowadays a considerable portion of our youngsters have given up on understanding the realities that surround them and surrendered their resisting spirits to the hardships of everyday life and condescendingly took the Palestine they see … for granted. Growing up in Jerusalem, we were told and lived tales and endless stories that reflected the bitter and harsh life we Palestinians live under occupation and in the eyes of our parents and grand-parents learned the importance of resisting the hardships and fight through the legitimate channels for our rights that were taken away from us and not submit to whatever reality the occupation or other factors are enforcing on us. Suddenly, it is absolutely acceptable to go on long trips to the United States and meet Israeli peers on a camp and in the midst of all the laughs and tacky activities reach to a conclusion that the Israeli occupation is a “normal”, “legitimate” body, and justify all the violations and crimes it commits as part of protecting Israeli citizens. Perhaps to the college female student standing next to me for 2 long hours on Qalandya checkpoint, it seems perfectly acceptable for her to stand at a checkpoint to be humiliated because according to her “they need to make sure that we don’t do anything stupid”, therefore she was saying one way or another that it is legitimate to humiliate us and make our lives far more stressful than they already are only to make sure that we do not refuse their reality and create ours, which she deemed “stupid”. When I listen to two young men who for an instance seem to be cultured and well-educated and start elaborating articulately over the status of Palestinian politics and as I eavesdrop on them I realize the Palestine they are talking about is represented by what is left of the West Bank after it was torn by the apartheid wall … WHERE DID GAZA GO? I am afraid the list goes on infinitely, starting with the corruption in our Palestinian Authority, moving to the internal conflict between Hamas and Fateh, the migration of our youth to foreign countries looking for better job opportunities that they cannot find here thus resulting not only in a brain drain, but also in the loss of young and able work-force, drug abuse among school students, the plunging quality of education in our schools, and many many more and last but definitely not least accepting the idea that the Palestine that our ancestors lost their lives trying to build and establish is simply what we have in the grounds now and give up on building a better more developed Palestine on the rest of its lands and I mean … East Jerusalem.
Until we as Palestinian youth learn to reattach ourselves to the reality we live and stop acting as if we have come, we have seen, and we have conquered and that there is nothing wrong about the current situation ruling the enforced reality many live, I find it to be my duty as a Palestinian to hold this piece of paper you are readings and say respectfully: “ This is nothing but a piece of paper, pretty much like the one you sneeze into, the words that you read on this paper are intended to protrude out of the plane of the paper and get your thoughts and hearts in motion, a moment ago you have read about a number of speeding trains coming your way, remember ladies and gentlemen that these moving bodies are realities sprinting in your direction, unless you react promptly, these realities will hit you when you least expect them to”.
Like any form of art, -besides being a need- writing is there for a purpose, a tool where form follows function to convey a certain message across to the readers and most importantly ; reflect a reality.
I once read that in 1895 the first cinematic exhibition was held in Paris, one year later and specifically in November 1896, the “cinema” moved to Egypt and the first show was held in a show-room owned by an Italian gentleman called Dello Astrulogio in the city of Alexandria. Despite the astronomical price of the ticket many who were very eager to witness this new form of art that captivated the hearts of the Europeans stood in long lines to get a ticket. The show was very primitive and usually lasted for about half an hour showing natural sceneries, little children jumping into ponds, a man with a big fish in his hand waving for the camera, or a speeding train growling through the screen. No matter how naïve the show was, or how simple and basic the filming was people were head over heels with this new phenomena, people would be waiting patiently for the magical moment when the lights are dimmed and the pictures are put into motion on a gigantic screen and only then people would start indulging themselves in this “life-altering” experience by reacting vigorously to the scenes that were shown before them. Perhaps the pleasure the “first-viewers” had when watching simple extracts of life on the screen surpasses the joy and pleasure we experience when dealing with cinematic arts nowadays. This semi astral projecting experience brought about a little problem where people would react strongly to certain scenes, for example when they saw a humungous train marching steadily towards them on the screen with its’ long trail of smoke smudging the horizon people would jump fanatically from their seats and scream fearing that this train would hit them. To avoid this Mr. Astrulogio would take the viewers on a tour before the start of the show and when he gets to the large screen he would hold it with his fingers and respectfully say:” This screen is nothing but a piece of fabric, not different from a bed-sheet, the pictures that you will see are projected onto the screen and not out of it. In a moment you will see a momentous speeding train, Remember ladies and gentlemen this is only a picture of the train, and therefore when standing in its’ way you are still far from any danger …”.
Just like a projector in a theatre we- writers- try to project the reality that we live in on big spreads of white paper for people to read and understand, the only difference between reading an article and watching a film is that the reality projected by the words on paper are supposed to collide with the souls and minds of the reader and make them realize the gravity of the situation at hand, unlike the moving pictures in a silent movie that are meant to entertain the patrons of such an art.
During my quest to find a topic to write about I have encountered a countless number of realities that should be addressed and discussed properly by all means possible, as time passed my view expanded and my understanding started to give in for the vicious attack of these conflicting realities that burdened my thoughts and ability to analyze and conclude. Since it is not possible to show unrelated scenes in modern time cinema it is also unlikely that I would naively pour all these realities, mix them together and canon shoot them on paper because every time I tried to sort my thoughts and put them one at a time, I would fail. One morning on the bus to work, I decided to find that “magical link” between all of these seemingly random facts that run around in our society, and I did.
What Mr. Astrulogio did when talking to his guests at the show room is to make them believe that what they see is a mere illusion, and that the reality they live in the red comfortable chairs at the showroom is physically -and in essence- separate from that they see on the screen. Apparently, today in the Palestinian society, we are in no need for an Italian gentleman to propose that what we read in our papers and hear about in the news about the current situations in Palestine is an illusion and not a reality, on the contrary we took the liberty as young men and women to disengage ourselves from the general Palestinian reality that our ancestors fought bravely to maintain and enhance or even to create in the first place.
Nowadays a considerable portion of our youngsters have given up on understanding the realities that surround them and surrendered their resisting spirits to the hardships of everyday life and condescendingly took the Palestine they see … for granted. Growing up in Jerusalem, we were told and lived tales and endless stories that reflected the bitter and harsh life we Palestinians live under occupation and in the eyes of our parents and grand-parents learned the importance of resisting the hardships and fight through the legitimate channels for our rights that were taken away from us and not submit to whatever reality the occupation or other factors are enforcing on us. Suddenly, it is absolutely acceptable to go on long trips to the United States and meet Israeli peers on a camp and in the midst of all the laughs and tacky activities reach to a conclusion that the Israeli occupation is a “normal”, “legitimate” body, and justify all the violations and crimes it commits as part of protecting Israeli citizens. Perhaps to the college female student standing next to me for 2 long hours on Qalandya checkpoint, it seems perfectly acceptable for her to stand at a checkpoint to be humiliated because according to her “they need to make sure that we don’t do anything stupid”, therefore she was saying one way or another that it is legitimate to humiliate us and make our lives far more stressful than they already are only to make sure that we do not refuse their reality and create ours, which she deemed “stupid”. When I listen to two young men who for an instance seem to be cultured and well-educated and start elaborating articulately over the status of Palestinian politics and as I eavesdrop on them I realize the Palestine they are talking about is represented by what is left of the West Bank after it was torn by the apartheid wall … WHERE DID GAZA GO? I am afraid the list goes on infinitely, starting with the corruption in our Palestinian Authority, moving to the internal conflict between Hamas and Fateh, the migration of our youth to foreign countries looking for better job opportunities that they cannot find here thus resulting not only in a brain drain, but also in the loss of young and able work-force, drug abuse among school students, the plunging quality of education in our schools, and many many more and last but definitely not least accepting the idea that the Palestine that our ancestors lost their lives trying to build and establish is simply what we have in the grounds now and give up on building a better more developed Palestine on the rest of its lands and I mean … East Jerusalem.
Until we as Palestinian youth learn to reattach ourselves to the reality we live and stop acting as if we have come, we have seen, and we have conquered and that there is nothing wrong about the current situation ruling the enforced reality many live, I find it to be my duty as a Palestinian to hold this piece of paper you are readings and say respectfully: “ This is nothing but a piece of paper, pretty much like the one you sneeze into, the words that you read on this paper are intended to protrude out of the plane of the paper and get your thoughts and hearts in motion, a moment ago you have read about a number of speeding trains coming your way, remember ladies and gentlemen that these moving bodies are realities sprinting in your direction, unless you react promptly, these realities will hit you when you least expect them to”.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Traces, Places ... All sorts of Faces (Part 1)
Awkward words and raffling voices, footsteps coming in and rapidly pacing legs propel out, a laugh to the left and yet another to the right. As I listen closely to the sounds floating past my closed eyes, and cling desperately to the curves of my ears but uselessly as gushes of other fellow words and scattered letters violently grab them away with the wind and carries them out to burn under the flaring sun of a typical Palestinian July, here comes a moment I say to myself and follow surrendering to that moment. Life starts to slow down as my thoughts take over my senses, the voices are fading gradually and the cool breeze that was flirting with my face suddenly stops. I open my eyes, everything is frozen, lips are moving slowly with muted words struggling to get out alive, everything is in a slow motion … and everything is silent, what a beautiful world that is, what a beautiful world.
Traces, Places … and all sorts of faces. I always had this urging question whether it’s the place that makes the people? Or is it the people that make the place? Strangely, this question was pretty much knocking the doors of my intrigued mind as I watched the sun-rays tenderly caressing the petals of the Red, Pink, and yellow fresh roses outside the tiny red aluminum windows of my office. In the midst of all that frozen reality, the robot lips, the puppet hands movements, the sun-rays prancing and dancing on those petals and the moving fan slicing the air and distributing it, like a single mother of four slices a loaf of bread where it’s flour was not mixed with water but her own sweat and blood to feed her hungry children … the fan slices the air and send us insufficient chunks of it to cool our tired worn faces, but not all faces are worn or tired by the effect of the heat and working hours, many faces need a better soul to make them look better … sometimes we need more than a chunk of cool air to rest our hearts, and a little more than a good thought to relax our souls. “AL SALAMU ALAYKOM!!” said a deep voice that shifted my attention to the far corner of the room, and like an ocean wave orchestrating the change … everything around me is back to life, lips blabbering, hands rapidly moving, words like cars in a traffic jam take the initiative and march themselves in patters aboard the wind that again … carried them outside to burn under the sun. My eyes followed the legions of words as they respectfully avoided that rough figure standing at the door. “I hope someone is hungry for a good read?! HAHA” … Mahmoud sells books, no no, well … he sells knowledge. For the past 32 years ever since he was 12 Mahmoud used to carry around all sorts of books and wonder around Ramallah, trying to sell these books to people trying to make whatever money he can make to keep on living. Unlike the other wandering book-sellers, Mahmoud knows what is up, he has read all the books u can think of, you name it, Russian literature, Brazilian folk stories, cooking books, physics books, and the most dangerous of them … Arabic Books.
Fact: I don’t like reading books written by Arab authors, too much censorship in Arab countries, however there is one name I can think of … Alaa Al-Aswany. I will give you the pleasure to research this amazing author who with great craftsmanship molded reality into books and made it possible for people with open eyes and blind hearts to learn of the world they walk aimlessly in, and made it possible for people with sight and no vision to take a look -at least once- inside.
Friendly fire, I have heard a lot about that book and wanted to read it … now is my chance! “Mahmoud, I feel like having a bite at a book by Alaa Al-Aswany called …” and before I finished my sentence, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat there it was in Mahmoud’s hand. I smiled … widely, but not as wide as Mahmoud’s smile that failed to cover the look of pride of his work in his hazy green eyes. Like a kid with a chocolate bar I threw myself in my chair and started checking out its pages gently turning them one at a time, like a lover tenderly undressing his long awaited love desperate for their souls to collide. “If I wasn’t an Egyptian, I would have loved to be one”, a quote by the late popular Egyptian leader Mustafa Kamal was written at the beginning of the first chapter. “How proud!” I exclaimed to myself … I wish I could be as proud as he is of his country.
As I was sinfully enjoying my reading, I found myself closing my eyes, voices slowing down, sinking into the light of my thoughts … the momentum of my thoughts is increasing, I could feel the feet stomping around me coming to an inevitable stop, Mahmoud’s voice fading away … Am I proud of who I am? … Is Egypt made by the Egyptian people? … or the other way around? … some questions I would love to ask to Mustafa Kamal 100 years after his death … I am that son, eating that slice of bread from the hand of his burdened mother, I am the sun-rays dancing on those petals … I know who I am … but who are all those tired faces … their traces … and those places … I call home … ?
Together … on a journey to find out … we are setting …
TO BE CONTINUED …
Traces, Places … and all sorts of faces. I always had this urging question whether it’s the place that makes the people? Or is it the people that make the place? Strangely, this question was pretty much knocking the doors of my intrigued mind as I watched the sun-rays tenderly caressing the petals of the Red, Pink, and yellow fresh roses outside the tiny red aluminum windows of my office. In the midst of all that frozen reality, the robot lips, the puppet hands movements, the sun-rays prancing and dancing on those petals and the moving fan slicing the air and distributing it, like a single mother of four slices a loaf of bread where it’s flour was not mixed with water but her own sweat and blood to feed her hungry children … the fan slices the air and send us insufficient chunks of it to cool our tired worn faces, but not all faces are worn or tired by the effect of the heat and working hours, many faces need a better soul to make them look better … sometimes we need more than a chunk of cool air to rest our hearts, and a little more than a good thought to relax our souls. “AL SALAMU ALAYKOM!!” said a deep voice that shifted my attention to the far corner of the room, and like an ocean wave orchestrating the change … everything around me is back to life, lips blabbering, hands rapidly moving, words like cars in a traffic jam take the initiative and march themselves in patters aboard the wind that again … carried them outside to burn under the sun. My eyes followed the legions of words as they respectfully avoided that rough figure standing at the door. “I hope someone is hungry for a good read?! HAHA” … Mahmoud sells books, no no, well … he sells knowledge. For the past 32 years ever since he was 12 Mahmoud used to carry around all sorts of books and wonder around Ramallah, trying to sell these books to people trying to make whatever money he can make to keep on living. Unlike the other wandering book-sellers, Mahmoud knows what is up, he has read all the books u can think of, you name it, Russian literature, Brazilian folk stories, cooking books, physics books, and the most dangerous of them … Arabic Books.
Fact: I don’t like reading books written by Arab authors, too much censorship in Arab countries, however there is one name I can think of … Alaa Al-Aswany. I will give you the pleasure to research this amazing author who with great craftsmanship molded reality into books and made it possible for people with open eyes and blind hearts to learn of the world they walk aimlessly in, and made it possible for people with sight and no vision to take a look -at least once- inside.
Friendly fire, I have heard a lot about that book and wanted to read it … now is my chance! “Mahmoud, I feel like having a bite at a book by Alaa Al-Aswany called …” and before I finished my sentence, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat there it was in Mahmoud’s hand. I smiled … widely, but not as wide as Mahmoud’s smile that failed to cover the look of pride of his work in his hazy green eyes. Like a kid with a chocolate bar I threw myself in my chair and started checking out its pages gently turning them one at a time, like a lover tenderly undressing his long awaited love desperate for their souls to collide. “If I wasn’t an Egyptian, I would have loved to be one”, a quote by the late popular Egyptian leader Mustafa Kamal was written at the beginning of the first chapter. “How proud!” I exclaimed to myself … I wish I could be as proud as he is of his country.
As I was sinfully enjoying my reading, I found myself closing my eyes, voices slowing down, sinking into the light of my thoughts … the momentum of my thoughts is increasing, I could feel the feet stomping around me coming to an inevitable stop, Mahmoud’s voice fading away … Am I proud of who I am? … Is Egypt made by the Egyptian people? … or the other way around? … some questions I would love to ask to Mustafa Kamal 100 years after his death … I am that son, eating that slice of bread from the hand of his burdened mother, I am the sun-rays dancing on those petals … I know who I am … but who are all those tired faces … their traces … and those places … I call home … ?
Together … on a journey to find out … we are setting …
TO BE CONTINUED …
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Simple Dreams …
I just love … how the roads I rode, the mountains that I have climbed, and the vines that gazed at me are all … all … paved, made, and irrigated respectively with simple dreams. It was not an extra mile that I have walked … not a hundred, not even a million, and after today … I humbly shall keep walking.
Today was not the usual day, very little sleep and a lot to burden that simple mind of mine. A lot of negativity in the air, and uncertainty of thoughts. It is hard to go to bed knowing that something was wrong, and I it is always hard to wake up knowing that even if the sun is shining your heart is feeling a little gloomy. No AC and barely any breeze coming through the small windows at the office I moved to two days ago, yet there was something in the air … something was coming my way. After my late morning coffee and my long awaited cigarette I have decided to welcome it with arms wide open, after all why question with a “why?” when you can exclaim with a “why not!?”.
His face was pale; voice was fading just like the inverted Nike sign on his tarnished torn t-shirt. “Please buy a CD, for God’s sake take one, it’s only 10 shekels … do you cheer for Germany? I have a small flag for you … it’s 10 shekels but I will give it to you for 5 just buy it … buy anything! …” my ears moved to the angry drivers honking their horns at the soldier standing at the checkpoint. I couldn’t hear what Hasan was saying, I knew Hasan since I was 15. I wrote about him for The Youth Times. He was in 3rd grade then, he had beautiful copybooks that he kept under the traffic light he used to sell candy at during the days, and he said that he was doing great in school and I listened to him reciting some beautiful 3rd grade books poetry that I still remember till this day “Bilad Al ‘Urb Awtani” i.e. “Arab Countries are my Home”, a moving poem by Syrian poet Fakhri Al-Barudi that speaks of how “we” the Arabs -that is- are united by our language, and not divided by our differences but on the contrary celebrate our diversity, well … as I said it’s just 3rd grade books poetry like all the things mentioned in 3rd grade books … simple dreams … written. Hasan promised me that he will stay in school and expressed his deepest wishes to become a doctor one day and save lives, just like what that doctor at the village clinic did to his baby sister the night before our interview. On the car’s left mirror I see Hasan, a man now, fighting with the other kids to “make the sale” to the young man behind the Armani shades in the brand new black Mercedes E Class listening to an English song and nodding his head high on the melody and Hasan is screaming “10 SHEKELS!! PLEASE” … So much for broken promises O’ Hasan. I just wonder what happened to his 4 brothers and baby sister who is probably not a baby anymore and his sick dad who was fighting cancer at the time, and the kind old lady that would always buy his candy just to make sure he was ok and away from harms way, I wonder, I wonder. I pressed my lips, and looked away. The driver was anxious, checking his “destroyed” mobile phone that had tons of adhesive tape keeping it together, but thank God for Fairuz singing of love and beauty … with that angelic voice putting a smile on our faces in the killing heat and strangling traffic. The driver’s mobile is ringing, he take a look to the back seats of the bus where no one is even minding him looking aimlessly out of the window, and takes a plunge down to pick the apparently “Pronto” call. I was curious, but I knew eavesdropping was wrong –that’s what mom said- but I think it was ok if the sound was leaking faintly through the adhesive tape, right? “Weinak?” said the soft voice on the phone, “I am working my love” Khader replied, “Any news?!?!” he added. “I heard him saying to mom last night that he will reject you if you do not get the money on time, … honey this is the 4th time, he wants you to give up!” Sumaya said with pain in her voice. Khader takes a look at me, he knows I can hear them but it’s ok, Khader’s dad used to drive my brothers and I to school when we were young, and enjoyed long street football games in front of Sumaya’s house … his childhood sweetheart. Funny business goes on when Cupid starts tripping I believe. “I will do it my love, I swear to God I will do it this time, I didn’t have any sleep for the past 7 months and I borrowed some money from my uncle in the U.S. you know he lives in New York, and has a huge supermarket and said he can lend me the money … I will make you my wife and he will not reject me, trust me, for one last time Sumaya please … “. The truth the truth I seek, the truth the truth I speak … simple dreams is what I see. We are finally free; the soldier decides it was ok for us to pass through. Yes the face I was wearing matched that grumpy face in the photo on my ID card the flesh and blood that make up my body are “O.K.” to go through the metal detector giving the blonde female soldier behind the bullet proof glass a meaningless nod, yet the flesh and blood of the burdened pregnant lady are to stay behind those flaming steel bars on the rotating gate because she wasn’t “O.K.”. “It’s ok, hang on” I tell the pregnant lady and gather my stuff from the x-ray machine’s conveyor belt and as I was at it, I bagged her hopes and her dreams to take them where she wants to go … anywhere other than this notorious checkpoint. I grab my cane, and shoulder my bag with my laptop, headphones, notebooks, and their dreams and hopes. I need to take the next bus to Jerusalem. The sun is setting, and the orange rays beautifully strike the edges of my golden Ray Bans, I take a deep breath, sink in the smell of exhaust gases, dust, and Jerusalem that distinct the air, and add greatly to its effect. I look at the horizon, blue eyes have been innocently haunting me all day long, and once again, the thought draws a smile on my face. I walk to the bus door. It is still closed, waiting for more people to be freed from the steel gates. I notice my reflection on the glass door. There I am smiling and happy, I count my blessing every night and morning you know … I have got to be happy, but no one would mistake the pain I had injected into my genuine smile. Perhaps it was the memories with Hasan, or maybe being unable to help Khader … maybe. Maybe, it’s the hope to live in a place where “checkpoint” is a banking term, “corruption” is a crime and not a star on the forehead of some people, where Hamza wouldn’t have to work two hectic jobs and suffer severe back pain to provide to his wife and children, where I can raise my flag next to those of Germany, Argentina, and the “World Cup Nations” and not having me arrested or thrown into jail, or in a place where babies do not have to taste suffering and pain while suckling their thumbs in their mother’s wombs, and perhaps some place where I can make it to my friend’s wedding on time and see him laugh and dance hoping to change the world we live in with his little scribbles on a newspaper column and call for non-violence. The truth the truth I seek, the truth the truth I speak … simple dreams is all I see … simple dreams is ALL I dream.
Dear Reader, … this is the truth, a small part of the truth, and NO, some just can’t handle the truth … so help them God.
This is not based on a true story … true stories are based on this.
Cast in their day to day names and titles:
Hasan - The slumdog.
Khader - The grumpy bus driver.
Um Abed - Pregnant Mother of 4.
Hilmi - The broom, dear friend, and colleague.
I just love … how the roads I rode, the mountains that I have climbed, and the vines that gazed at me are all … all … paved, made, and irrigated respectively with simple dreams. It was not an extra mile that I have walked … not a hundred, not even a million, and after today … I humbly shall keep walking.
Today was not the usual day, very little sleep and a lot to burden that simple mind of mine. A lot of negativity in the air, and uncertainty of thoughts. It is hard to go to bed knowing that something was wrong, and I it is always hard to wake up knowing that even if the sun is shining your heart is feeling a little gloomy. No AC and barely any breeze coming through the small windows at the office I moved to two days ago, yet there was something in the air … something was coming my way. After my late morning coffee and my long awaited cigarette I have decided to welcome it with arms wide open, after all why question with a “why?” when you can exclaim with a “why not!?”.
His face was pale; voice was fading just like the inverted Nike sign on his tarnished torn t-shirt. “Please buy a CD, for God’s sake take one, it’s only 10 shekels … do you cheer for Germany? I have a small flag for you … it’s 10 shekels but I will give it to you for 5 just buy it … buy anything! …” my ears moved to the angry drivers honking their horns at the soldier standing at the checkpoint. I couldn’t hear what Hasan was saying, I knew Hasan since I was 15. I wrote about him for The Youth Times. He was in 3rd grade then, he had beautiful copybooks that he kept under the traffic light he used to sell candy at during the days, and he said that he was doing great in school and I listened to him reciting some beautiful 3rd grade books poetry that I still remember till this day “Bilad Al ‘Urb Awtani” i.e. “Arab Countries are my Home”, a moving poem by Syrian poet Fakhri Al-Barudi that speaks of how “we” the Arabs -that is- are united by our language, and not divided by our differences but on the contrary celebrate our diversity, well … as I said it’s just 3rd grade books poetry like all the things mentioned in 3rd grade books … simple dreams … written. Hasan promised me that he will stay in school and expressed his deepest wishes to become a doctor one day and save lives, just like what that doctor at the village clinic did to his baby sister the night before our interview. On the car’s left mirror I see Hasan, a man now, fighting with the other kids to “make the sale” to the young man behind the Armani shades in the brand new black Mercedes E Class listening to an English song and nodding his head high on the melody and Hasan is screaming “10 SHEKELS!! PLEASE” … So much for broken promises O’ Hasan. I just wonder what happened to his 4 brothers and baby sister who is probably not a baby anymore and his sick dad who was fighting cancer at the time, and the kind old lady that would always buy his candy just to make sure he was ok and away from harms way, I wonder, I wonder. I pressed my lips, and looked away. The driver was anxious, checking his “destroyed” mobile phone that had tons of adhesive tape keeping it together, but thank God for Fairuz singing of love and beauty … with that angelic voice putting a smile on our faces in the killing heat and strangling traffic. The driver’s mobile is ringing, he take a look to the back seats of the bus where no one is even minding him looking aimlessly out of the window, and takes a plunge down to pick the apparently “Pronto” call. I was curious, but I knew eavesdropping was wrong –that’s what mom said- but I think it was ok if the sound was leaking faintly through the adhesive tape, right? “Weinak?” said the soft voice on the phone, “I am working my love” Khader replied, “Any news?!?!” he added. “I heard him saying to mom last night that he will reject you if you do not get the money on time, … honey this is the 4th time, he wants you to give up!” Sumaya said with pain in her voice. Khader takes a look at me, he knows I can hear them but it’s ok, Khader’s dad used to drive my brothers and I to school when we were young, and enjoyed long street football games in front of Sumaya’s house … his childhood sweetheart. Funny business goes on when Cupid starts tripping I believe. “I will do it my love, I swear to God I will do it this time, I didn’t have any sleep for the past 7 months and I borrowed some money from my uncle in the U.S. you know he lives in New York, and has a huge supermarket and said he can lend me the money … I will make you my wife and he will not reject me, trust me, for one last time Sumaya please … “. The truth the truth I seek, the truth the truth I speak … simple dreams is what I see. We are finally free; the soldier decides it was ok for us to pass through. Yes the face I was wearing matched that grumpy face in the photo on my ID card the flesh and blood that make up my body are “O.K.” to go through the metal detector giving the blonde female soldier behind the bullet proof glass a meaningless nod, yet the flesh and blood of the burdened pregnant lady are to stay behind those flaming steel bars on the rotating gate because she wasn’t “O.K.”. “It’s ok, hang on” I tell the pregnant lady and gather my stuff from the x-ray machine’s conveyor belt and as I was at it, I bagged her hopes and her dreams to take them where she wants to go … anywhere other than this notorious checkpoint. I grab my cane, and shoulder my bag with my laptop, headphones, notebooks, and their dreams and hopes. I need to take the next bus to Jerusalem. The sun is setting, and the orange rays beautifully strike the edges of my golden Ray Bans, I take a deep breath, sink in the smell of exhaust gases, dust, and Jerusalem that distinct the air, and add greatly to its effect. I look at the horizon, blue eyes have been innocently haunting me all day long, and once again, the thought draws a smile on my face. I walk to the bus door. It is still closed, waiting for more people to be freed from the steel gates. I notice my reflection on the glass door. There I am smiling and happy, I count my blessing every night and morning you know … I have got to be happy, but no one would mistake the pain I had injected into my genuine smile. Perhaps it was the memories with Hasan, or maybe being unable to help Khader … maybe. Maybe, it’s the hope to live in a place where “checkpoint” is a banking term, “corruption” is a crime and not a star on the forehead of some people, where Hamza wouldn’t have to work two hectic jobs and suffer severe back pain to provide to his wife and children, where I can raise my flag next to those of Germany, Argentina, and the “World Cup Nations” and not having me arrested or thrown into jail, or in a place where babies do not have to taste suffering and pain while suckling their thumbs in their mother’s wombs, and perhaps some place where I can make it to my friend’s wedding on time and see him laugh and dance hoping to change the world we live in with his little scribbles on a newspaper column and call for non-violence. The truth the truth I seek, the truth the truth I speak … simple dreams is all I see … simple dreams is ALL I dream.
Dear Reader, … this is the truth, a small part of the truth, and NO, some just can’t handle the truth … so help them God.
This is not based on a true story … true stories are based on this.
Cast in their day to day names and titles:
Hasan - The slumdog.
Khader - The grumpy bus driver.
Um Abed - Pregnant Mother of 4.
Hilmi - The broom, dear friend, and colleague.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
... Who Are You?
It’s like a trip from far away, moving deeper and faster into my imagination, running away … with me. Imagination … I once read that imagination is more important than knowledge. I also understood when someone told me that imagination … and not need is the mother of all inventions (so I guess need would be the grandmother). Purpose, is a big word to throw around when you’re out and about exploring the world. The past few days, and the past few hours just brought a big deal of happiness to my heart, and when am happy … I think … and since I think … therefore I exist …. And since I exist …. I will use the time and thought that I have to know … and when I finally know … I will finally realize … but even if I realize, am not sure I will understand, and here … I will IMAGINE the why’s and the how’s ... I will find my raison d’être and I will BE … that is … Purposely BE.
One day, the great German philosopher Schopenhauer went out for a walk, as he was walking aimlessly around the neighborhood deeply thinking of the questions and the matters that bothered him he ended up sitting in someone’s front yard, too afraid to confront that seemingly crazy man on his front yard the owner of the house calls the police. When the police officer approaches the philosopher he asks him: “Who are you?” the man looks the officer in the face and says “Son, if you can give me an answer to that question … I will be forever grateful”.
I am human; I am my own flesh and blood. I am what I do and what I don’t do. I am made of those accumulating mistakes. I am a smile and I am a tear, and was born when the two met. I am the food that I eat and I am the people that I love. I am my given name, and I drag my nicknames too. I am my age, even if I do not act like it or sound like it. I am my height but it is not my limit. I am what I study at school but I am not what the books say. And I am all that … but, that… is not enough.
I am the wind that sizzles the leaves on a spring morning. I am that thought that ran through my tireless mind day and night, I am what I hate and I am what I love. I am the trembling of a scared hand, and the rapid beating of a loving heart. I am a word that thrived to be brief but ended up being obscure. I am the light, I am the darkness, and my life is my journey from one to the other. I am the impossible, I am the uncalculated, and I am the unpredictable knock on the door when needed. I am that feeling that I can’t label or name, that very little unknown that effectively and smoothly takes me on a journey to chase the endless stretch of creation … I am whatever I believe I am. I am the logic that you follow but I am also the ungraspable. I am … my own imagination, and I am the knowledge that feeds it, and I will be … whatever we will be.
Perhaps I may not make perfect sense, but remember that “perfect”, “sense” and even “sensibility” are simply states of the mind.
“To be is to do” – Socrates
“To do is to be” – Sartre
Then, why not? :)
One day, the great German philosopher Schopenhauer went out for a walk, as he was walking aimlessly around the neighborhood deeply thinking of the questions and the matters that bothered him he ended up sitting in someone’s front yard, too afraid to confront that seemingly crazy man on his front yard the owner of the house calls the police. When the police officer approaches the philosopher he asks him: “Who are you?” the man looks the officer in the face and says “Son, if you can give me an answer to that question … I will be forever grateful”.
I am human; I am my own flesh and blood. I am what I do and what I don’t do. I am made of those accumulating mistakes. I am a smile and I am a tear, and was born when the two met. I am the food that I eat and I am the people that I love. I am my given name, and I drag my nicknames too. I am my age, even if I do not act like it or sound like it. I am my height but it is not my limit. I am what I study at school but I am not what the books say. And I am all that … but, that… is not enough.
I am the wind that sizzles the leaves on a spring morning. I am that thought that ran through my tireless mind day and night, I am what I hate and I am what I love. I am the trembling of a scared hand, and the rapid beating of a loving heart. I am a word that thrived to be brief but ended up being obscure. I am the light, I am the darkness, and my life is my journey from one to the other. I am the impossible, I am the uncalculated, and I am the unpredictable knock on the door when needed. I am that feeling that I can’t label or name, that very little unknown that effectively and smoothly takes me on a journey to chase the endless stretch of creation … I am whatever I believe I am. I am the logic that you follow but I am also the ungraspable. I am … my own imagination, and I am the knowledge that feeds it, and I will be … whatever we will be.
Perhaps I may not make perfect sense, but remember that “perfect”, “sense” and even “sensibility” are simply states of the mind.
“To be is to do” – Socrates
“To do is to be” – Sartre
Then, why not? :)
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Not my mirror, yet my problem
It’s been ages since I wrote anything, absolutely ANYTHING. I was starting to worry about my verbal abilities for some time. I guess I was too pre-occupied with what has been going on in my head and on the grounds. Paying attention (excessive attention) to making swift, efficient, and solid decisions and perfecting the process of it distracted my heavily burdened mind from reflecting on the issues I face and trying to humor the beauty of their essence and eventually gently, and with crafted simplicity dissect the philosophy of such a problem and thus obtain a master-level-crafted solution. Too much thinking and too little realization, too much education and too little learning, but the worst of all is having too many thoughts, yet … too little ideas. Time is man’s greatest enemy; however one’s eyes are their worst enemy. Time will outrun you, it will not miss a chance to leave you in your sleep and sprint past your anchored lingering dreams, but time will NEVER give you away … but your eyes will.
Let us not talk about the treason eyes can commit and focus on another parallel and equally important function of the eyes; mirroring. Brown, Hazel, Green, Blue, or undetermined there are sometimes where the color of the eyes is as meaningless as the life they see, and as irrelevant as the thoughts that hover behind them. Eyes may betray but they never lie, they may look gentle but the reality they usually reflect is far from that, but in order to understand what they are trying to say you need to speak their language and master their dialect. Being an unusual creation in a usually unfathomable world the language of the eyes can best be described as silence. Yes, silence is a language by itself. In fact, the most important and the most complex language to learn is silence, for before words ever existed … silence once prevailed. Silence is timeless and is always relevant, you cannot misspell its syllables but you may misinterpret them because of course you haven’t learned it right. Silence is universal and is never mutually exclusive, you may not be able to hear someone when others are talking and suddenly all channels of communication are clogged if more than one mouth utters any words, but no matter how many eyes are gazing wide open showering the scenery with statements waiting to be fished and read, no hindering of reception will be encountered.
Words are useless, am sure even these very words are, no matter how gazed out your eyes are … no interruption to the verbal currents will occur. Since eyes never lie, we can be sure that whatever comes from the barer of these eyes is an absolute truth a reflection of a processed notion captured through the pupils, processed by the brain and presented via the mysterious language of silence with every line, circle and ellipse forming those eyes … especially those blue glassy yet flamboyant eyes. Seems cool so far but here is the catch, if our pupil’s capture, and our eyes reflect and mostly the logical analysis and processing of these notions and images is done primarily by the brain imagine just for a second if our brains fail to do so, because of course the processing phase is taken over by the minds greatest rival … the heart. BOY I can tell you it’s not ok, although it seems heavenly when read and astrologically phenomenal when realized, if and only if read properly and realized humbly.
Someone once told me that the only way to make someone fully understands is by confusing them, now that’s a fact that I fully acknowledge and simultaneously resent. Confusion is a master, that I gratefully thank for countless lessons in life but I more of prefer it at the early stages of understanding and NOT having it generously pitching in 2 months after I have made a complete and comprehensive understanding of the world I live in and made peace with my struggles and conquered some of my demons or declared truce with others. Now let’s put all these things together in a clearer way suitable for a 3rd grader. If the best way to understand is through confusion, and confusion comes from without to create itself from within, and in order to comprehend you need to embrace this confusion and let it lead you to the treasure under the huge X sign, but not all treasures are meant to be found only once, many treasures are meant to be seen and then dug back into their resting place. I have found a treasure, and no I am not buying you a new x-box 360 nor am I going to take you on a trip to the Bahamas because my treasure was that little action hero box that you once put all your memories in before you left to high school and ran back to every time life slapped you on the face, picking up old memories and experiences and reminding yourself that life has been generous enough to give us at the time a rope to which we today have tied a knot at its end and hung on. My treasure is that box you have taken along your “cool” stuff when you left home to college and forgot about while being all busy making new friends and partying hard. I have found two “little pieces of heaven” separate yet complete each other, and a whole lot of confusion rose when the two met. Some say heaven can only be found in our hearts, and whatever lives in our hearts is sure to over-look this God forsaken world through our eyes. I am very thankful, although am not sure to who or to what I should be, for all the beautiful sets of eyes through which I saw my city and our lives through that captured our reality, mixed them with their understanding of our simple dreams and processed them with their eager minds and reflected them beautifully through their words and more importantly their silence? Or to the only two blue eyes that never ceased to shoot at mine with gushes of indecipherable yet heavenly silent conversations that loudly echoed in my mind and heart. I guess the best way to solve this dilemma is by parallel processing, where the mind does what it can do, and heart does what it does best … confuse you. Perhaps, those mirrors were not mine, but I am sure that whatever they reflected were my problems, and for that … I am forever grateful. THANK YOU.
To be continued …
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