حر أنا

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

SEMI-SCRATCH THAT

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

but I haven't written ME.

I've been neglecting myself.

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

حر أنا

Yet, I find myself wordless ...

and brain tried (and tired).

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

And inspired in so many others ...

I love my new tri-ring ...

And the potential that encircles it.

حر أنا

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

... or believe in fate or people.

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

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

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

I do not force or blame others.

حر أنا

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

... well

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

He sure is a disappointment.

But only because I allowed him to be ...

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

حر أنا

It was my choice.

It is my choice.

And despite my hesitations and reservations ...

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

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

in

حر أنا

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

 ... and my wishes for the otherwise

... I do believe in fate and people.

Because, regardless of the forced indifference ...

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

I'm not indifferent.

حر أنا

I am who I am ...

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

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

حر احنا

TEDx Ramallah

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

I drove in Palestine

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Allaaaaaaaaaaaahu Akbar. Allaah aaaaaah ahhhhuuuuu Akbar!" 

But this was not a Qur'anic recitation.

This was, he was Saba7 Fakhri,

and he is one of my father's favorites.

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

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

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

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

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

I am very much my dad's.

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

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

Palestine still is...

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

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

Palestine is Hatim listening to the radio...

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

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

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

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