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.

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-teen ...

... Falasteen

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.

***

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?

[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.

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...]

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.

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.

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.