A personal Pandora

It shouldn't be surprising that Pandora is familiar to me--it's easy to see how Palestine-esque it is...at least for me.

The vision I had today, a day after seeing the film, "AVATAR," was of me, kazdar-ing along Shari3 il Khala, making my way to the phonetical Il Entar [formerly the InterContinental, now Seven Arches], from where the holy world glistens in gold divinity and stretches its wary and stressed appendages before me and my companions--ready to invite us in, despite the turmoil that tugs and tears at it. It carries on in spite of it all, like any Palestinian woman, mother, or combination of the two--like Mo'at.

The vision appeared in my eyes' theater at the beck-and-call of Fadel Shaker, who was singing about the impossibility of forgetting his beloved. There is no particular connection between this song and the memories of those nightly walks--but the inspiration happened nonetheless. And it shouldn't be surprising.

A second vision places me mid-trek at the site of my make-shift playground/obstacle course: il daraj jamb il Mormon. I hear my heavy breath as I stare at the line of intruders, interrupting my run and my peace--tourists, coming to see "Israel" but leaving their footprints on Palestinian earth. "This, this is our land!!," I silently yelled at them. I hissed at them too...I'm sure I did, just like Neytiri. But they never saw my facial features widen or snarl. If they saw anything of me, it was my impatient, furrowed brow waiting for them to leave--or my red T-shirt, covering my billaphone and iPhone, and resting on the rock farther down the stairs. There were remnants of me all over those stairs and that dust and those stones—even the butterflies came to recognize me; the stains of the invaders would be swept away under a few more of my running steps—and my marks would be pressed into the land again and again, today and tomorrow, next week and next year.

But even I am not there always; even I am a visitor who lays claim for as long as she can but can't for very long. Myself in my memories is my AVATAR in my PANDORA...

...Until I make that final transition, and return my dust and energy to the place from where they were borrowed. That time will come, and I hope it will be surprising.

You don't know what it's like to be me looking at us.

I see us.

From the backs of the rounds that control my vision, an image reflects off the optical mirrors that Allah placed inside my sockets: It's you and me; it's an illusion of an allusion.

We're in a fantastic place. We're alone--save a boulder that supports my back and the hawa that holds you up with the palm of her hand.

This is our place--this is the only place where our lost love is able to be found. No demons or thieves can steal it from here. You are mine again, and mine alone. I am yours here, but I've always been everywhere else too.

It's you and me and the boulder and hawa. And it's hawa--amorous and organic and musical.

I feel every note of it in the pads of each of your fingertips as they caress my cheek--it soothes and burns all at once. You radiate your freedom to me here, a freedom that you have denied and kept from me for these past years. My face flushes and new freckles form from your glow.

You smile. My soul gasps for breath, grabbing that life.

I knew it! I've known it! I've always felt that it was still there, in the depths of your soul; scorched into the crevices of this boulder. This faith-rock holds me up to face you, and does not allow me to forget and let go.

My heart has seen your face like this every third minute of every day that I have lived in a state of awareness and wariness of love.

And it is wretched how much I love. It's a pain that I wish I didn't earn from you.

But in this illusion of an allusion--I see that you've earned it from me too.

I don't want us to leave this fantastic place. So I tear, and, thus, tear the illusion of you and me and the boulder and the hawa into my pupils. And I relinquish the rest of me to a life with closed lids so this can never be interrupted by another sight.

I see us--and I will never see anything else again.

A muse maktoob

I believe that everything has its place and its time and its significance.

An hour ago, that belief was exemplified.

I had, for several days, let the MP3 icon for Muse simmer on my desktop--untouched for no particular reason except maybe a lack of desire to listen.

An hour ago, I stared at that icon and had a completely unrelated thought: I thought about how I hadn't written anything in more than 30 days--and I thought about how I had changed during that time--I was not the same woman who had written that last post in early November.

...During those 30 days, I had pulled the knife out of my side--the one that, by my own hand, had been piercing and twisting and tearing me for several years now--wiped off the blood, spit-shined it clean, took a look at my reflection in its blade, winked, and tossed it to the curb...

But it seemed my new-found [dare I say it?!] happiness had also ripped out my inspiration.

That realization behind me, I finally double-clicked the Muse icon hoping for a new kind of inspiration. My subsequent realization: the name of Muse's song is "Feeling Good."

Muse to Reem: "Freedom is mine...it's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life...for me."

"Of course," I snickered, looking down at my freshly-polished shimmering blood-red nail, "there was no other day for this ear penetration to take place. Today was when it was supposed to happen all along."

Kol shee ilo waqto; kol shee maktoob.

:)feeling.good

Ramblings void of sleep

Sleep is impossible right now; it has been so for the past several hours actually.

And just before I decided to start writing this, my internal voices had been debating about whether I had the energy to get up, wrap my mind around some thoughts, and jot them down on this virtual notepad.

As I type, I wonder if the "do" argument really won, or if I'm going to conk and zonk out soon, perhaps mid-sentence...

...but I continue for now.

While my mind's minds were having a back-and-forth about the future, the tips of the fingernails on my left hand were gently skimming my shin, attempting to soothe me to sleep. But, my eyes were wandering around the room--dark, except for a whitish-blue glow emanating from the virtual notepad vessel, my computer--and refusing to allow the rest of me to be lulled into the fourth and R.E.M phases.

And I saw and heard my thoughts bouncing in front of me, like the ball that guides a karaoke singer through her song. And they were set against a chorus of "let it be, let it be, let it be...forget about him...don't you shed a tear...memories will fade away," sung by Shooma and written by Ihsen Da Sole. It was inevitable that the song would become etched in my head, listening to it as many times as I have since receiving it.

As it repeated in my background, my brain churned away in the foreground. I stared at the hangings on my wall: the runner that Ropina had given me during my 2007 trip to Palestine, the bullet-ridden targets signed by my shooting-range crew, the prayers rugs that intersect and complement each other--I paused here, and thought about how I hadn't prayed maghrib or 3isha, and debated whether I should use my awake-ness to do so now, realizing all along that I wasn't going to: my love and appreciation for Allah has never wavered but my focus during the movements of salah sometimes does, and I knew I would not be able to focus now. But I continued to think about it, because of guilt.

I looked at the clock--only six minutes had passed since the last check, and I thought, "Akkh, ya Allah, four more hours to go."

Now, I was hearing the "thought I lost you, in the darkness, of a lonely night...never let you go" of Interstate's "I found you," and I thought, "I wish he could act like a Libra sometimes," and I debated whether I should use my awake-ness to log onto Facebook to see who else was not sleeping and whether they had notified me of something during the hours that I had been logged off.

"No, I don't want to be found right now."

With the base of my skull cushioned by my pillow, I tilted my head toward the back--my eyes reaching for the whitish-blue radiation of my computer screen, "That is why I had also not been logged into my instant messaging programs--I want to be lost and inaccessible."

I thought about how I was as dazed and confused as the players in that movie, which I had seen before the stroke of 12 and before the TV turned off...Matthew McConaughey's character "loved red heads." But that was no comfort: he was a loser in that film. I was still bored and tired and annoyed--only four more minutes had passed.

"Uff..."

I stretched both of my legs out, locked them together, and lifted them to a pike, attempting to straighten them as much as possible; I felt the resistance of my hamstrings: "how unsymmetrical?!" So, I pinned back certain parts, trying to refashion them into something more "normal." I decided to just be thankful that they function. They did get me through the kickboxing class, where he called me "beautiful," and flirted that I would be able to do some damage in the ring. I saw the gym: rows of heavy bags, waiting for punches of stress and kicks of frustration to pound them into senselessness. The bags were symmetrical as were their rows, except when interrupted by a weighted swing.

I found my eyes had shut, but my brain was still working, and I still was not sleeping--"why am I lying to myself?" I opened them.

And, I stood up and stared at my bed, then the clock, then the computer (had a camera been watching me, I may have resembled the chick in "Paranormal Activity"). With pangs of hunger in my stomach and a swelling of thoughts in my head, I walked toward the whitish-blue light.

I sat on my stability ball, squeezing it with my bent legs to force stability and levity, and started to type the thoughts that had been streaming inside during the past several hours of unstable sleep.

And here I've been: "Ya Allah, two more hours to go."

I'm going to sleep.

My favorite kind of fenan

"What is wrong with this watch? It goes slack when I watch. It goes fast when I don't care-less..."

He wrote, "It goes slack when I watch," and, as I read that line, I got that tingle in the small of my back--the one that I get when something grabs my bones and shakes them until the vibrations hit my soul. It's a rare feeling but one that is often triggered by song.

In that instant during our instant messenger conversation, Ihsen Da Sole went from talented musician and singer, and all-around cool guy, to intelligent lyricist--my favorite kind of fenan.

I had heard his track, "Beef," before, and it sounded good. Its melodies flowed and fit well into the scheme of my music collection. I liked it, and then I left it alone.

Today, "Beef" took on a new life. Ihsen pulled out the words for me, separating them from the beat and the background and even from the title. And standing alone, fending for themselves against a blank canvas in an instant messenger window, they were simultaneously stark and soulfull.

I don't think Ihsen realized what reading those words, that line--"it goes slack when I watch"--was doing to me...at least not until I told him, "That's it! I have to write about you tonight."

In "Beef," Ihsen tells you about his struggle with time, a war that is so ordinary that an unattentive audience may just nod and sing along robotically. I urge you to pay attention; to stand on the battle field in the aftermath, when it is silent and still. There, you will find the most basic, commonsense, beautiful, complex description of a mundane moment that everyone experiences but forcibly ignores. And the words smack you in the face and you will be forced to face them. Then, you will hear that Ihsen is singing for you too.

These are the gems of music--the hidden trinkets that are discovered with each pump up of the volume, allowing for deeper excavation. These make music exciting to me. To me, an intelligent lyricist is someone who rhymes an experience that you know but have never before put into organized words. And that sensation transforms a song into a life soundtrack. I know now that I will think of "it goes slack when I watch" while I'm watching life tic-tock away on the clock on my work computer.

Ihsen's music is full of other such diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and black onyxes that surely emerge from his daily life: but nevermind that he produces Hip Hop shows from beginning to end to showcase the talents of Afrock; nevermind that he brings sophistication and maturity to the game with a classy style and a smooth sound that can still be tough when it needs to be; nevermind that he represents the soul of Tunisia with every spit and verse that he delivers in English; nevermind that he favors soul music in this phase of his life; nevermind that he is one of the hardest-working men in his hood and he's only 25; nevermind that he eats salty fish with his fellow countrymen on il 3eed; nevermind all of those details that have brought this lyricist to the place he exists in today--to the talent that he has evolved into in this era of his life; nevermind that he is looking at a future that will certainly be bright but that is a mystery right now.

Nevermind all of those things--because you will realize you know it all when you hear him sing it to you in that one gem verse.

***You may still be fighting your war with time, ya Ihsen, but those battles are creating your creativity, and

you are making some timeless music, my friend. Masha'Allah.***

Pine Wood

I walk toward the gates...

...I halt, look around--wait.

"Why have I not been stopped...

...by a 7aris or Palestinian cop?"

Shrugging my shoulders, I proceed without a care...

...ready to find out if he really has a pair.

I sprint stealthily down the lamp-lit path directly to the beige doors...

...I pause, just a centi before.

But it is not for fear or thought or second-guess...

...I am ready to put him to the test.

And with the spirits of Palestinian shuhada' at my back...

...I fling the gates open with strength that makes them crack.

But it doesn't startle Abu Mazen who is sitting on a money sack.

"You," I whisper. "YOU!" I shout...

...And I grab my 7andala necklace to clear my mind, which has begun to cloud.

I walk with a forward lean and fury...

...knowing that the shuhada' are on my side; my jury.

"You have sold your people for that wretched green..."

...I simultaneously wonder why I haven't yet been arrested for starting this scene (??).

I point my middle finger at him as I approach...

...because he doesn't deserve the dignity of a tashahud index finger reproach.

"You dress your son--not Mazen, the other one--in the latest American fashion...

...I've seen him at ZAN, peering at the girls with his Nike cap on."

"And in your other pocket are the shekels and pennies from your Israeli and American masters...

...In that pocket is your reservation to dine with those bastards..."

"...on the flesh and the bones and the blood of Palestinians..."

"....to gorge your fat bellies fatter on the marrow of dead millions."

A centi now separates me from Abu M...

...but not a flinch; nor a breath; nor a warmth surrounds him.

"You..." I grit my teeth and snarl...

...but perplexed, see his face is gnarled.

"YOU!!!" I shout again, and spit in his eye...

...Nothing. No reaction. I say to myself, "Is that dye?"

I wipe the darkened saliva from his vapid face...

...and upon touch realize why 3abbas has no grace.

He is soulless and made of wood...

...not from Palestinian olive tree branches but from pines grown in an American hood.

I am overcome but not completely surprised...

"We have always known, haven't we? Geppetto has been puppeteering our plight. To this, Palestinians were wise."

I pull on my 7andala chain, and swing it left and right...

....pendulate once more and follow with a punch to the puppet's cheek; full of my might.

An alarm goes off: "Finally..sheeesh!" I sigh...

..."No security before because a puppet can't die."

I step backwards twice, then turn to see the Ramallah moon...

..."To think, your milky glow has even touched this fake bafoon."

I march quickly toward the exit and the Palestinian night air...

...Gliding on the breeze of the shuhada' still there.

I step out of that marrionette theater with my right foot first...

...grip the remnants of the entrance...

...and look back at the punctured pine-wood nothing, still propped up on its purse.

And knowing that, once Abu M is confirmed as khashab publicly...

...and the disgrace of Israel and America will be made for all to see...

...the Palestinians will rise and will finally be free.

I smile my first real smile, and shout with glee...

"La teez teezee! Inta mish ra'eesee!"

For the last time, I turn my back to the puppet, and, with 7andala, moon the oppressive and fucked-by-money regime...

To Palestine, I face forward and open my arms, and say, "I can stay here now..."

"...You are home for good now, Reem."

The prayer offering

"As-salama 3alaykum wa ra7mat Allah. As-salama 3alaykum wa ra7mat Allah."

She sits, cloked in prayer garb and serenity...

...but with a heavy heart.

She cups her hands to mimic angel wings...

....but draws them in to capture her psalm.

She says:

"Sub7an il Malik il Qodoos, Rubb il mala'ika wal ro7...

...ya Allah, ya 7abibi...

Thank you for blessing me with this opportunity to pray."

She looks up at the ceiling, searching for the Spirit, and envisioning God's expanse looking down at her...

...but through teary eyes, all she sees is the film of fluid and everything remains unclear.

She continues:

"Bshkorak ya Allah lal shahr il mubarak, Ramadan...

...but I'm scared now that it's over.

Evil has been re-released into the world...

...but we are celebrating 3eed?"

She looks down at her hands and feels a lump in her throat and a salty bead on her lip.

She offers this prayer:

"Ya Allah, please help us carry the spirit of Ramadan forward..

...to harvest it in our hearts and heads, and to grow it with love and purity every day.

Ya Allah, let us be kind to one another and seek out the good...

...rather that smirk and summon the evil.

Ya Allah, build our strength so that we may resist temptation...

...and turn ourselves into soldiers of spirituality."

She sits taller, and feels the tears drying on her cheek, and speaks with more confidence:

"Ya Allah, remind us that none of us can judge any other. You alone are The Judge.

Ya Allah, help us to prefer forgiveness...

...help us to prefer pulling each other up rather than pushing each other down.

Ya Allah, remind us to appreciate and say, "Al 7amdulilah..."

...and remind us to be charitable."

She closes her eyes, cups her hands closer to her face, and whispers:

"Ya Allah, please keep my parents in the warmth of your love...

...and my grandparents and my aunts and uncles and my cousins and all of their families and friends and all of my friends and their families and friends...(Allah y7fazkom jamee3kom)...

...and forgive us all.

Ya Allah, help me to be a better daughter, grandaughter, niece, cousin, family member, friend, and acquaintance to them all...

...and a better Muslim and insha'Allah a mu'mina.

Ya Allah, strengthen the spirits and iman of those who have less than us and more than us and the same as us...

...and remind us that we are all humans, not one better than the other...

...and remind us that we will leave the material world with nothing but our souls and our deeds.

Ya Allah, remind us to hoard good deeds rather than meaningless materials...

...but bless the hard-working, whose intentions are pure and sincere...(Allah ya3teekom il 3afeeya)...

...and bless us with the intelligence to follow in the example of the Prophets, may peace be upon them, to make this temporary world a better place.

Ya Allah, make this world a better place."

And just before she cradles her face with her hands, her soul speaks:

"Ya Allah, bless me with the opportunity to be a mother, to be like my mother--the love of my life--and to harvest that love in my heart and self, and to grow it with more love and purity, and release it into the world."

She continues, speaking aloud:

"...but You are Most-Wise and know better than I whether I will be fit and have been formed to take that role..."

And whispering through fresh tears, she adds:

"...and I will accept the fate that You have prescribed for me...

...and I am patient and submit to Your Will..."

And she hopes:

"Ya Allah, bless me with the opportunity to be a mother."

She wipes her face with her palms and her psalm, and she sits silently.

She knows and feels the love she has for everyone she named in her prayer (she loves them and sacrifices every ounce of herself for them. Her love for them is absolutely genuine)...

...and she tears for them and herself...

...feeling that evil will now be lurking and tugging and that it will likely be interrupting her prayers to come.

She sits taller, and responds to her fear with confidence:

"La, insha'Allah la!"

And with that, she grabs her prayer beads and recites "Allahu akbar" and "Sub7an Allah" and "Al 7amdulilah" 33 times each...

...and she feels secure and OK; she knows Allah will make everything right.

She returns the masba7a to its holding place, presses her right palm against her bed and her left palm against her leg to stand, and says:

"Ya Allah."

She smiles.

Naseem il ney

There is a breeze that passes over and through me but leaves all too quickly. I look back, searching for the soul that ran away. I look forward..."Where did the zephyr go, and when will she return?"

I continue to walk under the sun, eyes closed and arms open...waiting for her to embrace me again; to re-place me into her trance.

But she does not come.

The ney whispers in my ear his summons to the dear naseem to visit me. He pipes and pulls and prays for the wind's safe return: "Oh that you are Allah's warm, sweet breath...Come and wash over this fasting walker, dehydrated and longing for you to protect and propel her."

"ON YOUR LEFT!": I hear the cyclist's jarring warning interrupt my song. I keep to my side and stare beyond him and his hoard. "It is not you I am concerned with," I think. "Leave me and go. I only long for il hawa. She is the one I will respond to. As for you, cyclist, stay left, pass, and vanish."

I let the negative energy evaporate from me into the still air, and il ney blows his highest pitch at it, launching it to chase the cyclists and push them farther away. This release creates a holey place for my beloved breeze to travel in and out and through freely.

"Ya Allah....ya Allah," my heart beats. It too awaits its refreshment.

I continue to walk forward.

Suddenly, a tress is lifted by an invisible force, and a spirit wafts into my nostrils-larnyx-pharnyx-trachea-lungs. Il hawa granted il ney his wish, and I am the beneficiary.

The wind has fully embraced me now. She swivels with the sounds of her companion ney in a beautiful infant tornado that only I can feel and that is not mature enough to carry me away.

And then, sprinting through adulthood and racing for death, il hawa settles down and dies. Il ney and I are left to mourn--we pray for il naseem's rest and rebirth.

I open my eyes to the sights of the trail and the cyclists that pedal passed. I do not see the zephyr but I know that she is gathering herself so that she may greet me again.

"Allah ykhaleek ya ashlab Shalabi u ya3teek il 3afeeya...inta wil ney." A tress lifts up and caresses my brow. The breeze is reborn.

Today, I am...

Today, I am...

...awake at 5:53 a.m., full on cereal, peanut butter, and coffee, and now fasting but not sure whether Allah will officially accept it.

...thinking about the cancelled phone calls of the week and the surprise text message exchange about a dream that I wish was true.

...an oxymoron: filled to the brim with cynicism, anger, and melancholy, and coated in hope, fashion, and spirituality.

...hoping that the Jewish reggae artist is not a Zionist (research suggests he is not); his music is good, and it would be quite a shame if he was that stupid.

...a lover of efficient music by intelligent people.

...staring at a bulletin board of my life, and realizing that I haven't tacked much on in the past two years.

...transported by the Nescafe Red Mug label to the Ramallah market in which 3amo bought me the coffee. He has such a lovely smile, masha'Allah.

...smirking: my dad is a funny man.

...am not intimidated by others: I don't care what your title is or how much money you're worth. You have no superpowers. We are both humans and equal.

...appreciative of others' opinions.

...sure I'll break my 5-day "no workout" streak.

...something new; tomorrow, I will be too.

"I'll be the ground..."

I sat down in front of my computer hoping to write something to break my dry spell. I sat with nothing. So, I plugged in, and asked P.O.S. to inspire me via my iPhone's iPod.

And, within seconds, he told me: "Don't let them choose for you." And I thought: "I hate how everyone is trying to tell me what I should and should not eat for iftar. It's my siyam and my choice--not theirs."

"Goodbye" repeated and my thoughts continued to flow:

"If I want za3tar and 7ummos and khubiz u bes, and don't want salmon and pasta, that's my PREROGATIVE..."

"And if I don't want to go to 3azayim during Ramadan because I think they encourage gorge-fests and bother me and cause stress and take the focus away from spirituality and religion and Allah, that's my choice. Don't get offended. It has nothing to do with you or your house or the quality of your food. It's just my choice."

"And if I want to travel from VA to Jerusalem to pray in the 7aram, and buy makhloota from As-Samman, and then catch the 18 to go to Ramallah to eat Baladna Booza and visit Rajai at Venus, and then pass through Qalandiya, ride the bus passed Beit 7anina back to the bus stop behind the vendors' shops to catch the 75 to go back to Siti's house in At Tour--that's my choice, not theirs...IT'S NOT THEIRS; THEY WILL NOT CHOOSE FOR ME!"

And then the drumroll quiets into a monitoring beat which paces a mellow cadence...and it brings my pressure back down and it sucks the flush into my veins away from the surface of my cheeks and I feel my eyes blink a little slower. I rub my temples with the pads of my index finger and thumb...

Reality settles within me like a spirit from the second life renting my body to communicate a message to the living. It just needs a mouth piece and limbs to gesture with--and I'm just the vessel for this temporary employment.

The message is for me: "Reem, sometimes, the choices have already been made. Try to defy them, and your 'free will' will likely be tied with handcuffs and denied entry. What then?"

How do I choose between defiance and acquiescence when my first choice is that neither would exist? How do I choose when neither yields freedom as an option? How can I choose for myself when I am not free to be myself?

And then P.O.S. dedicates to the brave and the snake, and "to the sweat in the face of a man misplaced who finds his own lane."

A drop follows his lyric from my brow to the edge of my desk, and I see my choice swimming in the salty bead. To be without fear is to be with freedom. I will not be paranoid; I will not care about them. My lane will wind under MY stomping when and where I CHOOSE to place my footsteps.

"Never fill in the blanks/Let 'em hang in the ranks...I'll be the ground/Nobody gets me down."

And I choose to be grounded there again with a "free-range" visa. I'll be leaning against the Qudsy railing, jingling my six shekels, waiting to step on the first step of the 18...again soon. 7ur ana...that's my choice.

Red

"My red comes from my Palestinian side."

I've had to explain that more times than I can remember. I am always more than ready to explain it again--to pronounce with pride, "PALESTINIAN." Many think my red was passed to me by my Hungarian grandmother, but it was not. In my appearance, I am 100% Palestinian.

Sidi Yousef (Allah yir7amo) was my ancestral red head. Because of him, I have freckles. Like him, I have red hair. For dar El-Khatib, I am a token red-head, who stands out in the family photo--almost every Palestinian family has at least one of us. My family has several.

We--I was chosen to carry Sidi Yousef's red forward. And I carry it on my head and in my heart.

My blood is red like his was. He poured it out of himself, and siphoned it into his children, who filtered it into their children--and then flooded it into me. His red pumps the lines that bulge through the thin skin around my wrists and hands. His red pulses through that snake that climbs from my left leg's ankle, twists to my hamstring, and, trapped under a thinner layer of dermis, slivers slowly up my knee and thigh. I watch the red turn the thick, blue tunnel green as my Palestinian adrenaline gushes it through.

His red makes my heart boil and flushes my cheeks. I squeeze my hand so tightly that my nails dig into my own flesh, and my red--his red--drips down my wrist as my knuckles turn green, then black, then white.

Today, that red is stiffening a fist, and right before it meets your blue and white face, his red--my red--pulses aloud, "WATON."

Today, you see our red drowning you from inside. It bursts your vessels and chokes your throat. It streams from your nostrils, now shaded in green with a broken bridge. It crusts a deeper red over the cuts and digs now contouring your cheeks. Our red stains the white teeth left hanging in your mouth, and splatters under the formerly white teeth that were knocked out. Our red dries black onto your skull's skin--around the crack, punctured by the rock the knock out landed you on.

And as you attempt to squint up at me behind your throbbing, bleeding pupils, you see the red on my head, and I tell you, "The red comes from my Palestinian side."

The reality of a dream

I know this boy named Mohammed.

He made a journey from Gaza to the U.S. I met him when he was still a Gazawi living in Gaza. I followed him when he traveled to Egypt. And I've kept in touch with him as he has settled in the U.S.

Today, I asked him how his view of America has changed since he's actually experienced it. He doesn't like it now that he knows it.

I've often found that the "dream" of America is quite appealing to those who live outside--who are forbidden a ride in the amusement park of freedom that they consider the U.S. to be. For those who manage to get a ticket in, like Mohammed, that dream quickly atrophies into a reality that is much less attractive.

Being the charitable person I am, I spend much time breaking the fog machine, and convincing any dreamers that America is not that amusing. I've delightfully burst many fantasy bubbles.

I know this boy named Awni. He has burst those bubbles too.

Once upon a time, he made a journey from Ramallah to the U.S. He later returned to Ramallah. I met him after he had been through the U.S. experience.

We once discussed the idea of the U.S. that many Palestinians dream about. He told me this: "They think that when you arrive at the airport in the U.S., you'll have suitcases of money waiting for you"...to welcome you and help you start the process to success.

Oh what an illusion they keep in their minds! If they only lived in their dreamland, they'd realize the farce, and the dream will quickly lose its luster.

That is what this boy I know named Nasser keeps telling me--but about Ramallah. I met him in Ramallah, and he has never been anywhere else. "Reem," he tells me, "you will only like living in Ramallah until you are bitten by the reality of it." (He and others have tried to reciprocate the bubble-bursting.)

But my dream of Ramallah living is not Disneyland-ish, and there is no luster to dull. My vision includes the reality: the isolation, the 7awajiz, the chance of being stranded or beaten or arrested or denied. I do not fantasize about welcome baskets, filled with knafa and shekels, handed to me by the friendly Jewish boy and a smiling Palestinian girl couple who met in and have been trained to embody Seeds of Peace.

In fact, I make a point to dig the harsh Ramallah life realities into the crevices of my brain and my bones. And still, I dream about it, and I still want it.

You see, my dreamland Ramallah holds something that Mohammed's, Awni's, Nasser's, and other Palestinians' U.S. dreamlands can not include for them--roots.

In my dream, I'm given my right of return. My dream lets my soul settle in and sigh relief--like a worker who has finally reached home after a long day.

My dream takes my spirit back to its creation place: To the Palestine from which it was ripped before it ever got the chance to ripen--uprooted and tossed into a U.S.-based cadaver, which was greedily waiting to push out and blink first in Fairfax. In my dream, my yearning spirit is allowed to escort my body home--to feel the Beitilu wind caress my face with its gentle, olive-scented palms, like a mother embracing her long-lost child.

My dream permits my eyes to gaze upon the jbal that my father once ran toward while kicking his soccer ball; and to touch the olive trees that my grandfather once leaned against, seeking shade from the high noon sun; and to breathe the air that my great grandfather once summoned into his nostrils as he planted our waton. In my dream, I am reborn into those mountains with every step I chip-away from that earth.

Yes, my Ramallah dream is different than their U.S. dreams. My dream does not hold fantastical hopes for a money-filled future and multiple knocks of materialistic opportunities--it craves an opportunity to create priceless memories that may have otherwise described my past. My dream does not atrophy into reality--it rebuilds it.

My status

My life has been simmered down to statuses:

CURRENT FACEBOOK: Reem El-Khatib

sums up her day (so far) thusly: biological-heart shaped calf muscles; plant bite; "heeeeeloooowww" in a deep voice; stranger head nod and wave x 2; megaxe; Rita's Frozen Custard Pretzel Blendini.

CURRENT TWITTER: Callmepali included Paul van Dyk, Kelly Clarkson, Jane's Addiction, George Wassouf, & Shakira in her song list 4 the cardio-kickboxing class--sababa.

The demand by Facebook and Twitter to keep my "friends" and "followers" updated on what I am doing has taken over much of my thought process--so much so, that I find myself thinking in "status." I also find that whenever I hear or think something remotely clever, I have an urge to log on and update.

Why?

Because I need to share, so you can enjoy it and tell me so--and stroke my ego?

But I am not vane--am I?

Well, why else would callmepali want people to care about what she is doing or thinking--and more so--want them to feel that her status is interesting enough to respond?

It seems to be a subconscious cry for attention and acceptance. It's my opportunity to step into a make-shift spotlight for as many minutes, hours, or days as I'd like, without being overtly self-absorbed or causing a ruckus in a public place. It's my chance to showcase my wit, humor, charm, wisdom, and knowledge without coming off as a snob--and for you to confirm that I am witty, humorous, charming, wise, and knowledgeable. After all, I'm telling you these things because you are a "friend" or a "fan" and you signed up to know, and to read all about it.

It is also a 140-character listening and therapy session--with you as my listeners and therapists: I hint at my sadness and depression so that you can tell me it'll be OK, and to chin-up, and you can say "salamtik." I temporarily can suck your attention toward my "problems" via my status vacuum for as long as I want you to pay attention. And I can make you pity me without coming off as pitiful.

My statuses will not be likely to affect your life in any major way--but you'll likely continue to read them. And I will read yours. And we'll continue the cycle of "I'll stroke your ego, if you stroke mine." And it'll be OK and acceptable because that is what we've all signed up for.

NEW FACEBOOK: Reem El-Khatib

does not think you truly care what she is thinking right now--nor should you.

But don't you? Please respond.

Serr

I can't get that voice out of my head. And each time it repeats, it gets louder and uglier, as does my hate for it.

But no one can know about how much I hate right now--it's a secret; serr.

And so I'll remain calm on the surface, and keep my collapse inside--hidden underneath my superficial self. There it will remain mine and it will not affect anyone else.

But the voice is excruciating: her Arabic stands out against theirs and the cackling and chain smoke I hear and imagine in the background. It's very rare that I invest enough energy to hate anything--so I must keep this serr.

"Go away, and get away," I wish.

I try to drown it out with a steady stream of amplified sound through my ear buds. The voice keeps "coming around again. When it comes, it comes unannounced and it feels like a matador is taunting me with his reddest red cloth--and I am the bull," Brandon tells me (it seems he's experienced these feelings too).

His song and those that follow simultaneously supplement the cheap voice, feeding it and emphasizing it; and are challenged by it. That hideous female voice delivers a white-noise slap on the next song's noted cheek. A duel is decreed and ensues.

The gang of songs drown out the wretched pitch of her Arabic--a language I love, but hate right now. And just as it seems the melodies would be the victor in this melee, she reveals her secret weapon, her serr: his voice.

Had his voice not been there, hers would've never been heard; had he not been there, she would not be hated. Had I not heard them together, there would be no serr to write of.

His words are more lethal than hers: They lunge at the soothing songs, and twist and turn the sharp tip of their knives through the music shield, passed the core, and into my heart.

The songs surrender, and assimilate with the challengers' posse: her voice; his voice, now amplified by songs of anguish and love and heartbreak.

It's too much. I pause my iPod, and take out my ear buds, and anxiously listen for silence. I deny the tear that just as anxiously wants to stream down my cheek--I have to; I must erase any evidence of this morning battle, and keep it serr.

Lazim a tanish. It's time for coffee with mom. I sit down on the couch in the living room, give her a saba7 il khair smile, and turn on VH1.

The life and death of a Thriller

Today, we were all reminded that super stars are destined to the same fate as the rest of us humans. They are treated in life as superior, above, and beyond--never left alone, always in the spotlight. Today, Michael Jackson's body was shrouded and transported under watchful, tear-filled eyes for the last time.

There was nothing lavish about his final departure. At the end, we are all the same. And soon, he will finally be left alone and left to his fate with God.

But, in life, Michael was superior, above, and beyond. His music defined a generation and influenced many that came after him. That music will not expire. In that sense, Michael will live on.

He was a king who walked the moon and thrilled us all. His ability separated him from us but brought us together in applause and cheer. He was celestial and we were the astronomers. We and our children and their children will continue to scope him out with our telescopes. In that sense, Michael will always be a star.

In his later years, Michael came under scrutiny for different reasons. Instead of offering kudos, we pointed our fingers and wagged them in shame at him, accusing him of crimes and making fun of his appearance and naming him "Wacko Jacko." He was placed in the spotlight in the courtrooms and the Neverland ranch. Everything he did was analyzed and criticized. And when he attempted a comeback, we all scoffed and declared his day as done. His hysteria became our guilty pleasure--because when a king falls, he and we are reminded of his humanness, and he aligns with the rest of us, and it becomes our turn to raise our noses and dismiss him. In that sense, the sadness of Michael's later life will taint his legacy.

But we always wanted him to succeed. We wanted Michael--Jackson 5 Michael, "Thriller" Michael--to come back. We wanted his skin color back. We wanted his nose back. We wanted the image of the young man with the white glove and matching socks and the crotch-grab and the "owwwwwww" back. We were frightened and saddened by the surgical masks and the in-vitro kids and the forced clef in his chin. We loved Michael Jackson when he was a natural; we shunned him when he became artificial.

But we never denied him. And we remembered why today.

Today, he returned to a natural human state, and we fell in love with and in respect of him again. We listened to his songs with more enthusiasm than we've had for them in a long time--and we remembered our childhoods and the good ol' days, and we sang and smiled and belted out our "owwwwww"s.

Today, under a blanket and in a state that is the final destination all of us humans will eventually arrive at, you, Michael, became our super star again. And we are thrilled to have had you.

"May Allah be with you, Michael, always."--Jermaine Jackson

Trance

Out of my periphery I see my hands, resting on the keyboard cushion, fingers extended and grazing the keys of the board but not pressing anything. The edges of my hands and the letters on the keys become fuzzy and melt into each other--my eyes stare at this image, which becomes the gateway into my trance.

I am moved into another realm, where shapes are ever-transforming and objects are only defined by the boundaries of their colors and the pitches of their sounds. But as they dance, anything definitive about them is redefined.

I'm happily lost and choose not to use the bouncing beats to navigate my way. These are my stars and they make my universe-scape. And here I can forget and meditate and still think actively. I hear bass. I hear drums. I hear natural sounds.

And I hear his voice. Snippets of our conversation are woven into my musical muse. The shapeless beat bodies part, creating a path lit by visual memories of our discussion--I am in the Tooree living room, placed on the seat by the window. I am curled up and hugging my knees with one hand; the other hand gestures toward him as is necessary in Arabic conversation. "Shu3la" I repeat to him several times..."3al 2aleel, shu3la."

"N7abasna u sawayna u 7akayna u t3ibna"--I hear his echo. The recollection of this conversation is jarring against the liquid, soothing sounds of my trance. This debate cuts the notes like a machete to feathers. But both are organic, and both flow for hours (our discussion just a tick mark in the Palestinian conversation continuum). We, he and I, took the talk from the middle of the night to fajr. And right before the largest star in our universe emerged to tell us to stop and stare and mediate, I went to pray for solutions.

I only found more fixation.

I'm sucked out of that memory and back into the shapeless and sound-filled abyss that is my trance. My hands, still positioned on the keys of the keyboard, are coming back into focus.

I'm reawakening and realizing that I need to go back and continue the conversation.

Right to left

Almost 30 years of a left-to-right existance has been weakened by almost three weeks of a right-to-left life in Palestine.

I've seen and read Arabic for years; I was raised on it. But it is not the predominant language in my day-to-day life in the U.S., and so I've always looked at things from left to right. The Arabic sight standard is predominant here, and has apparently affected me in a tremendous way.

I automatically go right-to-left here. I caught myself today: "Why are the freaking pictures loading in reverse??!! UFFFFFFFFF!" Yes, even here, I'm stressed by freaking computers. The pictures were not uploaded backwards (according to U.S. standards of reading); my Arabic eyes were just viewing them that way.

?...degnahc sah esle tahw rednow I

Moving in waves

Friday day/il jum3a:
"Ya okht, ta3ali jambee...bideesh a kon jambha hay," the man said to me. We were both drops in the wave of people that was trying to push through Bab il 3omood. He was swimming next to two female tourists who were laughing at the mosh pit that had engulfed them. My Muslim brother was not having it. I obliged.

This azma was caused by a mixture of post-salat il juma3 Muslims trying to make their way home, vendors trying to make their way to their stands and to sales, and tourists just trying to make their way. It was not fun or funny. It was hot, I was still wearing my prayer garb, an 3abay and esharb (which made it even hotter), and I, along with the rest of my crew, was holding several bags of groceries and clothes that we had purchased in the souq.

Whatever dam had held us in was finally opened after several long minutes. When I saw the opening of Bab il 3omood, it was quite literally a light at the end of a tunnel, and a breath of fresh air.

Friday night/eve of Shabat:
We had returned from our pass through mukhayam Jalozon, evening trist at ZAMN, walk through ma7soomt Qalandiya, and bumpy bus ride back to Al Quds. It was time to kazdir to find an ATM and take a tour of Maisa's YMCA stomping grounds.

We walked right into a wave of people: Three Muslim-Arab girls walking toward the Old City; swells of Jewish familes, fresh from Temple, walking away. I quite literally felt like a salmon with a survivalist attitude, swimming against a current. The groups varied in size and gender, but all were donned in traditional Jewish/siknaj garb: black jackets and pants, curled hair, head coverings, long dresses. Everyone looked the same, save us.

The crowds walked freely and scattered in the fresh air--they were not held in by any invisible force as I had been after my prayer several hours earlier.

I wonder if anyone asked a comrade to switch places so that he or she would not accidentally brush up against one of us? Doubtful considering they had plenty of space to flow. And even if so, I would've been able to tell--many of them were speaking English.

Nescafe, TV, and shari3 il Khala

There really aren't any things like these At Tour nights.

It's a rule that neither Ahmed or I can go to sleep before 1 a.m., even when he has an imti7an several hours later. Tonight is his turn to make the Nescafe. After all, I've made it the past two nights for him (opting for lighter faux organic Chai that I brought with me for myself--I dunk the kershela regardless of the beverage).

These nights have become legendary to nonparticipants. I fill them in about the various conversations that Ahmed and I have--most often, about the perils of 16-year-olds' player-dom and heartbreak along the pot-holed pass of shari3 il Khala and those streets that branch off and toward it. "Low b tihtem fl mudrasa zay ma b tihtem fl banat, kan kont alif alif ya la3eeb," I tell him.

Break: Ahmed is telling me about the latest developments with his ex-soon-to-be-girlfriend-again. He's all smiles.

He is sitting on the long couch by the door, remote in hand, Nescafe by side, focused on the Egyptian film on TV.

Break: "Reem, shoofee, shoofee..." Ahmed is recapping this film for me. He likes to do that. I learn about the background story, present story, and rest of the story before I see the next scene.

I am sitting on the head of the single-seat couch. My back is against the open window, my left side inside the house, my right side outside. This is how I capture my nightly view of shari3 il Khala and of the only-seen-here scene of At Tour lit up and asleep at the same time: farthest lights, 3amman; closer, il jidar, closest, the dow that spills out from under il karmeed that covers dukan 3afif (formerly Sitti's store). 3afif is smoking argeelah, and likely watching and hearing the same cars and people pass as I am. This is what al Towara choose to look at--each other--even while the whole of the Holy Land rests madwee and serene before them. If it wasn't 3ayb in these parts, I likely would join 3afif downstairs. I guess I really am one of them.

Break: I hear yelling. Ahmed sees the look on my face, and yells, "tosha??" while running to the window to confirm. "La, La..bes wa7d b sayi7."

Towash is the second most popular topic of Ahmed's and my conversations. I have been here eight days now and have yet to witness one. That's a good thing for the relationships of the people of shari3 il Khala but not for the entertainment of their guests.

Break: The Nescafe needs its kershela. I grab one with simsim; Sitti likes the plain ones.

I won't be taking a box of kershela with me when I leave. It doesn't belong in the Virginia experience. It wouldn't taste the same. Kershela and I only have a connection here, fee dar Sitti, on these couches, with these hot drinks, in front of these films, and above this shari3.

Break: Ahmed is telling about the jundee that was yelling, "ya wlad il 7ameer, low zaqatkom bes...." chasing after Touree kids accused of throwing rocks at a bus full of siknaj. Ahmed ran and hid 3nd Abu Khalil eventhough he had not thrown a rock. He had been sitting with his friend, checking out the girls, when the action started.

No, there really aren't any things like these At Tour nights. I have about 17 more before I leave. I miss them already.

Drive

Being a passenger in the car of a new driver: that is the experience that will drive the story-telling for Amal. Reverse a centi: this new driver was not exactly new but I'm guessing this is the first time she drove this particular road for this particular trip, and Amal was a lucky tag-a-long. And I'm guessing, based on the story I was told, that this was one of the first times that she drove at all. Sitti warned me about partaking in this trip. I ended up making my own new experience as a passenger in a pickup truck that night. I'm glad I listened to Sitti.

But this blog is about Amal and about the trip that I doubt I'll stop hearing about any time soon. Ironically, I had been studying the bus drivers' book with Sameer a day earlier, learning about the signs and rules of the roads in Palestine. We debated over who had the right of way in certain situations, and we discussed the differences and similarities between the isharat in the U.S. and Palestine.

Oopsie...back to Amal...

Every time we pass a sign or area on the road, it inspires a recall of one of the instances that almost ended Amal's life. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head while telling me about a near-turn into a one-way highway entrance; a stand-off with on-coming traffic; hysterical laughing by the other passengers as if near-death was a joke. This was what she remembers most about her first road-trip to Tel Aviv.

That was the same night I took my first pickup truck road-trip to Beit La7m and El Deishe. I had an expert driver that night. He was in complete control, and I was completely trusting while he made a near U-turn onto a dirt road that lead to forgotten areas; a squeeze through the narrow alleyways that were suffocated by graffitti-ed walls and broken-down cars; a pedal-to-the-metal push up unpaved hills that would've made any hiker wish they were climbing Kilimanjaro instead. There was hysteria on this trip too, but it was in the form of grabbing through the truck's bed gates and tearing of bags filled with donated clothes as if not having much meant they should have it all now.

We each had different experiences that night--the similarities were that they each affected our lives, and we would recount them several times more.

Last night was one of those times. Amal and I shared a backseat in a new driver's car. She hadn't practiced driving in a month, and we agreed to be trial passengers. After all, this experience couldn't be any worse or life-affecting than our individual experiences from a couple nights before. We also trusted that the experienced driver (who was now seated on the passenger's side) was watching the new driver carefully. We were comfortable enough to focus on things other than the driving that was going on, although we did take our turns telling her, "id3asee 3al banzeen..yallah, yallah" and asking her, "keef 7asa 7alik hela? mrta7a wila lisa 3ala 3asabik?" We were comfortable enough to recount the other two individual road trips that were now part of our Pali histories.

This road trip was new and easy: The note about this driving experience will likely be trumped by stories about the hungry cat at Abu Kaheel's and the loz u 3asal booza at Andre's. These will more likely drive our story-telling about our joint road-trip to Yaffa.

A very starry night drafted

I took breaks by looking up at the sky, and pointing out the sheet of stars to Shayma'. The sight was breath-taking.

This starry sky was the canopy hanging over the destitute houses we had entered and exited, leaving some foot prints and money and pieces of ourselves behind.

I doubt the inhabitants of these houses pay much attention to the illuminous blanket the covers them--I doubt they care, considering they don't have much to cover their own bodies:

Why would the triplet care about a dot in a dark weightless atmosphere when she sees and feels the burned semi-circles that cuff her arm? Why would the seven children notice a chain of lights when they only could see the backs of each others' heads as they sleep in rows in one room on one floor--a room that doesn't fit the two other younger siblings who sleep in a corner near a door? Why would the mother find her diamond up above when she worries about protecting her son from the F-16s and Apaches that wake them up every night, and worries about the imprisoned husband that has yet to meet his son?

"3ndik billaphone?" Everyone wanted to give me their phone number. I have one written by An3am on my hand now.

"Don't forget us." The number of times I heard that tonight is quite close to the number of stars I counted in the sky. How can I forget after experiencing this kind of show and tell? How can I collect enough clothes and money to help these people out? There are so many stars in Beit La7m and mukhayam El Deishe, it's difficult to even imagine being able to help each one shine a bit brighter.

There will be more to come from this story...my eyes and brain are seeing too many stars to continue right now.

A friendly competition

I made a friend before I landed in matar El Lod.

We made introductions in Newark--he heard me speaking Arabic on the phone, looked at me, and wasn't quite sure if I was really an Arab. After all, my hair is red and I have freckles on my face, and that is not the typical Palestinian/Arab look.

But I am, and he realized that pretty quickly. And just as quickly, we became line buddies. We made our introductions and learned as much as we could about each other while standing in the boarding line and dealing with the drunk security guard who seemingly wanted in on our conversation. We humored him, but focused on each other.

We apparently became such good friends to outside observers, that we were both stopped by Border Patrol before boarding the plane. "Are you traveling together?" she asked me about him. "No," I said, "We just met standing in line." As he and I were pulled aside, my original travel buddy continued uninterrupted to the plane. New York/Ramallah and I were pulled into a side room for the interrogation. My Palestine-trip airport experience had begun before I ever left the U.S. This was definitely something new.

"How much money are you taking with you? Do you have international currency? Can you show me your money please?" Those were some of the questions the polite security guard asked me. "You're allowed up to $10,000," she said. I laughed: "I don't think I even have $10,000 in all of my bank accounts combined." She laughed, and continued to inspect my purse.

I saw out of the corner of my eye that he was laughing to, and found out later that his answer was, "I have no cash..only my debit card."

We finally boarded the plane. And that was the end of the first session of our friendship. The second session would begin a movie and a half later.

After I finished "He's Just Not That Into You," and reached the mid-point of "Bride Wars," I decided it was time to stretch the legs, and went to do so by the make-shift stretching post by the lavatories. Soon after, NewYork/Ramallah decided to take a break and join me. Session No. 2 began: work, music, phone numbers, school, friends, family, food--all was discussed. Thirty minutes had passed; I returned to my seat and he to his. We wouldn't chat again until matar El Lod.

Friendship session No. 3 started with a challenge: Who would leave the airport first--the unshaven, Arab-looking guy with Osama in his name or the redhead realized-as-Arab-by-name girl with freckles? I guaranteed him it would not be me and my friend, but had second thoughts--I knew he'd be tough competition.

And it was a tough competition that lasted about 4 hours and ultimately involved four U.S.-born Palestinians and intervals with a random Turk named Suleiman who had come on business.

I won't go into all of the details of the interrogation sessions, but I wil note that each involved about 7 or 8 key questions: what is your job?, who are you staying with?, why are you here?, do you recognize this person [show picture on computer]?, who is your mom?, who is your dad?, what is your phone number? I'll also note that this series of questions, or a variation of it, was asked about 5 or 6 times by 5 or 6 different people. I'll also note that these sessions involved being moved from and returned to a special room with a TV but no remote, a vending machine, and several chairs. And participants got to see the insides of several offices, and practice reading 3arabee and 3ibree while waiting for the interrogator to finish typing and move on to the next question.

In between the escorted visits to and from the special room and the offices, New York/Ramallah, travel buddy, new Dearborn/Pali friend, and I developed a special bond, and exchanged information. I provided my Pali billaphone so that each could make his or her phone calls to family to say, "I'm here; I'm just still...here." (I'd continue to receive phone calls from new-friend family members for several hours after I had finally made it out.)

"Who would've thought we would make friends in an interrogation room?" Dearborn/Pali said. What other kind of friends would you make in an interrogation room, except fellow Palestinians? Well, maybe those who have an Arab or Muslim name, like the Turkish businessman who joined us for a while..but he left before any of us did, and he was a subordinate player to the main characters of our story.

After the fourth hour, it looked as if New York/Ramallah would win the competition--a solider came out and gave me my passport and said I was free to go. I told my travel buddy that I'd collect our bags and wait for her with our ride (she had been worried about whether the bags had made it, so I wanted to offer that bit of comfort at least).

I said my good-byes and insha'Allah-ed that I'd see the rest of my new Pali quartet on the outside. I exited the special room, walked passed the now-empty passport check points, and proceeded toward the baggage collection area.

I was met by another solider and a closed gate. "May I see your passport?" I handed it to him (they had handled it longer than I had for the past several hours--they pretty much owned it by now).

"Please have a seat."

I sat. A minute later, I was joined by New York/Ramallah. The competition was not quite over.

Apparently, our new visa stamps were "do NOT pass go" passes. We needed to be interrogated again. And we were.

We were told to collect our bags. After doing so, we were escorted to a new room. Our bags needed to be interrogated now too.

I won't go into all of the details of the tafteesh. I will note that they pulled out the Maxwell House coffee and Quaker Oats oatmeal and put them through the X-ray machine. I will also note that after his coffee bags had been X-rayed, New York/Ramallah gave one to me as a momento. It was a bag of Dunkin Donuts Original Blend from one of his dad's franchises. I told him the next I see him, maybe in Ramallah, I'd bring the bag so he could sign it. Neither of us had pens, nor did our Israeli inspectors.

We exited the special room and approached the exit. He would exit first though. I would wait for travel buddy who was waiting inside for Dearborn/Pali who was still waiting for her passport.

So I won the competition.

The prize turned out to be another HOUR of waiting until travel buddy and Dearborn/Pali finally got to visit the special bag tafteesh/interrogation room.

Our plane landed at 10 a.m. Pali time. We left the airport around 3 p.m. The 5+ hours that created this story were condensed to about 10 minutes and recounted 6 or 7 times for the family that was waiting for us in Palestine and the family that was waiting for confirmation of our arrival.

Ultimately, we all won. We got to leave with a 3 month pass. To me, that prize is worth EVERYTHING. It's so worth it, in fact, that I am already training for the next bout several months from now, insha'Allah. Bring it on.

Awake and attune

It's 2:38 a.m. and I am awake. 

My mind is reviewing the chores that await me in the -10 hours I have left in Virginia: exercise, shower, pray, eat, straighten my hair. It is also visually recalling my Palestine: baranda, shari3, Ramallah, 3akka, kazdira. 

Palestine awaits me, and I long for it, and that is keeping me up.

I feel this trip will be different. Of course, each trip has its own charm and its own memories and scratches its own hatch marks on my life. But this one--the one that starts in 600 minutes or so--is escorted by a hint of charity and of change:

It may be the travel companion. She was also the travel companion on my first non-familial vacation. She and I know each other well and do well on trips together. We have similar spirits for adventure--she, slightly more risky than me; I, excited and anxious about following her lead. It's been a good complement, and over the years and the numerous trips, that gap has thinned. We are in tune. My last journey to Palestine began on the same night her journey in marriage began. That is a very revealing statement I realize as I read it again: My last journey to Palestine began on the same night her journey in marriage began. Yes, we are in tune. This trip has been talked about and dreamed about for years. It will be talked about and dreamed about for years to come I'm sure. 

It may be the donations. On each of our separate trips, my fellow traveler and I have collected to give, and we'd each contribute to the other's efforts. Now, we'll combine them. She, the previously riskier of the two of us, has played Good Samaritan, traveling to those in need, and handing the needed to them. We hope to co-op this year. We've already united in the related stress of it all, fuming for being asked to relinquish items for the poor and replace them with U.S. paraphernalia for those who can easily afford it. A synced "uff" was released by us during our venting session on the phone. It was subsequently followed by a simultaneous "iza fee naseeb..." We are still in tune. 

It surely includes the new friends I hope to finally meet in person, and introduce to her. Seeing friends is always a highlight but includes a twinge of hesitation. That hesitation is less about the ceremony of meeting face-to-face for the first time, which normally includes feelings of anxiety about whether the encounter will feel comfortable; it is more about the effort that is involved in arranging the meeting, which always includes feelings of anxiety about how the family will feel about the encounter taking place. Somehow, I always manage to make meetings happen. My risk-taking in this case has evolved over my years of travel to Palestine. This is my trip; this is her trip; and we are both intent on meeting friends. When an opportunity potentially becomes your only chance, you break through the hesitations and make it work. We both agree on that. 

I know this trip will create its own memories and visual recollections that she and I will share and bring back to Virginia. 

It's 3:52 a.m. now. The journey will begin in about 8.5 hours (510 minutes).

I wonder if she is sleeping soundly. I doubt it. I know how she is before she travels. It's similar to how I am. We are in tune. 

Ignore--ance.

It's a shame when ignorance is passed around the world via e-mail.

What's worse is how unaffected I was by that hateful and prejudicial ignoranace that was delivered to my inbox that day.

Worst of all is how surprised I was that someone who was not targeted by the bigotry, armed herself with furious fingers, stabbed letters on a keyboard, and wrote out loud in defense of Islam.

She debated whether she should even send me the note about a young Iranian boy who had allegedly stolen something and was subsequently (allegedly) sentenced to a car plowing for theft. She did "not want to piss me off". After much deliberation, she hit send.

Three pictures of the boy, with his arm placed on a towel, readied for an inevitable running-over, were attached. The content, written in both English and Hebrew, described that the child had being subjected to this violence in accordance with Islamic punishment. The message was that this is Islam and Islam is barbaric.

The truth is that this is not Islam and Islam is not barbaric. I know that. My colleague knows that. It's possible that even the sender of the e-mail knows that. Anyone who could muster the energy to flip a page in a book or scroll down a computer screen could know that too.

But ignorance is easier. It doesn't take much work or moral judgement. Ignorance is the polluted playground for bigots and fanatics and maniacs. They lure imbeciles and ignoramuses (made such by choice or accident), and feed them toxicity. And the ignorant absorb the ignorance through their pores and their eyes and their ears and their nostrils and their brains. But not through intelligence.

My colleague is intelligent. The e-mail sender's attempt failed miserably on her. The e-mail content, however, did succeed in prompting my colleague to counter ignore-ance with education.

She read me the draft she was composing to the e-mail instigator. I congratulated her, saying her words are much calmer than mine would be.

I grabbed my belongings, and on my way out said, "If anyone would like to discuss the truth in a civil matter, you let them know that I'd be happy to accommodate them."

I debated internally whether that was really true--the pictures angered me, the Hebrew simultaneously fueled my fire and stole from it, the ignorance gave me no pause--it was frustrating and it was 3adee.

I got in my car, and proceeded to unleash a verbal raping that would've made any prison bully scream, "mercy." The recipient of my fury: my steering wheel. Time: About 30 seconds. Then, I rehearsed my standard vanilla response--lest I be seen as barbaric.

I have become a zombie to these scenarios that have played out so many times before they might as well be on schedule: 0-1 minute, ignorance; 1-3 minutes, anger; 3-3:30 minutes, release; 3:30 to 5 minutes, response.

But beyond the wrath against my steering wheel and a couple venting sessions to my parents, I was not propelled into movement by the bigotry and prejudice that was spread by that e-mail. In this case, I practiced ignore-ance. I ignored to self-preserve. It still hurts, but the pain is muffled. It still infuriates but the fury is fainter. It still disgusts, but does not provoke heaves of regurgitation. Why? Because it is expected.

It's a shame when ignorance is allowed to proliferate around the world via e-mail.

It's a surprise when it is halted by just writing and speech.

And I was surprised and mobilized by my colleague's actions and those of Ben Affleck (affectionately referred to as "3aflek" by Arabs now): I told others of my righteous colleague; I posted a link to the Ben Affleck YouTube clip. And the news spread like a virus on a playground. Why? Because justice and truth and work are not expected.

What a shame.

With Tools of Thread & Vinyl

This is my needle. 

Its shine has been dulled by experience; its experience has kept its tip sharp.  So, do not mind the hash marks that layer its cylinder and the metal tear that hangs in its opening--it still works. 

My needle dips itself in virgin canvases, introducing emptiness to life.

And with that first stitch-scratch, it alters a passive environment forever. 

My needle paves a new paradigm with braid and bass. 

Threads of livelihood and blood weave in and out, mapping my history. The pattern is redundant--grow, peak, regress, repeat. The tip undulates as it irrigates the mature record, waxing a way for my future to flow. The beat is the benchmark--boom, tss, mellow, believe.

My needle teaches the loom and the spindle how to sign, and tell a story that can be seen and heard.

It gives birth in a place called Palestine to tatreez that tell tales of tragedy and triumph on cloth and vinyl.

My needle's legacy dons the heads of those deemed Palestinian, protecting them from the elements and proclaiming their identity. My needle tattoos airwaves that travel at warp speeds to singe follicles and corrode canals; it remembers the destruction of olive groves and the attempted uprooting of existence.

It reminds that Palestine still exists. 

My needle writes my waton; my needle sings my anthem.

[This is dedicated to all of the 7attas and turntables, and those who work them. To some, you are fashionable. To me, you are more than that--I know your real worth, and I appreciate it. You are how Palestine is seen and heard; you are living symbols of my beloved land. And you will outlive any superficial trends. Guaranteed.]