Hope and Help in Egypt

June: 25-26 (six months after #Jan25)

The anxiety of what a trip to Egypt would be like now--in a post-revolutionary era, at a time where Egyptians of all backgrounds, ages, religions, classes stood together to demand better living conditions--set in when I first realized that I would be traveling to Egypt for work. I had never been to Egypt before and while I have traveled to many parts of the world, I've never traveled internationally on the behalf of an organization. 

Myself and Ridwan have joined several colleagues to see first-hand how our organization's programs continue to help improve the living conditions for Egyptians throughout the country. When we first exited the airport late night June 25, we both took a deep gulp of Egyptian breeze and almost simultaneously said, "This feels like when I go home" (home for me being Palestine and for Ridwan being Syria). Tonight, Umm il Dunya resonated with both of us as just that.

The Egyptian night breeze, the hustle and bustle of honking horns and jay-walking pedestrians--feels so beautifully familiar, yet, also surreal. I told Mohammed, who picked us up from the airport, that I had been glued to a TV-screen for months watching the people in Tahrir Square and "That's the Egyptian Museum!" and "Now, we're driving on the Oct. 6 Bridge!"

I asked Mohammed, who also works with the Egyptian affiliate of our organization, how now is different than then--before the revolution started on Jan. 25. Quite simply, he said, we are now comfortable in mind and we have hope. He assured me that Egyptians are not disillusioned and do not think that everything is fixed and perfect. They know and we know there is much to do--and our organization's programs that we are preparing to see in the following days are evidence of that. But, overall, there is a pure, comfortable hope that progress is being and will soon be made.

Ahmed, an extremely accommodating hotel host, offered a similar note, as he helped us secure our rooms for the night--he said that relief organizations were seemingly strengthening their programs here and visiting more often to help more. He had heard the name of our organization a lot in the past few days, and he was happy to welcome more of its staff.  

Now, settled in for the evening, I look out at the Cairo night at 2:15 am July 26...I see the hilal hanging in the sky and I ask ALLAH (swt) to watch over and protect Ridwan, Mohammed, Ahmed and everyone I interact with during my time here; I ask for the protection of all of the community who supports our programs in Egypt and elsewhere; I pray for the protection of all of the wonderful Egyptians who work in the field with or receive assistance from our organization--I pray and feel the Cairo night pulsing with horns and hope. 

Insha'Allah, I'll keep you posted on more news from Egypt in coming days. May ALLAH (swt) accept your good deeds always, and may all of Egypt's warm, welcoming and good people sleep a sound and hope-filled night.  

Tisba7o 3ala khair.

حر أنا

I haven't written in a while ....

SEMI-SCRATCH THAT

I've written A LOT in this while ...

but I haven't written ME.

I've been neglecting myself.

And, so, I'm giving myself this space to ramble.

حر أنا

Yet, I find myself wordless ...

and brain tried (and tired).

I'm worn in a variety of ways ....

And inspired in so many others ...

I love my new tri-ring ...

And the potential that encircles it.

حر أنا

But I sometimes wish that I didn't have hopes ...

... or believe in fate or people.

I can't say that I've been disappointed ...

... for I never fully allowed myself to trust and rely on anyone

And I learned early on that any disappointment I felt would be my own to own.

I do not force or blame others.

حر أنا

Because if I was idiotic enough to think someone else would do something well ...

... well

then, I was the idiot and had only myself to be disappointed with.

He sure is a disappointment.

But only because I allowed him to be ...

... because I made a jester into a king when he was only ever meant to be the former.

حر أنا

It was my choice.

It is my choice.

And despite my hesitations and reservations ...

... and the pensive twisting of my tri-ring 

... I'm going to allow the king who is making himself a jester just to entertain me

in

حر أنا

Because, regardless of my self-inflicted disappointments ...

 ... and my wishes for the otherwise

... I do believe in fate and people.

Because, regardless of the forced indifference ...

.... and my wishes for the truth of it ...

I'm not indifferent.

حر أنا

I am who I am ...

...and he is who he is ...

... and we'll see where fate and belief take us.

حر احنا

TEDx Ramallah

They are scared of us because we are not scared of them; they oppress us because they know our potential--for we achieve despite their chains; we lead despite their denials ||| WE ARE FALASTEEN & WE ROCK! #TEDxRamallah

I drove in Palestine

I hate not having my car: it's my car, and I want to drive it--not another's, not my father's.

But sometimes I must, and yesterday was one of those times--it was also the first day of my new era.

Yesterday was the first of a series of days, of weeks, of months, and perhaps, of years, that may not include my regular Palestine summer vacation.

That's a thought I can hardly bare to think, but I think of it often...

...and I thought about it as I sat in my father's driver's seat, put on my seatbelt, and looked for a CD to replace the missing iPhone connection that remained in my car which remained at the shop.

I opted against Om Kalthoum and the 'O Brother, Where Art Thou?" soundtrack, and slid a copied CD into its slot.

"Allaaaaaaaaaaaahu Akbar. Allaah aaaaaah ahhhhuuuuu Akbar!" 

But this was not a Qur'anic recitation.

This was, he was Saba7 Fakhri,

and he is one of my father's favorites.

And his is one of the CDs I always listen to when driving the silver Highlander.

Saba7 stirred up a whirlwind of Arabesque, confined within four doors, windows, an exposed sunroof, and a redheaded driver--especially within the driver; within me.

I felt Palestine, for Palestine is how Arabesque and Arab-ness feels to me. 

I felt Palestine as it was when Saba7 was a Syrian voice blistering a Beitilu radio's speakers with its pitch and reverberation, and my dad was a tike confined to fields, olive trees, naivety, and occupation.

I saw Palestine as my periphery caught quick glimpses of Hatim's paperwork and his comb and his cologne. The Japanese car, made in America, was very much my dad's, and my dad is very much Palestine for me. 

I am very much my dad's.

I drove, watching the road, but seeing the streets that wind from the coast to the city, through a piece of earth that is holy and haunted; a place that hurts and heals me.

Hearing Saba7 hurt me yesterday, and made me tear, as I'm tearing now. Saba7 is an era that I can never know. He was alive when Palestine still was.

Palestine still is...

Palestine is Mohammed Yousef Darwish El-Khatib and Fatima Yousef Darwish El-Khatib Il Shamali, and as they are now hugged in earth, they are Palestine too. [Allah yir7amkom]

Palestine is Majdulena at Dar il Tifl before Miral ever was.

Palestine is Hatim listening to the radio...

...and Hatim and Majdulena and Fatima and Mohammed are me.

And, when I drive Hatim's car, I drive in a memory that was set for me before I ever set foot on earth, or on pedal.

And I feel Palestine wrap the warmth and strength of Saba7's voice around me to tell me, "Allah ma3ik. Drive forth. You will always find me here...

...in Hatim's car and in your heart."

Revolutionary kitsch

Leila Khaled has become a t-shirt. 

But she is not a t-shirt, she is a person with a story much more colorful than the greens and whites and hues and shadows used in the depiction of her on the cotton canvas. 

Leila Khaled is a revolutionary, made of blood, sweat, and tears, but not thread.

Revolutionary Me is a design company that silk-screened Leila's face on a t-shirt.

When asked who Leila Khaled was, Revolutionary Me said, "I don't know, but I designed it."

I celebrate revolutionaries, and work to share and spread their stories. I would be the first one to don a t-shirt with Leila's image on it so that I would get asked, and then would answer. 


But THAT is the responsibility that should be borne by the designer and the wearer--know who you are "designing" and wearing.


Kitschy consumer mass produced imagery turned artistic under the guise of Andy Warhol. And, at least for some of us, because of him, Campbell's soup cans are not just containers for drinkable food, and tin is not just material that is melded into that container. And, at least for some of us, because of Warhol, Marilyn Monroe is not Norma Jeane Mortenson--she is a series of pouty lips, blonde waves, and a mole, commercialized and reproduced in your choice of colors. Yet, because Andy pointed out what Marilyn's celebrity stole from Norma Jeane, we were exposed to poor Norma Jeane's vulnerability, and how she shriveled and died under the spotlight--the same spotlight that ultimately murdered Marilyn. Andy's was a commentary on this very commoditization, whether via soup can or celebrity.


Che Guevara did not hold soup or sing breathy renditions of "Happy Birthday Mr. President," but his beret and brown/black waves are just as popular and reproduced as Marilyn's. Actually, his portrait has been deemed "the most famous photograph in the world." So, maybe his image is even more kitsch.


But is HE? 


Is a revolutionary, like Leila or Che, created for public consumption, like a soup can or a celebrity? Well, in many capacities, I guess she and he and they are. After all, if a revolutionary is not popular and followed, the revolution he or she is advocating won't gain much traction. So, a t-shirt, promoting a revolutionary's position would serve to increase the following (posthumously in Che's case).


If we were to flip this, perhaps we could also argue that wearing a shirt with Marilyn on it requires just as much responsibility as one with Che would require. Wearing that shirt makes you Marilyn's promoter. You promote her "normal" life turned scandalous turned deadly and all that her decades held.


But Norma Jean designed herself into Marilyn Monroe into a commodity intentionally and for financial profit. Leila and Che did not. 


Leila and Che did not "design" their commodification--they stood for something on the solid ground of it being what they believed in--period. They did not manufacture t-shirts to sell their revolutions--that was done sans their permission.


And, here we are, back to the original point of this post: know what or who you are promoting when you wear someone's face on your chest. And demand that fools who claim they've "designed" or "created" a revolutionary take their ignorant blinders off. 


"Revolutionary Me" has proven itself to be kitsch sans the art of revolution. It's proven itself NOT to be the educational and fashionable and change-driving organization that it claims to be--that it could've been. 


"Revolutionary Me" is a wasted opportunity that Andy would've shunned as unartistic and unfortunate and kinda kitsch-less--for it makes no comment on culture or society because it does not have the wit or smarts or the genuine sexiness to do so. "Revolutionary Me" has bastardized revolution and revolutionaries into a for-profit enterprise--something Leila and Che would revolt against.


"Revolutionary Me" is neither rebellious nor with cause. 


And I hope its threads unravel and its colors bleed away, before the "designer" sees a photograph of Mohamed Bouazizi, and exploits him and the revolutions he sparked, claiming to have "designed" them too. 


I hope "Revolutionary Me" is exposed it for what it is--a poser that hopes to be fashionable but is instead devoid of it.

Il wara2a

She lay, crinkled and weathered and light, on the top of the heap.
Her new home: the dirt mound...
...guarded by two twisted olive trees, taller than assumed, for juthoorhom originated in cracked seeds centuries below the surface.

Il wara2a folded-in her right corner, an origami wind-breaker to guard the diagonal from the gust of hawa that blew furiously over and through the hilltop; the sister-breeze was the one who brought her here, and she didn't want the brother to take her away.

She bore the marks of a lack of direction, tattooed with pencil and scarred with eraser.
But it wasn't her fault.

She was born crisp and clean and proud, bleached with boundlessness and starched with purpose.
She was il wara2a, a canvas for creation.

And the olive trees smiled at her, lovingly and somberly, for they knew asilha and they teared at her fate. And they vowed to protect her, so long as she remained on the earth at the base of their trunks.

The sun beamed her brightest, and il wara2a caught her glow within the folds that held the holes the opened to folds below.
And the sun penetrated and bleached her white whiter with golden hue and heat.

But it hurt. It hurt as a salt-rub against raw pulp, where roots were still stringy and organic and moist with earth, and not yet bonded and jaded and dry.

The hawa blew and the trees bowed and shaded il wara2a from the harsh sun.

And she sighed paper-tossing-across-earth with relief. But forgetting is a blessing bestowed upon humans, not upon trees and their progeny, so the scent of the singe of new freckles would remain with her forever.

3adee--she was accustomed to abuse.

Il wara2a stretched out her corners with voracity, and "chehhhhhh"ed forcefully to undo what had been done to her by man and time and sun.

And she ripped her own right corner off, now forever undone,
and without an origami sheath to shield her from impending winds.

With sullen glance she peaked out through her ink blots and saw the majestic and mature olive trees ranks above. She stretched a bit more, but gentler now, as a still-sleeping newborn cradled in the arms of her mother--not aware of her motion but proceeding because of organic necessity.

And she stared at the familiar strangers, creating a two-tree canopy of leaf and zaytoon above.
She felt protected, and stripped of abuse.
She felt rejuvenated and relaxed and calmly confused.

The right shajara bowed her head to catch a leaf between the rock and 2aneenat cola that lay next to il wara2a. She pulled back with might, plucking out a piece of her life...

...so that the wara2a would know hers.

The hawa downshifted to naseem, and tip-tapped the leaf to il wara2a, so she could embrace her kin, her past.

The wara2a wrinkled with remembrance--she knew 3ala tool the patterns of veins, and could trace them even before they tickled her top sheet.

Then, she relaxed and embraced her long-lost ancestor. She folded her remaining three corners and her right stub onto herself, and held the leaf in--a hug between missing relatives who had just found each other.

And it began to rain.

The shitta dropped in dollops, and hole-punched the reinforced wara2a, still holding her leaf. The harder the pound, the stronger the bond.

She held on as she began to bleed blue ink, and slowly and chemically began to change state.

drip, drip, drip, drop

The four corners had dissolved into her center, and the leaf was now her new spine.

Il wara2a withstood and felt and could not tanish any bead of water that beat her deeper into the mound of dirt.

Il shajar did their bests to interlock their leaves, layering a canopy above il wara2a, but the leaves of the zaytoon trees are slender and could not provide enough coverage.

They watched as il wara2a dissolved into shreds of awra2 that melted away exposing the leaf-spine. The shreds dissolved into confetti that freckled the dirt wet-white...

...until finally, il wara2a, il awra2, by the beat of the rain, had returned to asilha, and drained centuries down the dirt, riding the juthoor, to the cracked seed...

...filling each half with herself and mache-ing the parts back to whole. Il wara2a was in the earth at the base of their trunks--and there she'd remain, protected.

The rain stopped, the sun glistened off the beads on the zaytoon leaves, and the hawa blew the shajar dry...

...and blew another sheet off the spiral daftar and onto the dirt mound.

Staircase summer

It was circa 6 AM, Palestine Shari3 Al Khala time.

I tied my shoelaces, and lifted off my temporary twin bed. I grabbed my billaphone and my iPhone, and made my way out the door and around the left to the kitchen.

I figured "Sitti" would be in there, shuffling through yesterday's groceries in the refrigerator or washing dishes. And she was.

She figured I would be up soon to go "tarid". And I was.

"Kont bidee asa7eekee bes fakrt, 'khaleeha tnaam.'" She always said that.

I kissed her "deeree balik," and headed out the kitchen door, dodging the hanging, drying laundry; and un-noseily floating passed the awakening windows of the neighbors' living room; climbing up the broken stairs, passed the "shajar-house" and shajrt il lemon.

At the border of the street corner, I started to prepare myself for my inaugural "daraj" run, and used that focus to lose focus of the drive-by starers who simultaneously wonder and figure that this redhead girl must be a Palestinian visiting from Amreeka, and coming from dar il Shamali. And I continued up, toward il Mutala3.

I left Samear sleeping: ***Let him sleep. Those boys have been staying up pretty late, and this is his vacation. Let him stay sunk into takhto, ta7t il Falasteenee farsha wl i7ram, u bayn a7lam that now likely include Palestinian girls and land and trees and "shajar-houses."***

This was my run anyway--the daraj were mine--this sunrise is mine--a wakening At-Tur is me.

I arrived.

The daraj had left.

I stood, stunned on the former first/sixtieth stair, and stared.

I looked beyond at the Israeli flag that marked the Israeli company that was based at the bottom of the staircase. I looked beyond at Falasteen, at the highway to the right of me, and the Golden Dome shimmering in the now-risen sun and beckoning pilgrims, tourists, innocents, and evils toward her city.

Standing, I stared. Seated, I stared.

I attempted to start a make-shift, new-formed daraj run, but to no avail. Even if the first 10 were there, the subsequent sets were not. And this was not a roll-in-the-dirt exercise. I was there to descend and climb.

My heart sunk: "Yakhsara."

I turned around, sideswiping the parked cars and tourist bus that were still sleeping in the parking lot. I walked up with heavy step passed the lion insignia and toward the bend, staring at the forests and lands before me as I shifted toward the right. I greeted the lamp poles with a swing, as I treaded on the narrow side pocket which held dirt and rocks and trash and settlements of grass.

I was at il Mutala3, and I started down the hill, exchanging smiles with some of the women and girls, now awake, and going somewhere. I kept focus off the drive-by starers who had seen me before and still wondered. I cut the corner by Duko's store, and hop-walked down the white sidewalk on the right side of the street. I descended the stairs passed Aunti Layla's house and the lemon trees and the "shajar-house" and the make-shift playground, and the single step that caught those unfamiliar and unfamilial off-guard. I walked passed the stirring salon and the mostly-dried laundry, and I opened the screen door to an empty kitchen. Well, almost empty--the jelly was there waiting for me to put it away.

"Meeeeeeeen?!?!?!" I didn't respond. "MEEEEEEEEEEN 3al bab?!"

"Ana, ana."

"Ya3?! Taradti, khalasti?"

"La. Hadoo il daraj. Daraji ra7. Ishee bikhzee."

"U laysh?"

"Ba3rfsh, shikilhom bidhom ybano daraj jdeed."

And there my annoyances and I plopped, next to il Shamaleeya, who was counting the beads on her masba7a and saying quick prayers on every one, interrupting herself to tell me a story or to ask me about Samear or to tell me to eat kirshela or notifying me again about the secret ma3mol basket in the stand-alone closet in her room or telling me, "kaman shway, immik, Majeeeeda b ttsl."

And I stared out from il shubak 3a Shari3 il Khala: I frowned that my Palestine summers would never be the same.

I looked back at il Shamaleeya, lit by the 7 AM sun, and I smiled that my Palestine summers were staring back at me and, in between beaded prayers, sneakily winking and spiriting, "the less the staircases, the more of you for me." Her eyes hugged me with laughter on the left and history on the right, and whispered, "you'll be alright."

"Roo7ee fay2ee Samear, khalee yakol." She always said that.

***Allah yir7amik ya 7abibtna ya mukhtara ya sayf Falasteen, ya Shamaleeya***