Waiting

I have found, that writing provides solace.

I often wondered, when I read back my memories, oftentimes so dark and haunting, why I never capture the light in my words. I told myself, perhaps, if you could only write about the moments that made you smile, if you could capture a moment of pure bliss, if you could litter your blogs and diaries and social media outlets with love, joy and happiness, perhaps your mind would not be so dark. Perhaps, the default setting would be light.

But I cannot.

When there is happiness, it is fleeting. Far too fleeting to waste time attempting to capture it. It's a moment of pure contentment. A smile that settles as you close your eyes, or a laugh that escapes you unbidden. Try to pinpoint that happiness, and it evaporates. And so, happiness is quickly forgotten, and all that remains is a memory of sadness.

I struggle to remember happiness. I do not look back at my childhood with fond nostalgia, nor do I hold the past with rose tinted glasses. If anything, I look back and see a void, I look around me and all I see are moments biding their time waiting for life to actually begin.

My greatest fear after not finding happiness, is wasting time. I'm afraid of all the time I've wasted crying or in abject misery. I'm afraid I will look back, and struggle to distinguish this year from the past twenty. And every time I fall out of contact with a friend for a few years, and try to reconnect, and they ask me, "so how have you been? What's new with your life?" I'm filled with an immediate sense of dread. Nothing. There's nothing new in my life.

What have I accomplished in the past year? Nothing

In the past three years?

In the past twenty six years?

I cannot grasp anything.

I have accomplished nothing.

I have not saved the world as I once thought I will. I did not free Palestine as I once believed I will. I did not change anything, I have not impacted on humanity in a big way, I have not left a legacy.

I came, and I will go, and nothing will remain from my memory.

I feel so alone. No, I do not feel - I am.

I don't know where I went wrong in my life, I don't know why I know find myself so isolated, but all I can do is wait. Wait for either my soul to heal, or for another soul to encompass mine. I do not dare think that my wait is in vain...because then, I won't have anything worth waiting for.

Remains of the Past

"The universe is one being. Everything and everyone is interconnected through an invisible web of stories. Whether we are aware of it or not, we are all in a silent conversation. Do no harm. Practice compassion. And do not gossip behind anyone’s back – not even a seemingly innocent remark! The words that come out of our mouths do not vanish but are perpetually stored in infinite space and they will come back to us in due time. One man’s pain will hurt us all. One man’s joy will make everyone smile."

There is something enchantingly beautiful about the New Year when you stop and think of it. It's a promise that tempts you in, with a coaxing hug telling you that you can leave things behind. It smells of new beginnings and hopeful days. Things already seem brighter because you're looking at a blank slate and you are the sole author, whereas merely days before you were faced with an angry notebook ridden with scribbles and crossed out angrily in red. Before, you didn't feel like the author of your own pages, you felt fate was throwing you right and left, fighting against a tide so strong that defied every wish and plan you'd made, at the mercy of events tripping you.

This year, I do not want to make empty resolutions that cannot be measured. I do not want to demand vague promises of myself that I will be a better person, that I will forgive more easily, that I will look after my health, that I will smile more. This year, I want to sit down with myself and write myself a life plan. I want to plan the coming year, with measurable quantifiable goals that have deadlines. I want to direct my life and feel that I am truly in control of it. Will things go according to plan? Who knows, but so far, nothing has gone to plan. What have I to lose?

"Try not to resist the changes, which come your way. Instead let life live through you. And do not worry that your life is turning upside down. How do you know that the side you are used to is better than the one to come?"

I hope I will find the time to sit down and plan my year before this post becomes another faded resolution of all those that were wished as the countdown began. 

I wish you a very happy new year. I wish you a year full of happiness and joy, a year of conviction, of finding yourself. A year of making new friends, and catching up with old ones. A year of forgiving yourself, and of forgiving those around you. I am grateful to everyone who is in my life, for they are there for a reason - and I love everyone I have kept in my life, even if I have not told you so, or if I have not spoken to you for so long. 

Validation

There's something about sadness that makes you turn to writing. Perhaps the total loss of hope, the bewilderment of not knowing who to turn to. The craving of attention that's a silent cry of help; remind me who I am. Tell me my worth, show me I am deserving of love.

There's a difference between knowing and feeling. For the most part, I need no validation from society, yet for brutal honesty's sake, I do too. I want to be told it's not true. Not a failure. Not worthless. Worth fighting for. Smart. Fun. Cute. Intelligent. Successful. Inspiration. Just nice. Heart in the right place. It's not true. It's not true. It's not true.

Lost in the seams of insecurity, I try to find myself. Some days with a firm grasp, other days mellowing in self doubt. No need to seem coherent. Your praise is no longer enough. Beyond broken, you'll only cut yourself if you try to help. Keep away. İm just another fake.

Timely Insanity

Practically two thirds of Ramadan is gone, and I have nothing to show for it. At the start, I was riddled with excitement, I thought I was finally changing my outlook, that this month I would exit it a different person than how I entered it.

Spiritually, I was excited. I thought I had almost, almost, grasped the concept of acceptance. That the key to contentment lied in gratitude, that if I could just peel away my perfectionist expectations, if I could take the time to truly appreciate every small thing in life, I would finally find peace. I thought I was on to the clue of happiness and peace and that it would so soon be in my hands.

Every time I get up, I tell myself I will not fall again. Yet I keep falling. I'm insistent in doing the same mistakes again and again, I'm insistent in tripping over the same rocks. Einstein defined insanity as doing the same thing again and again and expecting different results. Perhaps I am insane, for that is what I am doing, repeating my mistakes, and failing again.

Whether it's in my relationship  with God, in my shortcomings and repetitive sins that I just can't seem to bring an end to, no matter how often I say, "never again", or whether it's in the sense of hopelessness I allow myself to fall into repeatedly, the overwhelming black cloud that seems to settle and numb me, make me alternate drastically from indifferent to hypersensitive, a roller-coaster of emotion, change seems far.

There's not much time left. I'm up against a deadline and I don't know when the deadline is. It could come at any moment, and I don't want it to come before I've found the way.

It's not over yet. Let me try to grasp whatever positivity I have left in me and not dwell on the unfortunate happenings in my life. Let me learn how to laugh again and give up the tears. It's a funny thing pouring your heart out to a screen isn't it? It's where you can indulge and not feel like a narcissist, unburden yourself and not feel like a burden. It's where you learn the different shades of you, ones that you'll spend your entire life trying to learn. I think it's you how you view yourself, or you how you wish to view yourself.

Keep loving. Keep giving. Keep smiling. Keep trying.

Eventually, it will make a difference. 

Mother

رحتي و تركتيني 

You went and left me

يا نور عيني يا أمي 

Mother, light of my eyes,

يا أنس ليلي يا 

The comfort in my nights,

رحتي و تركتيني 

You went and left me

Now who's going to wipe my tears away?

If only there was a way to learn before it's too late. If only regret came earlier. If only.

Books

I don't think it's a secret how much of a sucker I am for romantic novels. But whilst before, books would just about dampen my eyes, these few years I've grown more and more sensitive to them, and I end up feeling more pain than probably the writer intended.

It seems they can't be together. You know at the back of your mind that the ending will be happy, that eventually they will get together, but your heart bleeds over the wasted time. I feel like someone has taken a knife and is stabbing repeatedly, again and again at my heart. The pain is so overwhelming, your tears feel choked between a thousand tresses of anguish, their bitterness burning and you're left feeling defenceless in front of the strength of your emotions.

You read over four hundred pages of disappointments, pain, unrequited love, misunderstandings, and only in the very final pages of the book does the hero and heroine get together. Why do books end when they get together? Why can't they get together at the start of the book? Why is marriage always the ending, never the beginning? I'd like to read a book where they get together at the start, where the happy ending isn't the getting together, where marriage isn't seen as the end but as the beginning of the love, where the pain of their separation is only in the first few pages, and the remaining four hundred are coloured with love.

At the back of the book, there was an icon identifying the genre of the book. It works by splitting a pie chart into the genres, and unsurprisingly, the largest segment was allegedly humour, and the smallest pie slice was funnily enough a tear drop.

And still, I spent two hours crying nonstop whilst reading yesterday. 

The Gift of Books

"Noor, what have you ordered from Amazon?"

"Me? Nothing that I recall..."

Over a month ago, Ibraheem was gifted a book, but for some reason, he didn't appear to have the curiosity to tear open the wrapping and tell us what the book chosen was. In fact, it took him a month to let go of the secret. I remember reading how he was used to gifting books, but didn't think he'd been gifted one ever. I remember thinking it's been some time since I've been gifted a book...

Today, I was gifted a book. There's something so beautiful about unexpected gifts - when it's not your birthday, when there is no occasion, no celebration, nothing to mark your day as anything more than ordinary, only for it to be made special by a completely unanticipated move.

I don't actually know how to leave a gift wrapped - and so - unlike Ibraheem, my gift was unwrapped within seconds (I only just remembered to take a picture of it wrapped) and with it, fell memories. 

I won't claim to have Ibraheem's storytelling technique, but I will say I have a reading technique.

Here's to those who gift books, either in their words, or in actions. 

Letters [4]

My dear,

I wish I never saw what I saw. I wish I could pause time and only remember you from the past. I wish you never changed. 

Nobody else matters. But your opinion mattered to me.

And this? It hurts more than every one's betrayal put together.

One day I hope, you'll change your mind. You'll see how wrong you were. You'll know how much you wronged me.

For now, I'll try to look ahead

Carnations and Roses

My favourite flower used to be the carnation. Lately however, I've fallen in love with roses. I've never been such a fan of roses, I liked them, but found their thorns too rough for delicate hands and preferred to enjoy them from afar on rose bushes.

I remember when I proposed this project to a team - giving out roses to members of the public, the predominantly male team - laughed. A few of the brothers looked at me and asked me if I was in all seriousness suggesting they stand in the streets holding flowers. Flowers. Them. No words can adequately capture how aghast some seemed at the idea, but I pushed for it and told them we needed something novel and different for a change.

Looking back, not only was it one of the most successful projects we had, but it was truly enjoyable. I'd woken up at the crack of dawn and went with my friend to the flower market, buckets and buckets of roses and all the other types of flowers were spread out as far as you can see. Roses of every shade, from brilliant white, to ivory creams (which stole my heart) to the utterly beautiful yellows, dusky oranges, deep red's, violet, black...there wasn't a shade of rose you couldn't find. All I wanted to do was buy a professional camera, fix the lightening, and shoot picture after picture of the different roses, long stems, short stems, bunches, singles.

The next step was to dethorn roses. The thorns, that had long made me apprehensive of roses, needed to be removed to make handling easier and to be able to give them out to the public safely. Can you imagine having around 250 long stemmed roses, each one with over 20 thorns? Thorns were removed, stems bled on and cleaned, tags tied upon, packed and driven.

I will never forget the sight of the boys sitting at a table tying tags to roses, or the sight of having bearded salafi looking brothers holding out roses with a flourish and offering them to passersby. But what I most definitely can't forget is calling a friend over for the night so we could spend the evening pricking our fingers with thorns as we cleared the roses out.

That moment, I will forever cherish. It's amazing how beautiful those pure moments are.

So when, this particular friend, gifted me a single, long stem, thorn-less, white rose for my birthday yesterday - I understood the definition of a perfect gift. Out of all the gifts I received this year, this probably cost the least. But it meant the most.

Because perfection isn't bought. It just is. 

Midnight Stalking

It's the time of the night when I'd want to go off tangent on twitter, pour out my heartbreak to the sleeping followers and admit my weakness.

That was before twitter became a public platform though.

Do you ever open someone's profile, and just scroll down and down reading all their comments? Reading every single post they made, wondering what they were thinking of at that precise time, what their words meant, how they were aimed at, and perhaps believing that every single comment held a secret meaning to you that needed to be derived?

It reminds me of a song I once heard, I think it was a cover to You're So Vain, but the concept applies. I do think it's about me. I guess dissolving myself from the notion that I'm not the centre of everyone's world is a hard task for me.

Are you ever compelled to speak to someone even when you know it's a bad idea? To pick up the phone and call them even if you had walked out of each others lives ages ago? To wake them up in the middle of the night with an email whispering come back? To reply to a comment of theirs, 7arkashe if you will.

It's a bad idea not because old friendships can never be restored, but because when friendships end, a lot of hurt on both sides remain. So the second you pick up the phone or start a conversation with them on whatsapp, all that come pouring out are accusations and the bottled hurt. You plan on telling them how much you missed them, how much you need them, how you wish they were still in your life, but the only thing that comes out are the accusations and reproaches. It's a bad idea because with one word, all the barriers you spent years putting up will come falling down, and then you'd have to start again from scratch.

You know something is unwise beyond a doubt - but it takes every ounce of self restraint to act with that wisdom.

Stop looking for hidden messages Noor, if someone wanted to share something with you, they would do so directly. 

Continuing Misconceptions

For the past month, some have been under the illusion that I was a brother. I don't bother correcting such assumptions normally - especially when the majority of work is done via whatsapp and email - because honestly, it's a lot less hassle. 

However, someone on the team decided to point it out yesterday to one of the sisters - bummer - and this was the reply:

So sorry,  maybe it's my misogynistic side coming out, since you have been proactive, intelligent comments and advice, constructive I assumed it was male!

Honestly, I'm torn between feeling outraged that females are still subconsciously felt to be less intelligent and between laughing. 

See, I honestly feel that women get more accomplished than men, from what I'm seeing, but at the same time, these misconceptions don't just exist with men, they lie with women too. Psychologically, I wonder why...

Letters [3]

Dearest, 

I have a letter for you saved in my drafts folder. Every day I open the email, look at your name, and then close it again. 

I stare long and hard at the To: field, my fingers hesitantly typing your email, then slowly backspacing. 

I enter your email. 

I think of all the things I left unsaid, and know they will have to remain unsaid. 

Maybe I only enter your email to remind myself that I haven't forgotten it yet. 

I have a secret. It's the reason why I believed your story so quickly. When I was younger, I made a list of prayers, the majority of them were realistic, but there was one thing I didn't know if I could ask for, if it was even permissible to think let alone pray for such things, and so naturally, that became the prayer I fixated upon. 

I never stopped praying for it, a long time consciously, and then later subconsciously. When you told me the story, I remembered my old prayer, everything else - the realistic wishes - wasn't there, but the one extraordinary secret prayer was. 

I wonder here which one is more marvelous, getting many of your normal wishes granted, or one extraordinary wish. 

You might think the answer is easy - list your secret wishes and see. Rank them in order of how secret they are, the one you've never dared tell anyone at all is your extraordinary wish. See if you would give up everything for a little piece of that magic. I know I wanted to. 

Do you remember what you used to always call me? It starts with S. I never thought I'd hear it being said to me again, but today I did. I puzzled over whether I felt happy to hear it again, or whether I wanted it to remain exclusively yours. 

I didn't decide. 

Look after yourself ok? 

Your sister. 

Old Friendships

"You can't know somebody's soul so...deeply, because nothing stays the same forever. That's what's beautiful about people. The cool part is catching them when you're both aligned."

I really love this. It makes you think of old friendships in a different way, before there was always sadness and wondering why things always have to end, why things must change, why nothing lasts, the pain of separation always outweighs the beauty of what was.

You know that quote, don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened? Well, I always thought that was a hard concept to apply, but the above statement made me rethink so. I had reached a stage where I wondered if I really wanted to keep on making friends, carry on being a social butterfly and so open and loving with people. I wanted to harden my heart and close it off in a shell to prevent it from ever being hurt again, because the only definite fact about friendships seemed that at one point, they would end. Now, it's ok.

I'm glad, at one point in our lives, we were aligned. 

Letters [2]

Dearest,

I can imagine myself rambling to you whilst you are torn between indulging me and sighing at the excessive detailing, but I will ignore the latter emotion and focus only on your indulgent look as I share these particular two stories with you.

Me and the girls have taken turns (or actually, my cousin has assigned us all slots and we dare not cross her) in being responsible for setting up and cleaning up for the iftar being served in Nadi, and a similar rota for taraweeh prayers to set up a programme for annoying children and giggling teenagers being a nuisance during prayer times.

As it happens, I seem to have been unfortunate in the date I was given, as my partner did not turn up and I found myself alone. The brothers were particularly helpful before Iftar, they set up three tables for the women, and prepared the plates, the cups, the dates, the juices and the cutlery, as well as carrying up most of the soup and the food themselves. The turnout – a Friday night – seemed to also favour me, and we had double the amount of people anticipated and so I had to set up extra tables and traipse up and down the stairs to get extra drinks and soup.

Of course, the prayer mats had been set up for the Maghreb prayer and were left in place for the coming Isha and Taraweeh prayers as there’s only an hour between them it doesn’t seem worthwhile to remove and put them back down again.

Having just completed my responsibilities, been the delightful hostess, checked there was sufficient food for everyone, I sat down to break my fast with my friends and relished the feeling of having an hour to myself, there would be no rushing to put away the food, clean the kitchen, make the tea for my dad and the Turkish coffee for my mum, as well as the last minute dash to throw on an abayah before hurrying off to the mosque in less than hour.

Little did I know. There were lots of children. Different ages. And they were running around. All I heard suddenly was a shriek from a widow that was looking devastated at the prayer mats. Her eyes beseeched me to do something before she lost her temper. I shook off a laugh and summoned a serious face before telling off the children and telling them I will count to ten while they fix all the prayer mats back in place. The children squealed in delight at this game and managed to tidy up the mattresses to my approval. However no sooner had they done so, they went ahead and started running. Something had to be done quick.

There was nothing for it, I had to spend the hour finding creative ways to distract the children in a way that would keep them off the mats as the crèche hadn’t opened yet (thankfully it opened two days ago, but that’s another story). There were two girls that were particularly cheeky, both happened to coincidentally hold the name Leena, one was Iraqi, and the other Egyptian. I asked them both what the capital of Iraq was, the capital of Egypt was, and the capital of Palestine. They didn’t know. I gave them a shocked look and told them I will complain to their parents – how dare they not know this minimal knowledge?

I have to admit, I gave them quite a telling off, they were young girls, not yet ten, but to me they seemed to have committed an unforgivable crime, and I wasn’t sure which one was a greater crime, to not know their own capital, or to not know the capital of Palestine. Disappointment made me blunt and I feared later that I had been too appalled despite all my work with young children.

The scene I want to share with you however, was at the end, an Egyptian lady came up to me, and told me we’re leaving, but my daughter Leena refused to go without introducing me to you.

I can’t find words to explain what I felt at that moment. I finally know what they mean when they say that being a teacher is a fulfilling job.  If only you were there to capture that feeling of mine!

***

Someone made a comment once on facebook a while back that the people that want Morsi gone are so much more than his supporters. I couldn’t help retorting jokingly that he was disregarding all the non-Egyptians vote of confidence, that we are all behind Morsi.

A few comments here and there, the majority of Egyptians – decidedly anti-Morsi, but all respecting Palestine, and our political disagreements was gently done.

Minutes later, an Egyptian made a comment in the most maye3 lebanese ever, insulting me and telling me that while I may represent Palestinians, I shouldn’t dare let Lebanese cross my lips, or talk about Lebanon – a long comment that honestly, was lame enough to make me laugh and bored me for me to not even remember what he said or finish reading it, however at the end he ended with “and don't bother replying to me because ana ma bysharefni a7ki ma3 hek nas aslan” bla bla.

His spew of insults only made me laugh. However what happened next made my heart ache, a beautiful but such a painful painful ache, that I couldn’t help prevent the tears that flowed down my cheeks.

See, I didn’t even need to retort to such a silly comment, the Egyptians – even those that had disagreed with me vehemently on Morsi – rose to my defence. The owner of the post demanded an apology on my behalf or threatened to delete his friend. I didn’t understand half of what was being said, but one thing stood out so clearly

M: m3lesh enta btl7s keda :D da fe3lan tl7is eli ana shayfo!! L2 ana mayshrfnish a3raf nas betl7s aslant :D walahi m3rft el ragel b 100 b set da lw ragel aslan :D

A: لا هو التلحيس الرسمي إني أقول شو و متلك و تحكي ...

ألتلحس الرسمي ان هي مكلمتكش أصلا....و أنت تكتبلها قصيدة نص صفحة و في الآخر تقولها ميشرفنيش و متلك 

و نور اختي الصغيرة على فكرة...و من الأخر يا تعتذر يا تمسحني

I couldn’t tell that person how much that comment meant to me, how it made me feel, how seeing someone quick to defend and being a brother, how painful it was, how much I ached to have an older brother, how the tears fell.

All I could do, was whisper allah m7ayi hek rjal. Allah ykhaleelek rjalek ya masr.

 ***

Are you bored yet from me? It’s ok, I don’t mind, let me talk, blot out the words and just listen to my voice. I don’t want much, just a nod here and there, an indulgent smile, let your mind wander, but keep me close.

Someone started their story with me by a Umrah, and it made sense for me to end it by another Umrah. It worked as a balm of some sort. Before, it was really hard to wish them happiness, to ignore all the pain and be selfless, wish them joy with a friend other than me – I believe myself irreplaceable – don't you agree with me dearest? Could I be replaced?

Umrah healed that part of me, the selfish selfish part that couldn’t let go. Even if a memory hurts, I think I’ve forgiven. I’ve forgiven everyone but myself, I don’t think I will ever be able to forgive myself. The faults in my life seem so large, yet, I somehow still beg God to forgive me. Do you think they’ve forgiven me too?

Have you forgiven me? 

Gentle Robbery

Sonnet 40 

Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all;

What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?

No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;

All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more.

Then, if for my love, thou my love receivest,

I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest;

But yet be blam'd, if thou thy self deceivest

By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.

I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,

Although thou steal thee all my poverty:

And yet, love knows it is a greater grief

To bear love's wrong, than hate's known injury.

Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,

Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.

- William Shakespeare

What do you have indeed? I love this sonnet. Every time you read it, you will think of it in a different way. Let go of your preconceived thoughts, blot out your emotions, imagine a big white empty canvas, then take your heart, and pour these words in gently. The feelings that will spill out onto the white sheet may surprise you. Don't force their direction, let them be. Then tell me - please, what chords were pulled and what music was formed, the beat that it moved to. 

Ramadan

It’s Ramadan on Wednesday inshallah.

I couldn’t begin to describe how much I had wished this year to spend Ramadan in Egypt. I’ve spent two years simpering over this idea, the idea of celebrating Ramadan in all its glory, the way Christmas is celebrated here. The lights, the festive atmosphere, the joy, the spirituality, I want it all. I want to see little children running around with coloured fawanees, hear the adhan going off in the early hours of dawn, the bustle of people as they wish each other Ramadan kareem.

Certain circumstances last year hinted that this year maybe my dream would come true. I would be able to spend Ramadan finally in Egypt, I’d be able to witness it myself as opposed to waiting for the pictures Nema promised me and has yet to take for me. Sadly, life doesn’t go the way one plans, and with Umrah, Lebanon and Jordan all planned this summer, I was able to calm the yearning that had overwhelmed me with the vague promise from my dad that next year.

Next year.

I don’t know what next year has planned for us. I try to be hopeful. But how? How, when I see flowers plucked before they bloom? How, when I see the blood flowing in the streets? How, when I see people silent to such inhumanity?

A beautiful sight. Imagine spending your Ramadan in the streets of Egypt, praying behind the shyookh, e3tikaf for the sake of Allah, and at the same time defending your land and your rights. Spending the month of worship worshiping - with every act. Ya Allah.

Just a last note: Don’t you dare tell me I can’t comment because I’m not Egyptian, don’t you dare assume just because we don’t live in the same country we don’t think and feel their pain. Don't.

Ramadan Kareem.

 

5 Habits Bloggers Need To Stop - HBBC [20]

As it was my turn to pick the new HBBC topic, I wanted to go for a light cheerful read after all those previous deep thought provoking ones, and chose 5 habits bloggers need to stop, which – instead of proving a light joking read turned into a session of personal reflection for the others. Great work guys.

What a long, long week. All I need to do is grip onto sanity for the next 3 days, and then hope that blissful release will come claim me. In the meantime, I shall once again flaunt my readers pass, and instead of critiquing my own blog (which perhaps should be more aptly titled Thoughts of a Depressed Maniac) I will point out actual writer habits which need to be stopped.

Without further ado, I present you with the first pet peeve of mine:

1. Over-Thinking / Over-Working

Sometimes, just sometimes, you try too hard. You want a perfect polished piece, you fashion the rock into a diamond, and then bring out the coarse paper to embellish it, attempting to smooth over all the jagged edges. Simple words no longer seem good enough for you, so you throw in the most complicated sounding words you’ve ever been taught and try to look for the word which combines the most number of the alphabet in it to use.

Relax. I promise you, short words can sound just as impressive, more so actually because they resonate quicker. Long words are cumbersome (see?) and they just don’t roll as easily on your tongue. Remember, no iron can pierce the heart with such force as a period put in the right place. A period, not sesquipedalian behaviour.

But then again, what do I know, I just suffer from hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia.

2. Jumping on the Bandwagon

We all love a free ride, who doesn’t? And on a bandwagon? Double the joy!

For those of you that haven’t seen one before, this is what it looks like:

Looks fun doesn’t it? That might just be the reason everyone decides to jump onto it; if everyone is talking about the elections, I must too. Controversy? Flaming? Consumerism? I’m in! Some go out of their way to talk about controversial posts merely to excite a reaction, others go out of their way to avoid falling into mainstream, that they end up forming their own mainstreaming group.

Talking about something current, something popular, or something in the mainstream is not necessarily something to avoid, the problem lies when you write out of expectation, merely parroting what everyone knows or thinks. Write because you have something to say about it. Write because you feel strongly about it.

We read for you as you.

3. Feeling smart

You’re smart, I admit it. But there’s smarter than you. Quit the condescending behaviour.

Far be it from me to criticise another’s accent, but when watching for the Egyptian satirist - and I use the word loosely - Bassem Youssef, hearing him make fun of an elderly sheikh’s English as he says the word Titanic, and then following it up with his English interviews on the American T.V shows – all I can say is really? Please make sure you don’t live in a glass house before stoning others, it’s an unseemly sight.

Ok I couldn't resist - really Bassem really? Do you actually think you have nice English?

Ditto some blogs.

4. Clichés

Clichés, quotes, the whole shebang. Please use them wisely.

And the crème de la crème award goes to...

5. Requesting feedback to feel offended

This really is the icing on the cake. As a writer, you write for one reason – to please your readers. If you write for any other reason, namely, for yourself, you my dear friend, you’re ranting. Nothing more, nothing less.

Now that we’ve established who the writer is, it follows by continuity that who best to give you feedback than your reader? A writer doesn’t give you necessarily the feedback you require, because the writer will be assessing you based on their standards, their writing techniques, their individuality, all whilst forgetting to adjust the standard. A reader however, reads for the sake of reading.  

Writers are a decidedly insecure lot, they will often ask for criticism in order to hone their writing techniques, and try and lead you into believing they highly respect your feedback. Which is great, feedback is seldom given out of malice or jealousy, so garnering feedback is always a good pursuit.

But then, you take offence.

Someone sent me a personal statement a few months ago to proofread and correct, which I did without a second’s thought. I took the liberty of rephrasing many of the sentences with the author’s permission to do as it was an official document waiting to be submitted.

The person in question was very grateful, and loved the changes I’d made – in fact they even managed to get an acceptance from it. A few days later, upon asking me for my honest opinion on their English, I found 43 – no I’m not exaggerating, 43 messages waiting in my inbox for me, informing me that their English is impeccable, that I should not be so up myself, that in fact they studied in private American schools their entire life, have family in America holding the green card (impressive!), have visited English speaking countries a number of times, and that I should not be proud of my English actually because as a Palestinian I should go learn my own culture and language first.

43 messages. Why ask for an honest objective opinion if all you want to hear is praise?

See, I don’t ask for criticism, my only demands are reading my posts, laughing to yourself, and then indulging me with a comment.

Only ask for what you actually want.  

Letters [1]

Dearest brother,

It’s been some time now hasn’t it?

What do girls without elder brothers do? Where do they go for comfort? Who will wipe their tears and hug away their worries? Who will become angry when someone is the cause of their upset and pain? Whose hackles will be raised against a slight against them? Oh, poor them! They have no one to rush to, no one to hold and soothe them, no one to tease and cajole a smile onto their faces.

I wish I could tell everyone who has a brother to become his best friend. To go talk to him, start opening up to him, start asking for his advice and to let him in their lives. To squeeze herself into his life until he becomes close to her too and starts seeking her out for her help, for her to brighten his day.

And you tell your friends, tell the brothers you know if they have sisters to hug them every day. Tell them to only show them gentleness. Let them love their sisters, take them into their confidence, wipe away their tears, pull them into hugs and comfort them. Tell them to joke around with them kindly, to tease them, to smile brightly in their presence and spoil them.

Everyone must be jealous of us don't you think?

***

Isa died. He was helping out with medical aid by the Syrian-Turkish borders when the hospital was shelled. I don’t want to do anything. Too many people I know are dying. Too many.

The last time I spoke to him was probably when I was 8 years old. So why won’t my tears still? He died one of the best deaths, his family’s hearts are filled with love and acceptance, why is it so hard on me? I wish you were here. I wish I could cry to you. My throat is so choked up from stifling my sobs, my headscarf is brought so forward to shield my eyes and I’m so tired from hiding my tears. I’m tired of keeping everything in. I want to soak your shirt with my tears and not have to hide them. Why aren’t you here?

***

We’re getting the kitchen floor tiled, you saw how badly the last one botched up the job of wooden flooring, and when mama glimpsed a mouse she put her foot down and decided she couldn’t live in the same house as it. It was either her or the mouse. So she asked around, got quotes, and brought in the cheapest one.

Do you know how heavy tiles are? One packet weighs 25kg. I thought of you when I carried them from the car, how if you were here you’d refuse to let me carry one. I can’t say I would have objected too strongly, those things are heavy you know, and my inner feminist refused to show any weakness. Would you be able to have carried them without working up a sweat? Or would you also have been denying your weakness and living up to the macho man look? A part of me would be awed if men were actually strong enough to carry them effortlessly, and a part of me goes out to them if they merely have to act strong. Which one is it?

By the time I was on the third packet I felt my arms were ready to fall off, I tried picking up the fourth and my hands simply refused to exert any force. I simply couldn’t lift any more. Mama came to carry it instead of me, but that was even worse, so I gritted my teeth and walked away with a smile as though I was carrying the lightest feather around.

Damn those 25kg.

You should have been around today to do that hard work is all I’m saying. I mean, that’s the whole point of an older brother isn’t it? I’d have stood and watched with a smile while you picked them up effortlessly. In fact I’d probably have gone further, teased you and said that it wasn’t a struggle at all, anyone could carry them.

***

Having a builder at home puts me in a precarious position. Nobody is at home other than me, and I can’t very well be alone can I? The irony is the person that offered to stay over. Remember when it was said that I was the most important person and if I just spoke up everyone would stand by my side? Well I spoke out. Nothing changed. My biggest nightmare is now true. Now somehow, somehow, I have to live, not just with what happened, but with knowing it happened, with knowing that I wasn’t important enough, with being dismissed.

***

Do you remember the flour fight we had when we were younger? We left such a mess, nobody was impressed (I personally thought the white was a becoming colour on the sofas but for some strange reason nobody else seemed to think so), and we got into so much trouble. Well, you were in trouble the most, because firstly, you’re the eldest, and secondly because I pinned the blame on you. You accepted it all solemnly and admitted to erring even though it was my idea to start with. That’s another thing I miss, your protectiveness.

***

Your friend Ahmad is back from Syria. He’s badly wounded, and probably scarred emotionally after watching his cousin die in his arms. I’m going out with his sister in a few days, we have a pizza and cheesecake date actually (see what you’re missing out on!), and how am I meant to cheer her up when my heart is so tired from all the deaths? They’ve already lost hundreds of relatives.

I have so much anger inside me. If anyone in our family decides to give me a repeat of their nonchalance towards Syria this summer they will be getting an earful. Every single one of them is my brother. Every single one of them is my sister. Every single one of them is my child. How dare the world be so self centred?

Lie to me and tell me it will be ok. Tell me this horror will end soon.

Stay safe won’t you? 

N.B: Isa Abdul-Rahman studied Medicine at Imperial University and volunteered to help bring medical aid to the refugees in the Turkish-Syrian borders, where the hospital he was working in was shelled yesterday morning 22/05/2013 by the Syrian Regime and passed away. To continue his good work, donations to Syria are being made in his memory here. Please donate generously. 

Our Generation - HBBC [19]

Slightly overdue (ok more than slightly) but another post for the HBBC picked by Marwa Hassan – Our Generation.

Being the diligent student I am, when I was meant to be preparing for my Spanish exam (remind me again why I thought it would be a good idea to study Spanish whilst attempting a masters?) I vibered (the verb, to viber: the abuse of the Bell Invention due to unfavourable financial circumstances) an Egyptian and, as Egyptians tend to do, she spoke about Egypt.

What surprised me the most in our conversation was despite her being one of the most cheerful optimistic people I know, consistently laughing throughout the conversation (anyone guessed yet whom?) when the state of affairs came up, things took a turn for the sombre.

“I’m tired Noor, I’m tired”

I’m surprised at how disheartened the youth of today have become, most of all the Egyptian youth. These are the very people that endured hardship after hardship? These are the people that went about chanting erfa3 rasak fo2? This is the generation that brought change, the generation that stands a chance, and they feel disheartened! The hardest battle was fought and won – and yes, what is coming will be a long and difficult path, they will be rebuilding their civilisation, it won’t be easy, decades of traditions and insecurities will have to be thrown out and replaced, whole mentalities changed, and younger generations educated.

يا شباب، يا شباب و شابات المستقبل 

I have one question for you – was Rome built in a day?

The more I read on twitter, the more I’m saddened by the state the youth have let themselves fall into. I for one am highly optimistic. What is there to not be optimistic about? Please, take a step back and just think. When I was growing up in London and people would ask me where I come from, the answer Palestine was far too complicated, hardly anyone knew where that was geographically and the ones that did assumed I had mistaken it for Israel. In fact, more oft than not, I would save myself the trouble and say Lebanon (Currently I'm embracing the world is my home ideology and informing people whichever mix strikes my fancy first, last I heard I was half Palestinian, a quarter Greek, an eighth Malaysian and the rest Turkish)

When I compare it to now, the amount of English people that not only are they educated in the Palestinian – Israeli conflict, but that they fight for justice, simply astounds me. Who knew what Palestine was then?

It’s the same with Egypt, while I respect all the criticisms flying about, it seems to me they’ve forgotten the one most vital fact – they can criticise now. If I could just tell two things to the youth of today, the first would be, observe and reach your own conclusions – don't let the media and those around you influence you, and the second would be – never give up hope.

Remember – we are the future. We can, and we will change and make this world a better place. 

Cooking Clean

I’ve found a new distraction. Trying to make healthy food taste good. No, wait, really, I’m not being ironic. This June is full of weddings, one for each weekend booked so far, and in one months’ time I will be a bridesmaid. So, time for detox!

Now I picked up this 28 day detox programme, and first look, it looked easy. Carbs and fruit first two days, protein and veg next two days, and then delicious healthy fat the last three days. The final effect? Beautiful, glowing skin and hair, radiant complexion and a clean flushed glossy inside. Or so it was promised.

There was a slight problem though, one which I discovered a few days in. No wheat, no sugar, no dairy, no corn, no white rice – wait what will I eat?! Giving up wheat these past two weeks was quite difficult, it’s not unhealthy per se, but agriculturally speaking, wheat is reared up to withstand the harshest of conditions, thunders, lightening and rain, and yet we expect our bodies to digest it.

Having exams could only mean one thing – procrastination. Given a list of permissible ingredients for each phase, into the kitchen I went and like any good engineer, innovation was the key.

Please note that all of the below are wheat free, sugar free, dairy free and practically fat free. The healthiest foods on the market!

Apple and Oat Muffins

 This experiment didn't work out as well as I hoped, but with oat flour, a touch of  cinnamon and nutmeg it was good to go. They didn't rise much - but they were edible and gave me plenty ideas for a fruit loaf.

Great for a morning breakfast, fruits and grains - maybe I'll introduce strawberries and other fruits to it.

Carrot Cake Crepe

Now these were a delight, they were in so much demand, and they were scrumptious! First time I added baking powder and made it into a pancake, but I decided that crepes were really my type of thing.

Sweet Potato Chocolate Cake

Oh God. I shall let the picture speak for itself. This was absolutely delicious. 

Sweet Potato Baked Crisps with Sea Salt

One thing I really missed was crisps. Lovely ready salted crisps. Sweet potato was listed as a vegetable on this detox programme, and that officially made them unlimited. Sliced thin, lots of sea salt, and baked. Mmm delicious to snack on.

Almond Chicken Curry

Things only got better. 

Stir Fried Noodles

What can I say? NO FAT. NO WHEAT. NO OIL. 

God these were amazing. Oh God. My cooking is amazing. 

15 days down, 6 meals a day, too much time in the kitchen, no wheat, no sugar, no dairy, no fats. Impressive. Oh my is that ba2lawe? I think my experimenting days are over! Ba2lawa here I come.