I wake on Dec. 25, and the first thing I see is "8:08". Though the digits are not identical triplets, they are fraternal, and they stick to my mind.
I woke up un-hungry and uninspired, but anxious nonetheless. I had been explaining my position on the team of 18 and the adventure that awaits me some 4+ months into the future to my family members at a gathering the night before. I did not (and do not) yet know all of the details, and I still had (and still have) the slightest twinge of anxiety about whether everything will pan out smoothly. And those conversations were still in my mind....
...as were previous conversations from that day, this week, and these past months. And as were the people who have teetered into and out of my world at various intervals and integers of time and space--my mind focused on a specific 3: 3 lovely ladies who had been significant players in my history, and with whom I had reconnected in 2010.
And I think of the 1 I lost this year: Siddi. Three months and 1 day ago, he left. His 1 bed, the 1 recliner, and the 2 chairs that were in his room have now been replaced by 2 couches. I only know because I stole a peripheral glance when I passed the room last night. I didn't enter. I couldn't.
God tells us we are told what we need to know and given what we need to have, and we don't need to know and have everything. People, places, periods of time are all as they are meant to be when they are meant to be.
And now, it's 11:11, and I think about the new connections and adventures that have already started to shape and will, insha'Allah, come to full fruition in 2011.
And all of it reminds me that life is a funny little game of numbers and waiting, wallah.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Going
Friday was a weird day.
I woke up to a weird dream I couldn't remember; I deleted a contact from my phone; I added a contact to my phone; I reminded my friend that my life was the consistent one and there is never anything "new;" my plans to straighten my hair were foiled by an at-home father; I drank ice-tea that had stalks of lemongrass in it; I saw a friend who I hadn't seen in several years but had just mentioned that afternoon; I played ring-around-the-Metro with hundreds of Usher fans; and I got a phone call that would change my life.
And now, I'm going to Mount Everest and Palestine.
I'm going with a group of 18+ Palestinians from around the world to share the Palestinian story and spirit with groups of people from around the world. Lammet Shamel bt lim il shiml.
I'm going to represent Beitilu and At Tur, dar El-Khatib and dar Abu El-Hawa.
I'm going to represent the Palestinian, Muslim, female, Gemini, "gingy"s.
I'm going...God-willing.
I woke up to a weird dream I couldn't remember; I deleted a contact from my phone; I added a contact to my phone; I reminded my friend that my life was the consistent one and there is never anything "new;" my plans to straighten my hair were foiled by an at-home father; I drank ice-tea that had stalks of lemongrass in it; I saw a friend who I hadn't seen in several years but had just mentioned that afternoon; I played ring-around-the-Metro with hundreds of Usher fans; and I got a phone call that would change my life.
And now, I'm going to Mount Everest and Palestine.
I'm going with a group of 18+ Palestinians from around the world to share the Palestinian story and spirit with groups of people from around the world. Lammet Shamel bt lim il shiml.
I'm going to represent Beitilu and At Tur, dar El-Khatib and dar Abu El-Hawa.
I'm going to represent the Palestinian, Muslim, female, Gemini, "gingy"s.
I'm going...God-willing.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Mindless luxury
Here I am: half seated, half reclined--gazing past my laptop's top at my TV screen watching materialism and propaganda in 30 second clips. This is mindlessness.
This is luxury.
I pay no particular mind to the warm fleece blanket tangled around my warm fleece The North Face sweats on my queen-size jersey sheets. I admire my laptop's carrying case that I've yet to use and wonder about the many places that I will eventually transport it to--top of mind is Busboys and Poets for a hot chocolate date. I hear a chime on my iPhone and read the texts that have come through. I grab a tissue to clear my stuffed sinuses, and toss it in the fashionable silver-mesh trash can, which sits in-between my bed and my reclining chair.
I stare mindlessly again at the flat-screen TV in-front of me and see the dress that needs sewing out of my periphery.
This is the routine that will repeat itself for the next several hours of my at-home sick day. [cough, sneeze, ukh]
And during this mindless "at-home sick day," paid to stay home and tend to my ills day, I've thought of them--the people who don't even have regular access to a tissue box.
They have heart. I pray they will soon have warmth, perhaps in the fleece form, and will be able to half-sit, half-recline in a safe, personal space--a home. I pray they will have access to what they desire, for a person with heart is efficient with his or her wants and appreciative of what they deliver. I pray they will pull a tissue at-will to clear their stuffed sinuses during their "at-home sick day," paid to stay home and tend to their ills.
I pray they will have luxury in their lives, and will have moments when, if only for a few TV soundbites and laptop keystrokes, worries melt away into mindlessness.
This is luxury.
I pay no particular mind to the warm fleece blanket tangled around my warm fleece The North Face sweats on my queen-size jersey sheets. I admire my laptop's carrying case that I've yet to use and wonder about the many places that I will eventually transport it to--top of mind is Busboys and Poets for a hot chocolate date. I hear a chime on my iPhone and read the texts that have come through. I grab a tissue to clear my stuffed sinuses, and toss it in the fashionable silver-mesh trash can, which sits in-between my bed and my reclining chair.
I stare mindlessly again at the flat-screen TV in-front of me and see the dress that needs sewing out of my periphery.
This is the routine that will repeat itself for the next several hours of my at-home sick day. [cough, sneeze, ukh]
And during this mindless "at-home sick day," paid to stay home and tend to my ills day, I've thought of them--the people who don't even have regular access to a tissue box.
They have heart. I pray they will soon have warmth, perhaps in the fleece form, and will be able to half-sit, half-recline in a safe, personal space--a home. I pray they will have access to what they desire, for a person with heart is efficient with his or her wants and appreciative of what they deliver. I pray they will pull a tissue at-will to clear their stuffed sinuses during their "at-home sick day," paid to stay home and tend to their ills.
I pray they will have luxury in their lives, and will have moments when, if only for a few TV soundbites and laptop keystrokes, worries melt away into mindlessness.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Electric blue
Two light rays beamed at me--the bluest blue I had ever seen. Had I filled you with the waters from the deepest depths of the most tropic oceans, I could never have produced that magnificent shade of blue eyes that Allah intended only for you.
And they seemed that much bluer juxtaposed against your olive skin--darkened even darker by the summer Falasteenee sun; your left arm darker than your right, marking you as one who drives often, and in your case, for a living.
Although I do not remember your name--I'm not even sure I was ever told what it was--I can never forget you: not just because I was hypnotized by your eyes, but because you were Ramallah through and through but had never seen Al Quds and that is why your du3a became mine and my du3a returned to you...insha'Allah.
As I stole glimpses of your blues in your rearview mirror, I listened intently as you told your passengers (my father in the front seat, and my mother and I in the back) about your failed attempts to cross to Jerusalem and pray in Al Aqsa. My father, ready to brag about his daughter at any opportunity, said proudly that I had gone several times. And, so, you looked at me in your rearview mirror, and requested...
...Id3eelee.
Our eyes locked for a split second, and then, I nodded a shy "insha'Allah," and lowered my gaze...
And right then and there, I prayed my first du3a for you. I've yet to pray my last.
I doubt you remember the rides you gave us to Beitilu and back to Ramallah and I doubt you recall asking this stranger/countrywoman to pray that the foreigners at the checkpoint will let you pass, and grant you the opportunity to drive the 20 minutes on your roads to Jerusalem, but I can never forget your request, your du3a, or you...
...electric blue
...eyes...beams...protection...prayer...
It's been three+ years and three visits since: I hope you made it to Al Aqsa and back again...to a place where even your stellar site/sight would get lost amid the grandeur of the edifice and holiness of the blessings--where your bluest of blue eyes would somehow absorb even more blue as they take in the tiles and stained glass and the words of God.
Insha'Allah, ya Rubb, you've made it there...
Lisa bad3eelak.
And they seemed that much bluer juxtaposed against your olive skin--darkened even darker by the summer Falasteenee sun; your left arm darker than your right, marking you as one who drives often, and in your case, for a living.
Although I do not remember your name--I'm not even sure I was ever told what it was--I can never forget you: not just because I was hypnotized by your eyes, but because you were Ramallah through and through but had never seen Al Quds and that is why your du3a became mine and my du3a returned to you...insha'Allah.
As I stole glimpses of your blues in your rearview mirror, I listened intently as you told your passengers (my father in the front seat, and my mother and I in the back) about your failed attempts to cross to Jerusalem and pray in Al Aqsa. My father, ready to brag about his daughter at any opportunity, said proudly that I had gone several times. And, so, you looked at me in your rearview mirror, and requested...
...Id3eelee.
Our eyes locked for a split second, and then, I nodded a shy "insha'Allah," and lowered my gaze...
And right then and there, I prayed my first du3a for you. I've yet to pray my last.
I doubt you remember the rides you gave us to Beitilu and back to Ramallah and I doubt you recall asking this stranger/countrywoman to pray that the foreigners at the checkpoint will let you pass, and grant you the opportunity to drive the 20 minutes on your roads to Jerusalem, but I can never forget your request, your du3a, or you...
...electric blue
...eyes...beams...protection...prayer...
It's been three+ years and three visits since: I hope you made it to Al Aqsa and back again...to a place where even your stellar site/sight would get lost amid the grandeur of the edifice and holiness of the blessings--where your bluest of blue eyes would somehow absorb even more blue as they take in the tiles and stained glass and the words of God.
Insha'Allah, ya Rubb, you've made it there...
Lisa bad3eelak.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Sound it out
Falasteen...
Fa-las-teeennn...
Linger on the "n"--hold it, tongue tip to roof, secure it, imprint it ...
Then, release and breathe--ahhh, hawa w 7ureeya--Falasteeneeya...
Own it--make it sassy, sexy, strong ...
What you put into it is what it has put into you.
How you dress it is how it dresses you.
Your thobe sews its tatreez--red, gold, green--under the "Fa" through the "las" and into the "teen."
Ahhh, the teen...Beitin...the fresh teen. I remember you as you were pulled off the tree. Porch front, rooftop, and an entire universe ahead. "Oskot, akhairlak"...oskot, il khair lak. Isma3 u shoof....
"Kashi3 il teen wl 3nib wl zaytoon?" +++Beitilu+++ Ya ikshaylee...laysh tarakookee?
"EEE".... fal as teen EEE ... Allah yjazee ... Abee Falasteenee
Qalbee Falasteenee ... ow "k"lbee 3a Shari3 il Khala, At-Tur
At-Tur, where the medanee and fala7ee meld into one "cheef 7alkom"
Il 7al ... mashee il 7al ... 7alee balee ...
7alee Falasteenee .... yah ... Aa
Alif, il bidaya, il asil.
Aslee ...
Fa-las-teeennn...
Linger on the "n"--hold it, tongue tip to roof, secure it, imprint it ...
Then, release and breathe--ahhh, hawa w 7ureeya--Falasteeneeya...
Own it--make it sassy, sexy, strong ...
What you put into it is what it has put into you.
How you dress it is how it dresses you.
Your thobe sews its tatreez--red, gold, green--under the "Fa" through the "las" and into the "teen."
Ahhh, the teen...Beitin...the fresh teen. I remember you as you were pulled off the tree. Porch front, rooftop, and an entire universe ahead. "Oskot, akhairlak"...oskot, il khair lak. Isma3 u shoof....
"Kashi3 il teen wl 3nib wl zaytoon?" +++Beitilu+++ Ya ikshaylee...laysh tarakookee?
"EEE".... fal as teen EEE ... Allah yjazee ... Abee Falasteenee
Qalbee Falasteenee ... ow "k"lbee 3a Shari3 il Khala, At-Tur
At-Tur, where the medanee and fala7ee meld into one "cheef 7alkom"
Il 7al ... mashee il 7al ... 7alee balee ...
7alee Falasteenee .... yah ... Aa
Alif, il bidaya, il asil.
Aslee ...
... Fa-las-teen ...
... Falasteen
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Taller trees ahead
I know that place that she sings of...that playground world, among the Maples, Beeches, and Pines, with endless supplies of bark cookies and tea leaves and green beds--I was all smiles and minimal freckles. And as innocent as I was, in retrospect, I feel like I was never unaware.
I feel like somehow I always knew the world was not a dream nor was it, in the slightest bit, dreamy.
I'm in that place she sings of...those woods behind the park, walking and "sub7an Allah"-ing as I climb the trees with my eyes and wonder what the world is like and what it looks like from atop the canopy, centuries closer to the stars--I am inspired and solemn with many freckles. As experienced as I am, I feel like I am unaware.
I feel like somehow, despite the reality that has shaped my existence, I'm still capable of hoping and dreaming--and I do often.
I've not yet arrived to the tertiary place she sings of...the wise, full one, soared to from the highest wing, the place my beloved grandfather and his son have flown to, and share with me only in my dreams--I am heart-broken and weathered with freckles cresting and relaxing under the rolling magnification of salty tears. But I continue on ... and as I walk in the woods, and marvel at the colors of the fallen Fall leaves, I am aware of how much there is ahead, and of how unaware I am.
I feel like somehow the awareness and unawareness that trek alongside me allow me to balance the real with the dreamy--so I can know and I can still wonder--and I am keenly aware of what a blessing that is. And I'm all smiles.
I feel like somehow I always knew the world was not a dream nor was it, in the slightest bit, dreamy.
I'm in that place she sings of...those woods behind the park, walking and "sub7an Allah"-ing as I climb the trees with my eyes and wonder what the world is like and what it looks like from atop the canopy, centuries closer to the stars--I am inspired and solemn with many freckles. As experienced as I am, I feel like I am unaware.
I feel like somehow, despite the reality that has shaped my existence, I'm still capable of hoping and dreaming--and I do often.
I've not yet arrived to the tertiary place she sings of...the wise, full one, soared to from the highest wing, the place my beloved grandfather and his son have flown to, and share with me only in my dreams--I am heart-broken and weathered with freckles cresting and relaxing under the rolling magnification of salty tears. But I continue on ... and as I walk in the woods, and marvel at the colors of the fallen Fall leaves, I am aware of how much there is ahead, and of how unaware I am.
I feel like somehow the awareness and unawareness that trek alongside me allow me to balance the real with the dreamy--so I can know and I can still wonder--and I am keenly aware of what a blessing that is. And I'm all smiles.
***
Inspired by "Dream" by Priscilla Ahn and the stages of life.
Confusion
I need saving right now...I need it as my eyes lose focus and my sight and sites become blurred.
I'm here and somewhere else all at once. I can feel myself drifting in and out of my subconscious. I don't know why I've been particularly sensitive today--well, maybe I do--but I don't know for certain if my knowledge is certain.
There's no reason to be hurting, but somehow I am. This is the third time today that I've been on the verge of tears--more like the second actually; the first two times, I brimmed over and cried.
Is it the song that makes me think of Siddi? Is it the fact that today is the birthday of a Khal I never knew but still love? Is it because my heart needs to release itself of all the prodding and poking that it's been withstanding?
I've come to find that I'm hardsurface but not hardcore. Things don't bounce off my soul or heart like they do my skin and shell--well, they don't bounce of my skin either if my scars are any testament. But my soul and heart cushion more than repel; they bring the crowds in rather than cast them out. I innately err on the side of caring more than less.
And it exhausts me...or does it strengthen?
I can't tell, for I feel that I've learned and retained and matured, but often fall back to that novice stage. It takes me less time to recover now than it did before though...so, in that sense, I'm in better shape, for that's the testament of an athlete's athletic ability--how quickly (s)he recovers. But what does it mean when she finds herself recovering repeatedly?
I'm here and somewhere else all at once. I can feel myself drifting in and out of my subconscious. I don't know why I've been particularly sensitive today--well, maybe I do--but I don't know for certain if my knowledge is certain.
There's no reason to be hurting, but somehow I am. This is the third time today that I've been on the verge of tears--more like the second actually; the first two times, I brimmed over and cried.
Is it the song that makes me think of Siddi? Is it the fact that today is the birthday of a Khal I never knew but still love? Is it because my heart needs to release itself of all the prodding and poking that it's been withstanding?
I've come to find that I'm hardsurface but not hardcore. Things don't bounce off my soul or heart like they do my skin and shell--well, they don't bounce of my skin either if my scars are any testament. But my soul and heart cushion more than repel; they bring the crowds in rather than cast them out. I innately err on the side of caring more than less.
And it exhausts me...or does it strengthen?
I can't tell, for I feel that I've learned and retained and matured, but often fall back to that novice stage. It takes me less time to recover now than it did before though...so, in that sense, I'm in better shape, for that's the testament of an athlete's athletic ability--how quickly (s)he recovers. But what does it mean when she finds herself recovering repeatedly?
Saturday, November 13, 2010
[Duwar] Al Manara
Every city has its famous landmark-for Ramallah, you are it.
You are not intimidatingly tall or formidably wide; I can see around you and above you. But you are firmly planted and unyielding--as is your place in our hearts.
You are the "0" from which the Y and the X axes stem; you are a point of origin.
And you exemplify origins--you've stood for decades, and you've witnessed: conversations, intifada, break-ups, fights, proposals, establishments, demonstrations. You've seen your surroundings grow and relax and change. Oh what spirits and auras must be revolving around you and taking refuge in you so as not to be forgotten.
I remember the first time I drove passed--it was a summer night in 2000, and we were headed to Muntazat Ramallah. Peering out of the backseat window, I saw you veiled in hues of pale green light and decorated with banners and strings and people waiting for their somethings. You were popular but not pretty, and you've remained that way.
I wonder if you ever were pretty. I wonder if when you were new and naive, you had a youthful glow. Or were you already withered when christened, already tired of the future that would befall you and your city's dwellers.
...around you, the city certainly dwells..
When I am closest to you is when I lose sight of you, for eyes are never shy around you, and when I walk within your vicinity, eyes are all I see--eyes of those coming toward me, staring, as shoulders approach and then glide by each other in opposing sways. I look passed, to you, and continue.
And as you are the city's sight/site, you are also its sound. I can not think of you without hearing the hum that surrounds you--cars, horns, sya7, whistles, laughter, footsteps all in unison creating a loud, white noise. One doesn't realize how loud your pep rally is until after (s)he has drifted away from you, down the X and Y axes...to Venus to Baladna to il muntaza to ZAMN to their houses, and definitely to Beitilu, and even to Qalandiya.
Yet, even if I can lose the sound of you and the sight of you, and see above you and around you...
...I can not know Ramallah without you.
You are not intimidatingly tall or formidably wide; I can see around you and above you. But you are firmly planted and unyielding--as is your place in our hearts.
You are the "0" from which the Y and the X axes stem; you are a point of origin.
And you exemplify origins--you've stood for decades, and you've witnessed: conversations, intifada, break-ups, fights, proposals, establishments, demonstrations. You've seen your surroundings grow and relax and change. Oh what spirits and auras must be revolving around you and taking refuge in you so as not to be forgotten.
I remember the first time I drove passed--it was a summer night in 2000, and we were headed to Muntazat Ramallah. Peering out of the backseat window, I saw you veiled in hues of pale green light and decorated with banners and strings and people waiting for their somethings. You were popular but not pretty, and you've remained that way.
I wonder if you ever were pretty. I wonder if when you were new and naive, you had a youthful glow. Or were you already withered when christened, already tired of the future that would befall you and your city's dwellers.
...around you, the city certainly dwells..
When I am closest to you is when I lose sight of you, for eyes are never shy around you, and when I walk within your vicinity, eyes are all I see--eyes of those coming toward me, staring, as shoulders approach and then glide by each other in opposing sways. I look passed, to you, and continue.
And as you are the city's sight/site, you are also its sound. I can not think of you without hearing the hum that surrounds you--cars, horns, sya7, whistles, laughter, footsteps all in unison creating a loud, white noise. One doesn't realize how loud your pep rally is until after (s)he has drifted away from you, down the X and Y axes...to Venus to Baladna to il muntaza to ZAMN to their houses, and definitely to Beitilu, and even to Qalandiya.
Yet, even if I can lose the sound of you and the sight of you, and see above you and around you...
...I can not know Ramallah without you.
Monday, November 8, 2010
3ala hath il saba7
First, my knee, then a finger, and finally the collection of toes...all start to rustle and move way before the preferred waking hour. I angrily peer through a slitted eye at the Verizon FiOs box to see the time--5:27 a.m.--"and I'm off today," I grumble.
All attempts at returning to slumber fail, for once I'm up, I'm up, and nothing short of an act of God can get me to rest again.
I reflect upon my night--grinding teeth; thoughts of new news, of people, of memories; one arm under the pillow; the contemplation of a long run to be able to contemplate and reflect some more.
And all that goes to hell as I lift my laptop's top, and awaken my computer: first IM, then e-mail, then Facebook, then "why?" But the question doesn't prompt a response, and so I continue--scrolling, browsing, commenting. Somehow utterly useless and extremely useful all at once.
Some time later....as in post-cereal and mid-way through coffee...as in now...
...I wonder again, "why?"
"Why am I so compelled to see and to share? I'm not a nosey person--in fact, I shun gossip and sometimes appear to be uncaring because I don't ask others to reveal; I let them do as they wish at their time. Why does Facebook change that aspect of me?"
[pause here to refresh and check the 'most-recent' news...]
All attempts at returning to slumber fail, for once I'm up, I'm up, and nothing short of an act of God can get me to rest again.
I reflect upon my night--grinding teeth; thoughts of new news, of people, of memories; one arm under the pillow; the contemplation of a long run to be able to contemplate and reflect some more.
And all that goes to hell as I lift my laptop's top, and awaken my computer: first IM, then e-mail, then Facebook, then "why?" But the question doesn't prompt a response, and so I continue--scrolling, browsing, commenting. Somehow utterly useless and extremely useful all at once.
Some time later....as in post-cereal and mid-way through coffee...as in now...
...I wonder again, "why?"
"Why am I so compelled to see and to share? I'm not a nosey person--in fact, I shun gossip and sometimes appear to be uncaring because I don't ask others to reveal; I let them do as they wish at their time. Why does Facebook change that aspect of me?"
[pause here to refresh and check the 'most-recent' news...]
Friday, November 5, 2010
Khamrat il 7ub
Khamrat il 7ub, make my heart drunk to the point of forgetfulness...
For love did once reside inside, but now, she postures as a retired irrigation dig...
...capable of transporting love, but weathered, left only with the marks of love's erosiveness...
...and since, dried from drought.
Khamrat il 7ub, bloat my mind with delirium
For love did once fill my cells with dreams and hope, but now, they pray for Alzheimer's...
...capable of thinking objectively about love, but still biased, making du3a for blissful amnesia...
...wanting to revert to a state of "never knew, never know."
Khamrat il 7ub, stoop my posture with reticence...
For love did once straighten and strengthen my spine with confidence and glee, but now, she aches and pleads for support from those she is obliged to carry...
...capable of enduring love, but herniated, preferring to slouch and tilt down...
...so as to avoid coming eye-to-eye with love again.
Khamrat il 7ub, overflow your chalice and drench my pores with your beads--leave no room for love's return.
Inspired by "Khamrat il 7ub" as sung by Hani Metwasi, originally performed by Saba7 Fakhri.
For love did once reside inside, but now, she postures as a retired irrigation dig...
...capable of transporting love, but weathered, left only with the marks of love's erosiveness...
...and since, dried from drought.
Khamrat il 7ub, bloat my mind with delirium
For love did once fill my cells with dreams and hope, but now, they pray for Alzheimer's...
...capable of thinking objectively about love, but still biased, making du3a for blissful amnesia...
...wanting to revert to a state of "never knew, never know."
Khamrat il 7ub, stoop my posture with reticence...
For love did once straighten and strengthen my spine with confidence and glee, but now, she aches and pleads for support from those she is obliged to carry...
...capable of enduring love, but herniated, preferring to slouch and tilt down...
...so as to avoid coming eye-to-eye with love again.
Khamrat il 7ub, overflow your chalice and drench my pores with your beads--leave no room for love's return.
***
Inspired by "Khamrat il 7ub" as sung by Hani Metwasi, originally performed by Saba7 Fakhri.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Driven by a strangled vein
Claustrophobic--that word describes how I feel and how I've felt. But it's not just the actual sensation of being closed-in or drowning in breathlessness--actually, it is exactly a collection of those sensations. What it is not only is not only caused by crowds of people or being in small spaces, for I have claustrophobia right now, as I type, alone in my spacious room. My claustrophobia floods me with thoughts and emotions and sensations: I'm constantly chasing and never catching; I'm constantly being chased and always trying to flee. I suffocate internally while breathing normally externally.
All that mind movement makes me tired. I'm constantly tired. Even when I have energy, I'm tired. ***When I speak, I feel that my voice is clawing it's way out of its box, up my throat, scraping the roof of my mouth as it fights the inhale while it tries to exit through the narrow separation of my lips. ***When I step, I feel every muscle and tendon working, laboring to move my machine forward--I hear my bones cry out in laziness, wanting to be sedentary and reluctantly cooperating, like hopeless romantics, wishing there was something exciting to move toward but knowing there is nothing interesting ahead. ***When I'm still, I feel that the arteries and veins that give and take and keep me pulsating are narrowing and constricting any endorphins that may try to sneak by--smiling platelets are not allowed.
I have been shimmy-shooked and stranded--in claustrophobia. But I'm positive I'm moving toward something light and breezy and vast. So I continue to trudge, driven by the strangled vein that twists through my left thigh. I must keep working my way through the tangle if I ever want to comb smoothly.
But I need to be still right now. I'm tired.
All that mind movement makes me tired. I'm constantly tired. Even when I have energy, I'm tired. ***When I speak, I feel that my voice is clawing it's way out of its box, up my throat, scraping the roof of my mouth as it fights the inhale while it tries to exit through the narrow separation of my lips. ***When I step, I feel every muscle and tendon working, laboring to move my machine forward--I hear my bones cry out in laziness, wanting to be sedentary and reluctantly cooperating, like hopeless romantics, wishing there was something exciting to move toward but knowing there is nothing interesting ahead. ***When I'm still, I feel that the arteries and veins that give and take and keep me pulsating are narrowing and constricting any endorphins that may try to sneak by--smiling platelets are not allowed.
I have been shimmy-shooked and stranded--in claustrophobia. But I'm positive I'm moving toward something light and breezy and vast. So I continue to trudge, driven by the strangled vein that twists through my left thigh. I must keep working my way through the tangle if I ever want to comb smoothly.
But I need to be still right now. I'm tired.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
I was | I am | I will be
And even after the last of my energy pulses through me, whether as beat or blood or tear, I will be El-Khatib, I will be FALASTEEN.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
To be a wife
"Do you really want to be a third world wife?"
He asked me the question more than once.
Whatever his intention behind the question, I'm no longer concerned. But to answer, I ask...
..."What is a 'third world wife'"?
...and I continue...
"If wifedom is in my future, then I will be a wife--whether in this world or a fifth world. Whatever world my husband exists in, I will be there as his wife. The world is irrelevant. The man and the union are what count."
He asked me the question more than once.
Whatever his intention behind the question, I'm no longer concerned. But to answer, I ask...
..."What is a 'third world wife'"?
...and I continue...
"If wifedom is in my future, then I will be a wife--whether in this world or a fifth world. Whatever world my husband exists in, I will be there as his wife. The world is irrelevant. The man and the union are what count."
I adore
I wrote this several months ago, but never published it--something I just discovered today. So, here you go...
I adore...
...for what you did
...and what you said
....and how you smirked
I adore...
...for who you are
...and who you're not
...and how you are
I adore...
...for how you know
...and how you glow
...and what you give
I adore...
...for what you take
...and what you hold
...and what you send
I adore...
...for how you look
...and how you see
...and what you imagine
I adore...
...for what you believe
...and how you think
...and what you shun
I adore...
...for what you hear
...and what you sing
...and how you serenade
I adore...
...for how you smile
...and how you smell
...and how you smother
I adore...
...for how you stalk
...and when you grab
...and how you assault
I adore...
...for when you're addicted
...and how you recover
...and when you revert
I adore...
...for I cannot abhor
...but I try to ignore
...when I see the gore
I adore...
...for what you did
...and what you said
....and how you smirked
I adore...
...for who you are
...and who you're not
...and how you are
I adore...
...for how you know
...and how you glow
...and what you give
I adore...
...for what you take
...and what you hold
...and what you send
I adore...
...for how you look
...and how you see
...and what you imagine
I adore...
...for what you believe
...and how you think
...and what you shun
I adore...
...for what you hear
...and what you sing
...and how you serenade
I adore...
...for how you smile
...and how you smell
...and how you smother
I adore...
...for when you love
...and when you lie
...and how you rip
I adore...
...for how you stalk
...and when you grab
...and how you assault
I adore...
...for when you're addicted
...and how you recover
...and when you revert
I adore...
...for I cannot abhor
...but I try to ignore
...when I see the gore
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Sounds and steps
Today was the first time I've run a half-marathon race. It was also the first time that I've run without wearing headphones and carrying my iPhone's iPod.
There was so much wind today, that the bib song happened several times.
And I'm glad I did.
The wind was an obstacle during the run, but it was an instrument too. The harder the wind blew, the louder the rustling of the runners' bibs would be. I'd hold mine down with my hand so as to prevent it from tearing around the safety pins, but as soon as the wind would let up a little, I'd let go, and the remnant of the draft would enter through the left side, give a quick rattle, and exit through the right.
There was so much wind today, that the bib song happened several times.The cheering was very motivating during the run, as were the runners' applause and "thank you"s. Baltimore natives and runners' family members and friends lined the streets and yelled shouts of inspiration and motivation, clapped their clappers, played loud music out of car stereos. Even their signs sang to us--most of them humorous, most of them making us laugh, the laughter always pushing us forward in good spirits.
There was so much support today, that the cheers were audible most of the route.
The steps of the runners crescendoed and diminuendoed, except in the gaps when I was mostly alone and could only hear my breathing. Thousand of running shoes genuflected to the Baltimore streets, praying for survival and completion and relieving their host roads of their pressure and weight during the split seconds they'd lift between strides. As a runner in the crowd, I could hear that communal shoe hymn. When by myself, my shoes' prayers were drowned out by the sound of my reading of Al Fati7a, my conversations with Siddi (Allah yir7amo), or my breathing.
There was constant audible breathing today, that life was on high definition surround-sound during the entire 13.1 miles.
Al 7amdulilah for headphone-less and music-filled experiences.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Don't settle
I quite resent the sentiment that accompanies the desire to marry--and that is "to settle down."
Marriage should not be based on a settlement.
Marriage should be based on the desire to conjure up a new side of one's self--an exciting journey of maturation that challenges you to apply what you've learned during your "singledom" to another level of existence that is self-less and shared.
In my opinion, the sentiment accompanying the desire to marry should be "to be more fulfilled" or "to make life more robust" or "to cause beautiful chaos." The decision to get married should make the decision-maker feel as if he or she is moving toward freedom of emotion or opinion or self. The choice to get married should make you feel that you are going toward more good.
In my opinion, marriage should be a "revving up;" it should provide opportunity to be more lively; it should make you feel most comfortable.
In my opinion, if you feel that you are "settling," reassess your situation, and when you realize that your situation is wrong, chuck up your deuces, say "Beace!," and dash--for both your sakes.
Don't settle--for anything.
Marriage should not be based on a settlement.
Marriage should be based on the desire to conjure up a new side of one's self--an exciting journey of maturation that challenges you to apply what you've learned during your "singledom" to another level of existence that is self-less and shared.
In my opinion, the sentiment accompanying the desire to marry should be "to be more fulfilled" or "to make life more robust" or "to cause beautiful chaos." The decision to get married should make the decision-maker feel as if he or she is moving toward freedom of emotion or opinion or self. The choice to get married should make you feel that you are going toward more good.
In my opinion, marriage should be a "revving up;" it should provide opportunity to be more lively; it should make you feel most comfortable.
In my opinion, if you feel that you are "settling," reassess your situation, and when you realize that your situation is wrong, chuck up your deuces, say "Beace!," and dash--for both your sakes.
Don't settle--for anything.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
3oudak neja 7ayati
I listen intently as he plucks at the fine strings--and every time, without fail, the reverberation shakes my inner spirit. He saves me, but he does not know it.
Through my periphery, I see news anchors describing the anguish suffered by and the survivalist spirit embodied in the Chilean miners who are finally being freed from the confines of their 68-day hole home. They save me, but they do not know it.
I come back to my listening...I am pulled back to his 3oud.
I know I should pay attention to the developments of the rescue mission, to what is going on in the world. I can't help but be pulled back to il 3oud. The Chileans were trapped in a mine in Chile. His 3oud is trapping me in a dream in Palestine, and I am a happy prisoner.
Simultaneously somber and sweet, painfully patriotic--I want to cry but pride dries my tears before they ever leave their ducts.
...Il 3oud, his strings...
And then I stop them...the first miner is out. This needs my attention. He has been rescued. I have been rescued many times before, by the grace of God al 7amdulilah.
The miner, the feisty, high-spirited miner, who just left the compound of the underground, is leading a cheer and is fist-pumping and is so alive that it makes me feel weak.
He too has been saved by the 3oud essentially. A system of thin sticks, strings saved him and will save the rest.
...This scene is making me teary...
What must it feel like to see the outside and your loved ones for the first time in months? Is there muscle-memory in the brain? Does it seem as if just yesterday, you were here, outside?
It does--for the 3oud that I keep going back to reminds me of that which is good for me and it soothes away that which is not favorable.
These scenes will be etched in newspapers, magazines, and memory books. And every time I hear this 3oud, I will see the Chilean miners and feel their exhilaration...and that spirit will rescue me from my strain and self.
And it will go back to, "3oudak neja 7ayati."
Through my periphery, I see news anchors describing the anguish suffered by and the survivalist spirit embodied in the Chilean miners who are finally being freed from the confines of their 68-day hole home. They save me, but they do not know it.
I come back to my listening...I am pulled back to his 3oud.
I know I should pay attention to the developments of the rescue mission, to what is going on in the world. I can't help but be pulled back to il 3oud. The Chileans were trapped in a mine in Chile. His 3oud is trapping me in a dream in Palestine, and I am a happy prisoner.
Simultaneously somber and sweet, painfully patriotic--I want to cry but pride dries my tears before they ever leave their ducts.
...Il 3oud, his strings...
And then I stop them...the first miner is out. This needs my attention. He has been rescued. I have been rescued many times before, by the grace of God al 7amdulilah.
The miner, the feisty, high-spirited miner, who just left the compound of the underground, is leading a cheer and is fist-pumping and is so alive that it makes me feel weak.
He too has been saved by the 3oud essentially. A system of thin sticks, strings saved him and will save the rest.
...This scene is making me teary...
What must it feel like to see the outside and your loved ones for the first time in months? Is there muscle-memory in the brain? Does it seem as if just yesterday, you were here, outside?
It does--for the 3oud that I keep going back to reminds me of that which is good for me and it soothes away that which is not favorable.
These scenes will be etched in newspapers, magazines, and memory books. And every time I hear this 3oud, I will see the Chilean miners and feel their exhilaration...and that spirit will rescue me from my strain and self.
And it will go back to, "3oudak neja 7ayati."
Saturday, October 2, 2010
"The Creation" by Khalil Gibran
As readers may have noticed, I have not been inspired enough to write my own words lately. But, Khalil Gibran is a staple inspiration, and so, I've decided to write his.
"The God separated a spirit from Himself and fashioned it into beauty. He showered upon her all the blessings of gracefulness and kindness. He gave her the cup of happiness and said, "Drink not from this cup unless you forget the past and the future, for happiness is naught but the moment." And He also gave her a cup of sorrow and said, "Drink from this cup and you will understand the meaning of the fleeting instants of the joy of life, for sorrow ever abounds."
And the God bestowed upon her a love that would desert her forever upon her first sigh of earthly satisfaction, and a sweetness that would vanish with her first awareness of flattery.
And He gave her wisdom from heaven to lead her to the all-righteous path, and placed in the depth of her heart an eye that sees the unseen, and created in her an affection and goodness toward all things. He dressed her with raiment of hopes spun by the angels of heaven from the sinews of the rainbow. And He cloaked her in the shadow of confusion, which is the dawn of life and light.
Then the God took consuming fire from the furnace of anger, and searing wind from the desert of ignorance, and sharp-cutting sands from the shore of selfishness, and coarse earth from under the feet of age, and combined them all and fashioned man. He gave to man a blind power that rages and drives him into a madness which extinguishes only before gratification of desire, and placed life in him which is the spectre of death.
And the God laughed and cried. He felt an overwhelming love and pity for man, and sheltered him beneath His guidance."
Sunday, May 30, 2010
The Beautiful Game
I've always had an appreciation for sports--the hard work, the dedication, the perseverance, the talent that it requires. But even during my days as a tae kwon do competitor or those when I was captain of the No. 1 cheerleading squad in the archdiocese (my stints on track and field and field hockey teams are negligible but I'll mention them here to display my history in sports) never brought me as much excitement as did my days on the futbol/soccer field.
And nothing--not even my plays on defense or as midfielder--gets me hyped up like the World Cup.
People often make competition on the field a metaphor for the battles they face in life: mentally, spiritually, politically. Italian fans, for example, held up a massive Palestinian flag as an act of solidarity with Palestinians during a game against the Israeli team.
The game also serves national interests--a win somehow instantly elevates a country's place in our universe's hierarchy. The U.S. may be the world's "super power," but Italy, at least in regard to the last World Cup, is the world's soccer power, and that means a lot more to a lot of people. A team of 11+ represents its nation's pride--the team is the country's reputation. But this is not always positive. Players may also be punished for simulated treason, the penalty sometimes a "honor killing." Recently, Paraguay's Salvador Cabanas was shot in the head in a bar in Mexico, although the motive is not yet known. In 1994, Columbian player Andres Escobar was allegedly assassinated for scoring on his own team, which subsequently lost its game against the U.S.A., and its World Cup bid. There are many other stories of disgrace, murder, and suicide, involving players, owners, referees, and even fans--likely more in futbol than in any other sport. Each incident drives a stake in the seriousness with which the game is taken--and its representation of the brutal perils of life.
Yet, even with these tragic tales, futbol still remains less a war and more a common denominator. Virtually every country or tribe in the world has its own form of the game, and a history in it. A game will pick-up in the streets of the favela--sticks as goal posts, gravel rather than manicured grass--just as swiftly as a ball flying over a hill side in Beitilu, kicked by the town's stalkiest of defenders who kicks up earth with his spike-less sneakers. Older players offering tales of playing shoeless and owning the roughness of the sport; younger hopefuls enhancing advanced acrobatic techniques that take the ball from behind the heels to before the instep to inside the goal. And, of course, there are countries who are better known for their skills on the field than others--but everywhere, someone is playing and someone is good.
And teams are mixed: An English team has a Portuguese player; an American team has a British player, Portugal has a Lebanese player, the French team had an Algerian player. Israelis and Palestinians have even played on the same side.
Fans are mixed too and, when their countries are not represented in the games, their cheering may be mixed. For instance, during the 2006 World Cup, I, a mishmash of Palestinian, Hungarian, and German heritages, living in the U.S., chose France as my team for two particular reasons: 1. There was no Palestinian team in the Cup; and 2. Zinedine Zidane. He, ethnically Algerian and religiously Muslim, was as close to a "brother" as I was going to get; he was my Palestinian. He, on the cusp of retirement, was also the legend who was writing his legacy with his kicks and passes and gestures right before my eyes for a final time--and he signed his memoirs with a headbutt. I was angry, sad, stupified, and proud all at the same time: I didn't want his career to end that way yet I loved him for it--he exemplified the noble Arab man acting and defending when a creep made an insidious remark against his women kinfolk. Yes, Zidane did just fine as my honorary Palestinian.
I could go on for days about the beautiful complexity of this relatively simple game. There is so much to say, so many examples to give--but I won't. For the futbol/soccer narrative is constantly being added to, and I would rather watch, shout, jump, and cheer than worry about trying to catch a blog post up. After all, the world is on the cusp of the next novel in the series, preparing for the 2010 World Cup in South Africa (I'll be in Palestine for most of it :D).
13 days to go...a myriad of metaphors to come, all sure to be beautiful in one form or another.
And nothing--not even my plays on defense or as midfielder--gets me hyped up like the World Cup.
People often make competition on the field a metaphor for the battles they face in life: mentally, spiritually, politically. Italian fans, for example, held up a massive Palestinian flag as an act of solidarity with Palestinians during a game against the Israeli team.
The game also serves national interests--a win somehow instantly elevates a country's place in our universe's hierarchy. The U.S. may be the world's "super power," but Italy, at least in regard to the last World Cup, is the world's soccer power, and that means a lot more to a lot of people. A team of 11+ represents its nation's pride--the team is the country's reputation. But this is not always positive. Players may also be punished for simulated treason, the penalty sometimes a "honor killing." Recently, Paraguay's Salvador Cabanas was shot in the head in a bar in Mexico, although the motive is not yet known. In 1994, Columbian player Andres Escobar was allegedly assassinated for scoring on his own team, which subsequently lost its game against the U.S.A., and its World Cup bid. There are many other stories of disgrace, murder, and suicide, involving players, owners, referees, and even fans--likely more in futbol than in any other sport. Each incident drives a stake in the seriousness with which the game is taken--and its representation of the brutal perils of life.
Yet, even with these tragic tales, futbol still remains less a war and more a common denominator. Virtually every country or tribe in the world has its own form of the game, and a history in it. A game will pick-up in the streets of the favela--sticks as goal posts, gravel rather than manicured grass--just as swiftly as a ball flying over a hill side in Beitilu, kicked by the town's stalkiest of defenders who kicks up earth with his spike-less sneakers. Older players offering tales of playing shoeless and owning the roughness of the sport; younger hopefuls enhancing advanced acrobatic techniques that take the ball from behind the heels to before the instep to inside the goal. And, of course, there are countries who are better known for their skills on the field than others--but everywhere, someone is playing and someone is good.
And teams are mixed: An English team has a Portuguese player; an American team has a British player, Portugal has a Lebanese player, the French team had an Algerian player. Israelis and Palestinians have even played on the same side.
Fans are mixed too and, when their countries are not represented in the games, their cheering may be mixed. For instance, during the 2006 World Cup, I, a mishmash of Palestinian, Hungarian, and German heritages, living in the U.S., chose France as my team for two particular reasons: 1. There was no Palestinian team in the Cup; and 2. Zinedine Zidane. He, ethnically Algerian and religiously Muslim, was as close to a "brother" as I was going to get; he was my Palestinian. He, on the cusp of retirement, was also the legend who was writing his legacy with his kicks and passes and gestures right before my eyes for a final time--and he signed his memoirs with a headbutt. I was angry, sad, stupified, and proud all at the same time: I didn't want his career to end that way yet I loved him for it--he exemplified the noble Arab man acting and defending when a creep made an insidious remark against his women kinfolk. Yes, Zidane did just fine as my honorary Palestinian.
I could go on for days about the beautiful complexity of this relatively simple game. There is so much to say, so many examples to give--but I won't. For the futbol/soccer narrative is constantly being added to, and I would rather watch, shout, jump, and cheer than worry about trying to catch a blog post up. After all, the world is on the cusp of the next novel in the series, preparing for the 2010 World Cup in South Africa (I'll be in Palestine for most of it :D).
13 days to go...a myriad of metaphors to come, all sure to be beautiful in one form or another.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Hatim's hand
It's somewhat disconcerting to see my father in the patient's chair: "somewhat" because I know that this is not a major operation or medical issue--he is at the dentist's office, and the dentist is my friend; "disconcerting" because what I see, at its core, is still Hatim, my father, in the patient's chair.
I wanted to type this as it was happening but I couldn't take my eyes off of what was going on in front of me. I had to watch Radi perform, but more keenly, keep my eye on Hatim's hand. Raising his hand would signal that he feels pain. On my watch, Hatim is not allowed to be in pain--and so I kept watch and decided to record this blog in my brain, and release it later [which is now].
Hatim's hand represents isharat alem in ways that extend beyond dental procedures. As I stare at Hatim's hand, his fingers curled around the ends of the arm rests, I notice his white knuckles and the staggering shades of flesh--tan, beige, lighter, darker--interrupted by darkest-brown hairs. I sense the remnants of his burns...
...1970s. An age of youthfulness and whimsey--full of spontaneity and newness and promise in the land of "opportunity." Hatim (who would become my dad), Yousef (who would become khalee), and their families had been in the U.S. for a relatively short while now. Life was robust and fiesty. Hatim and Yousef were more than cousins--they were friends--and they would expend much of their youthful energy together. So it was natural that they were together that day in the car when the accident happened.
The story has been told to me several times--car, intersection, intersecting, woman, crash, flipped, fire, escape, where is Yousef?
...hospital, skin graft, hands...
Hatim didn't raise his hand, al 7amdulilah.
Allah yir7amak, khalee.
I wanted to type this as it was happening but I couldn't take my eyes off of what was going on in front of me. I had to watch Radi perform, but more keenly, keep my eye on Hatim's hand. Raising his hand would signal that he feels pain. On my watch, Hatim is not allowed to be in pain--and so I kept watch and decided to record this blog in my brain, and release it later [which is now].
Hatim's hand represents isharat alem in ways that extend beyond dental procedures. As I stare at Hatim's hand, his fingers curled around the ends of the arm rests, I notice his white knuckles and the staggering shades of flesh--tan, beige, lighter, darker--interrupted by darkest-brown hairs. I sense the remnants of his burns...
...1970s. An age of youthfulness and whimsey--full of spontaneity and newness and promise in the land of "opportunity." Hatim (who would become my dad), Yousef (who would become khalee), and their families had been in the U.S. for a relatively short while now. Life was robust and fiesty. Hatim and Yousef were more than cousins--they were friends--and they would expend much of their youthful energy together. So it was natural that they were together that day in the car when the accident happened.
The story has been told to me several times--car, intersection, intersecting, woman, crash, flipped, fire, escape, where is Yousef?
...hospital, skin graft, hands...
Hatim didn't raise his hand, al 7amdulilah.
Allah yir7amak, khalee.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Sounds in Ni3lin
"'Boom, boom, boom;' Sittik says I was imitating the sounds of the bombs going off when Ariel Sharon was attacking nearby Qibya. I was a toddler--maybe two, maybe one. That was when we were in Ni3lin."
I snicker when I think of a baby Hatim. I have always considered my dad a handsome man, and going backward from now, quite a cute kid--at least, that's how the black and white photos depict him. I can't help but visualize a pudgy little bouton under a white, light cotton undershirt, khaki shorts, white socks, extra virgin olive skin, the nascent edition of his now bushy eyebrows, goo-gooing, "boom, boom, BOOM!"
The snicker is short and gives way to temporary paralysis--my eyes widen and lose any luster as I draw away from the present and am sucked into the crevices of my mind; my thoughts and my sadness; into a history that is mine by way of my father.
Maybe that's why Allah gave me black eyes--so that no one can really tell how far back I fall in these moments. I appear glazed and frozen, but I am not: Being this incensed can be likened to boiling water that burns so hot it stings like frostbite.
I bite my bottom lip and furrow my nose and brow as I fight the tears that I know will inevitably fall--but I have to make it harder for them to come. Fighting against myself, I look like I'm ready to unleash a wild fury that would have to be censored.
..."boom, BOOM"...
After all, to me, this baby is particularly special--this baby became my father; this baby, who learned how to make sounds by imitating bombs, became my Hatim. This baby was me before I ever was.
I wonder how many babies are in Ni3lin today, learning the sound of sound and of voice by imitating racist, murderous, criminal noise articulated by bombs and guns and tanks and F-16s. I wonder if any will experience a sonic boom, like their brethren in Gaza: A sound-knife twisting into the eardrums and slicing the silence of the night at random intervals--something that can be likened to a screech so jarring that it singes the follicles in the ear canal and leaves nothing except the incessant ringing of white noise. Everything will go silent as those babies and their mothers watch blood drip from their noses and feel their organs rattle inside.
.."boom, [sonic] BOOM"...
I wonder what sounds the little boy in the blue cap has been imitating...I wonder if he will be among the babies in Ni3lin who will actually live long enough to have children with whom they can share their first-sounds stories... And I pray that if he has that chance, his story will not start with "boom, boom, boom."
I snicker when I think of a baby Hatim. I have always considered my dad a handsome man, and going backward from now, quite a cute kid--at least, that's how the black and white photos depict him. I can't help but visualize a pudgy little bouton under a white, light cotton undershirt, khaki shorts, white socks, extra virgin olive skin, the nascent edition of his now bushy eyebrows, goo-gooing, "boom, boom, BOOM!"
The snicker is short and gives way to temporary paralysis--my eyes widen and lose any luster as I draw away from the present and am sucked into the crevices of my mind; my thoughts and my sadness; into a history that is mine by way of my father.
Maybe that's why Allah gave me black eyes--so that no one can really tell how far back I fall in these moments. I appear glazed and frozen, but I am not: Being this incensed can be likened to boiling water that burns so hot it stings like frostbite.
I bite my bottom lip and furrow my nose and brow as I fight the tears that I know will inevitably fall--but I have to make it harder for them to come. Fighting against myself, I look like I'm ready to unleash a wild fury that would have to be censored.
..."boom, BOOM"...
After all, to me, this baby is particularly special--this baby became my father; this baby, who learned how to make sounds by imitating bombs, became my Hatim. This baby was me before I ever was.
I wonder how many babies are in Ni3lin today, learning the sound of sound and of voice by imitating racist, murderous, criminal noise articulated by bombs and guns and tanks and F-16s. I wonder if any will experience a sonic boom, like their brethren in Gaza: A sound-knife twisting into the eardrums and slicing the silence of the night at random intervals--something that can be likened to a screech so jarring that it singes the follicles in the ear canal and leaves nothing except the incessant ringing of white noise. Everything will go silent as those babies and their mothers watch blood drip from their noses and feel their organs rattle inside.
.."boom, [sonic] BOOM"...
I wonder what sounds the little boy in the blue cap has been imitating...I wonder if he will be among the babies in Ni3lin who will actually live long enough to have children with whom they can share their first-sounds stories... And I pray that if he has that chance, his story will not start with "boom, boom, boom."
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
What dreams may come...
On Jan. 18, 2010, I had a dream...
...Not a dream like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had, even though it arrived in my mind the night of his holiday. My dream will not lead civil rights movements; it likely won't affect or impress many--if any. But it's managed to occupy my mind for these few days and is worth recording in my opinion [and those of a few encouraging others], so here I go:
Disclaimer: Several-days removal will likely affect memory of the entire cerebral film, so I'm excusing myself from the obligation of including every detail.
OK, for real now, here I go:
I'm in Palestine, and I'm alone--and apparently lost. I see shari3 il Khala, as if I'm gliding past and through it, but I never touch the gravel. Perhaps I'm in a car, looking out the window; perhaps I'm floating. Panning out, I now realize that I'm moving within the confines of a yellow VW Bug that looks a little different than those available at the car lots, but I know--in my dream's mind--that it is this car of this color in this place.
Next, I'm stopped at a "checkpoint" (??), which consists of a yield-area on a sideroad exiting Tysons Corner mall and leading to the on-ramp to 495 S. I've yielded to a man of small stature and small mind, who is holding a clipboard and mumbling something or other--nothing audible. Without instruction but by instinct, I offer him a paper-copy of my passport picture...or was it the copy of my mom's passport? Both were folded up and sitting in the console of my yellow VW. It doesn't matter--he accepted it and waved me off to continue. As soon as I start to climb the ramp, I'm transported elsewhere...
Elsewhere, in this dream, is the Armenian quarter of the Old City of Jerusalem (I know it because I recognize the shops and the cafe that I've escaped to for a cold drink or ice cream during a hot day of shopping--the same cafe at which, in 2007, the Chobar lady shared her time and stories over 3aseer). In that corner of the quarter--in my dream--is a small amphitheater-like space that is half inside and half out. It is made of wood (must be olive) and rock; fashionable greenery peeking out of select corners and crevices; chairs, bleachers, and a stage; a crowd of internationals and a handful of young Palestinians gather to watch a show. It's all so "Def Poetry Jam"-esque [aside: the vision is so vivid, reminiscent of the colors and auras depicted in "What Dreams May Come"; I want to touch everything; my eyes gulp the scene in as if their existence depends on it; it's awesome and I'm amazed and aware of this even in the dream.]
I see him in profile, prancing across the bleachers from outside to in. Xxx? He comes at me and looks at me as if I had been his girlfriend for all these years--but I knew nothing of it. He tells me that he's arranged for me to discuss my life and share stories with the audience that has gathered here--but I'm unprepared. He escorts me to the top bleachers, in the back, where we can talk and be alone, except there is a guy sitting right to his right. I look at the stage; no one is performing yet. I lean over and whisper something in his left ear and touch his rook with the tip of my tongue...
This propels him into an action that I'm going to spare the readers and leave in the nooks of my dream's memories. I will write that my eyes widened out of shock, flattery, disgust, and the comedy of the situation. The guy right on his right seems clueless or unaffected somehow, which causes me even more amazement.
Suddenly, I'm on deck--either preparing to go on stage or just standing there to view the crowd from this perspective. And then, I see Jermaine Dupri holding Janet Jackson's right hand with his left, and leading her to the backstage area. She is laughing about something; and from behind me a voice whispers something about how stylishly the couple is dressed.
IL NIHAYA
...Not a dream like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had, even though it arrived in my mind the night of his holiday. My dream will not lead civil rights movements; it likely won't affect or impress many--if any. But it's managed to occupy my mind for these few days and is worth recording in my opinion [and those of a few encouraging others], so here I go:
Disclaimer: Several-days removal will likely affect memory of the entire cerebral film, so I'm excusing myself from the obligation of including every detail.
OK, for real now, here I go:
I'm in Palestine, and I'm alone--and apparently lost. I see shari3 il Khala, as if I'm gliding past and through it, but I never touch the gravel. Perhaps I'm in a car, looking out the window; perhaps I'm floating. Panning out, I now realize that I'm moving within the confines of a yellow VW Bug that looks a little different than those available at the car lots, but I know--in my dream's mind--that it is this car of this color in this place.
Next, I'm stopped at a "checkpoint" (??), which consists of a yield-area on a sideroad exiting Tysons Corner mall and leading to the on-ramp to 495 S. I've yielded to a man of small stature and small mind, who is holding a clipboard and mumbling something or other--nothing audible. Without instruction but by instinct, I offer him a paper-copy of my passport picture...or was it the copy of my mom's passport? Both were folded up and sitting in the console of my yellow VW. It doesn't matter--he accepted it and waved me off to continue. As soon as I start to climb the ramp, I'm transported elsewhere...
Elsewhere, in this dream, is the Armenian quarter of the Old City of Jerusalem (I know it because I recognize the shops and the cafe that I've escaped to for a cold drink or ice cream during a hot day of shopping--the same cafe at which, in 2007, the Chobar lady shared her time and stories over 3aseer). In that corner of the quarter--in my dream--is a small amphitheater-like space that is half inside and half out. It is made of wood (must be olive) and rock; fashionable greenery peeking out of select corners and crevices; chairs, bleachers, and a stage; a crowd of internationals and a handful of young Palestinians gather to watch a show. It's all so "Def Poetry Jam"-esque [aside: the vision is so vivid, reminiscent of the colors and auras depicted in "What Dreams May Come"; I want to touch everything; my eyes gulp the scene in as if their existence depends on it; it's awesome and I'm amazed and aware of this even in the dream.]
I see him in profile, prancing across the bleachers from outside to in. Xxx? He comes at me and looks at me as if I had been his girlfriend for all these years--but I knew nothing of it. He tells me that he's arranged for me to discuss my life and share stories with the audience that has gathered here--but I'm unprepared. He escorts me to the top bleachers, in the back, where we can talk and be alone, except there is a guy sitting right to his right. I look at the stage; no one is performing yet. I lean over and whisper something in his left ear and touch his rook with the tip of my tongue...
This propels him into an action that I'm going to spare the readers and leave in the nooks of my dream's memories. I will write that my eyes widened out of shock, flattery, disgust, and the comedy of the situation. The guy right on his right seems clueless or unaffected somehow, which causes me even more amazement.
Suddenly, I'm on deck--either preparing to go on stage or just standing there to view the crowd from this perspective. And then, I see Jermaine Dupri holding Janet Jackson's right hand with his left, and leading her to the backstage area. She is laughing about something; and from behind me a voice whispers something about how stylishly the couple is dressed.
IL NIHAYA
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
people.live
+ beitilu.. ramallah.. deiryassin.. deirdibwan.. alquds. .altour.. beitin. .elbireh. .qalqilya.. ghaza.. khanyounis.. 3akka.. 7aifa.. yafa.. ellod.. nablus.. silwad.. beit3or.. elkhalil.. elnasrah.. beitla7m.. aljaniyah.. eldehesha.. eljalazon.. 3izariyah.. abughosh.. tabareeyah.. beit7anina.. sheikhjarra7.. elramle.. qalandiya.. jebelelzeitoon.. beisan.. tulkaram.. jenin.. safad.. 3aynilzeitoon.. abushoushah.. abuzureiq.. 3inghazal.. khirbatelburj.. eshsheikhbureik.. eltireh.. nasreldin.. elubeidiya.. elmawasi.. elwuheib.. ghazawiya.. elhamra.. beityousef.. kawkabelhawa.. elmurassas.. elsafa.. elsamiriya.. ummajra.. elbarid.. 3inelmansi.. elfandaqumiya.. elmazar.. khirbatelmutilla.. elrama.. ummelfa7m.. birkatramadan.. deirelghusun.. khirbatabuharfil.. elras.. ummkhalid.. beitdajan.. deirsharaf.. elfunduq.. rafat.. sabastiya.. elsawiya.. zeita.. abukishk.. elmirr.. abuelfadi.. elbarriya.. deirabusalama.. el7aditha.. elkheima.. khirbatmusmar.. elkunaiyisa.. ellubban.. ni3lin.. beitrima.. beituniya.. beirzeit.. 3in3irik.. 3inyabrud.. rammoun.. raskarkar.. turmusaya.. abudis.. beitfajar.. deirelhawa.. 3inkaram.. jarash.. elmali7a.. silwan.. elwalaja.. benisuheila.. deirelbala7.. majdal.. raf7.. tellelturmus.. beitjibrin.. deirnakhas.. khirbatummburj.. elqubeiba.. erri7a.. umrashrash.. abusitteh.. abumiddain.. raasalnaqurah.. netanya.. raasel3in.. beitsafafa.. miska.. beitjibrin.. deirmu7isin.. zarnuqa.. birelsaba.. 3ashqelan.. elsheikh3awad.. birketelustaz.. elqashle.. qibya.. kafrqasem.. ummalfaraj.. alnahr.. deirtarif.. deirballut.. lifta.. deirelghusun.. beitliqya.. beit7anun.. 3alma.. 3kbarah.. alraasala7mar.. sa3sa3.. al3olmaniya.. alzoqalta7taniya.. albirwah.. deiralqasi.. koweekat.. altl.. alzeeb.. 3inghazal.. ijzim.. almazar.. yajur.. sireen.. alfatoor.. aljalama.. qaqoon.. abualfadl.. 3aqr.. deirtareef.. zarnooqa.. beitdaras.. bareer.. isdood.. juseer.. simsim.. 3arabsaqreer.. umm7amdan.. tellelza3tar.. ummelkhair.. beitsa7our.. aldhahireeyah.. halhoola.. jabaleeya.. qabateeya.. tubaas.. yatta.. salfeet.. beitjala.. beitlaheeya.. +
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Hatim's Response to William
My passion for Palestine is apparent--and inherent: I get much of it from my dad.
With his permission, I've posted one-fifth of an e-mail exchange between himself, and Prof. William Cook, an English professor at the University of LaVerne, who frequently writes about Palestine (a sample: http://kanan48.wordpress.com/2009/09/27/a-world-without-law-by-professor-william-a-cook/).
[By-the-by, the two have seemingly become e-mail buddies now, as is exemplified through Cook's opening and closing remarks in the response he sent to the note posted below: "Dear Hatim, I trust you are not discombobulated by my use of your given name; I feel we have a friend's dialogue going here, one that I hope will keep going for some time...Hatim, I must go, soup's on. Peace, Bill."]
While you do not have the full exchange between these two writers, in reading my dad's e-mail, you will feel the humanity and the life that thumps in the Palestinian heartbeat, and that is why we are sharing it with you. 3eesh!
From: Hatim Khatib
Sent: Saturday, December 26, 2009 12:28 PM
To: William Cook
Subject: RE: Palestinian Sentiments Not In Vogue
Dear Professor Cook,
I’ll let you in on a secret. In moments of reverie, Palestine recedes as a thing of intellect, of rationality, of strategy and power plays. In those moments, she rises as attachment, oneness, interiority, but mainly as pure passion. Intellectually, Palestine is easily explainable, especially for those with no delusions, prejudices, or allegiances. It’s no exaggeration that most Palestinians, just on merit, are willing and reasonably qualified interlocutors. At any café in any Palestinian street, the average habitué would be all too eager to engage in variegated discourse on Palestine with any other, without regard for the other’s academic credentials or station. The outcome of such engagements is never a sure thing. Palestinians’ articulation of Palestine is not prescribed only by or for academics, notables, clerics, or politicians; it emanates from the narrative that is within our chests and hearts. We are all laureates for Palestine.
Sent: Saturday, December 26, 2009 12:28 PM
To: William Cook
Subject: RE: Palestinian Sentiments Not In Vogue
Dear Professor Cook,
I’ll let you in on a secret. In moments of reverie, Palestine recedes as a thing of intellect, of rationality, of strategy and power plays. In those moments, she rises as attachment, oneness, interiority, but mainly as pure passion. Intellectually, Palestine is easily explainable, especially for those with no delusions, prejudices, or allegiances. It’s no exaggeration that most Palestinians, just on merit, are willing and reasonably qualified interlocutors. At any café in any Palestinian street, the average habitué would be all too eager to engage in variegated discourse on Palestine with any other, without regard for the other’s academic credentials or station. The outcome of such engagements is never a sure thing. Palestinians’ articulation of Palestine is not prescribed only by or for academics, notables, clerics, or politicians; it emanates from the narrative that is within our chests and hearts. We are all laureates for Palestine.
The expression of Palestine, however, is not restricted to Palestinians. I have quite often encountered people from all over the world whose facility with Palestine was incredibly and pleasingly surprising. Regrettably, once those encounters were over, they’d go on and I’d be left with an unchanged, unpromised, undelivered Palestine.
Nonetheless, hope for more lingers. But even those encounters become worn with etiquette, monotony, and roll-play; with expectations and accommodations; with compromises and concessions. We Palestinians, in addition to sustaining the wound of dispossession and displacement and negation, have to bear, however willing and eager, the burdens and gravity of being interlocutors and articulators. We are, at others’ whims, on display as individuals and nation, being required to perform and explain—expectedly, conformably, and correctly.
Now I must speak from inside Palestine, as if it were the only place in the universe. For me, in my youth, and now in my memory, it was. Palestine was waking up on father’s command to early school mornings bursting with light and fresh air just arriving from surrounding hills and valleys to replace the exhalations of the previous night’s repose; predictably sunny blue skies and a few hops to school for reuniting with buddies; hurried wrestling matches to even scores after a breakfast of eggs and thyme and olive oil, with warm milk or tea, served by adoring mothers. Palestine lives matchless in its beauty and what it offered us, its sons and daughters. I remember well its long, sunny days, its tantalizingly overhead stars, its sensuous moonlit nights, and hypnotizingly silhouetted night stillness enveloping all its charges (families in stone houses, animals in bins, orchards of apricot, fig, and plum, and mountains of olive trees).
Palestine, within minutes, was the vaulted streets of Old Jerusalem, where I was born, and their smells of every Palestinian palate (desserts, artfully raised pyramids of spices, meats, fish), of linens and silks, of second-hand shoes, the warning shouts and furtive stares of Herculean street porters, shoulder-to-shoulder congestions of shoppers at once salivating for what’s on display and basking in the holiness that surrounds them. It is the most vivid hustle and bustle vociferated in myriad Palestinian idioms, from the delicately arrogant city dialect to the Falahi drawls (so distinct according to village) to the occasional Bedouin’s. Yes, and within minutes, Palestine displays its other side of beauty: bald hills, desolation, and ravines in one instant, and, in another, lush verdant plains and hillsides, marauding bleating sheep and goats, and fluting shepherds whose notes serenade the true story of the land and its people.
Palestine was annual school trips to Palestinian cities (Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Hebron, Nablus, Tulkarim, Jenin, Jaresh, once to Amman), always ending at the Dead Sea for a dip that would literally crystallize underwear—we never bothered with, or had, swim suits—in which we would make the trip back home, quite uncomfortably. Not only that, but we would go to bed in them that night. No mother, never mind how loving, would get up at 2:00 in the morning to relieve the suffering of children, who had the time of their lives that day, from the Dead Sea’s last laugh.
For me, Palestine, save for occasional growing pains, was all beauty and pure youthful pleasure. I’ll never forget Ramallah, where I went to school, or our walks to school from the bus stop and the sinuous detours we took to ensure at least distant sightings of girls going to theirs; or the long lines at Abdo’s falafel stand for a sandwich to wolf down while at the cinemas for a double-feature show, typically an Egyptian and an American western, and the utter chaos when a rare Technicolor Indian movie would be showing. Oh, Ramallah’s afternoons, after school in any season (slow paced spring’s serenity, fall’s tumult of windblown hair and skirts and discarded newspapers) and of old buses humming, exerting, brakes squeaking, readying to head to the steeper rural climbs of Palestine, loaded and noisy with people and fluttering fowl.
Palestine is the symbols we chanted and picked from elementary school readings: usurped Palestine; Yaffa (“The Bride of the Sea”); the battle of Qastal; the martyrship of Abd Al-Qader Al-Husseini; Deir Yassin; and Nasser’s speeches our parents listened to with abatjours shut, especially when relations between King Hussein and Nasser soured. It was the pain and longing and sheer curiosity we felt in our guts as children when we saw from Beitilu (our ancestral village to which we returned during school holidays) the bobbing, dancing lights, and glitter of what must have been Yaffa in what we methodically called Filistine al Muhtella (“Occupied Palestine”). This, very briefly, was the Palestine of youth.
Today the mere mention or sight or debate or discussion of it, whether on television or radio, or in a classroom or a lecture hall, or in a garage or barbershop, causes stirring, pulsating, collective yawning from difficult breathing, and writhing pain that is aggravated by our attempts at hiding it. I shout halfheartedly to my daughter from my bedroom if there is a program on Gaza or the Wall or a land grab for a new settlement, knowing the further frustrations and despair that’ll bring to us, especially to her. We know it’s just easier to avoid such things, but it’s nearly impossible. We are helplessly drawn to anything Palestine. The betrayal I feel as a father when I steel at her face (red hair, freckles and all) while watching those programs in which people from foreign places, with countries and homes and families untouched by what’s being shown, talk to Palestinians, and at them, in disparate tenors and for disparate aims, and know what she is going through. I am at once watching the pain on television and the one invading the insides of my goddess-daughter. I monitor her every move; her sighs and frequency of her yawns (indications of stress), scalping, look-aways, her hand movement, and, finally, her toes, her absolutely serene, civil, very human toes.
I’ve always watched my family’s toes and psychoanalyzed each member accordingly. My brother’s, even as a child, have always prostrated perfectly horizontally flush with his feet and, occasionally, rather peaceably, with live-and-let-live attitude, dipped downward. That, in my mind, always explained his even temper, emotional stamina, and patience. My daughter shares those attributes with my brother, but mainly with her mother, who, from her beginnings, has been a personification of virtue and the pride of our entire family. Conversely, mine, like my younger brother’s and sister’s, have always been restive and raised, sheer insight into my pugnacity and impatience. My family’s toes, hands, hair, eyes, torsos, teeth, smiles, yawns, winks, and twitches are what I see as representations of my family’s utter irreplaceability and the virtual impossibility of life without them. Horrifically, however, to a 22-year-old Israeli punk at any crossing or roadblock in Palestine, my family is so dispensable and irrelevant.
When I saw on television the destruction of Palestinians in Sabra and Shatilla, in Jenin and Tulkarim, and, most recently, in Gaza, I saw Palestine strewn in body parts (skulls and teeth and torsos and hair), in unfinished smiles and conversations, in halted tears, in aborted fears, unconsummated weddings and lives, courtesy of Israeli missiles signed by Israeli children. I see Palestine scattered in toes.
This is when Palestine ceases to be an intellectual exchange or a strategy, or just a rehearsed demonstration and speech, and becomes raw passion. When you write about Palestine, you are one of the very few who do so with conviction, truth, and passion—exceptional passion. When I wrote to you, it was in appreciation of your passion for Palestine.
Respectfully,
Hatim
Hatim
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