Your presence, Your serenity

There are moments when I fret myself to the point of insanity about sticky situations that pop up in life. I'm sure many of us do. Over-think until the decision tree we're drawing in our head grows enough branches to bring it all tumbling down. The broken branches stick around, rot in the corners of my brain, serve no purpose except stopping me from enjoying anything else.

But on other, wiser moments, all it takes is a whispered 'I trust in You' and the worries fade. My view clears. It is almost like, dare I say, God grants me a tiny percentage of His vision. The peephole I view the world through widens, just a weeny bit, and I see the universe in its enormity, the insignificance of all of our problems at work and home, the incredible abundance of talk, talk, empty talk. And I leave it to God. It always works out. In a way so beautiful and intricately-woven that caters to everyone that only the All-encompassing, Perfect One could have been behind it. I want to always be aware of it- Your serenity.

Oh God. Don't leave me in the hands of my own unreliable self. I am Yours. Don't give my self back to me.

_________________________________________________________________________________

God's existence is the most audible. I hear it from my bedroom window at the break of each dawn: here is another day brought to us- every piece and element that makes part of it sings His praises. I hear it in my cousin's four-year-old's laughs and clever questions, in my mother's concerned expressions. I heard it that day, loud and clear, in the way we huddled up in the cosy coffee-shop, energized and united by a single passion. Notice the glint in the eyes of a person doing great at what they love to do and you will know that at some point, everyone is a believer.

Rumi's father had an interesting conversation with Him. I read it in The Drowned Book and folded down the page's corner, just because I felt I had to give that particular beautiful excerpt some special attention. Bahauddin prayed that his search for God be made more energetic. The answer came: Your bones and skin, your organs, your whole body structure is alive with your presence. You, Bahauddin, are present in every extremity, in the throb of your heart, your brain, the chest wall. You continuously flood through each section. Those parts do not see you, yet you are as surely in those as I inhabit every component part of the world, the changes in temperature, every invigoration you feel, the slightest delight. Each comes directly from this presence.

I want to always be aware of it- Your presence; in every emotion I feel, every thought passing through me.

_________________________________________________________________________________

When skies wept blood

Hussain. Fifty-four, curly-headed, light-skinned, medium-height Hussain. History tells us he had a face and smile like his grandfather. It washed away your worries. It's the year 680, and Hussain stands alone on the plains of a deserted land far away from his home. His refusal to pledge allegiance to a tyrannical ruler brought him here. He has just lost his loved ones, one by one. First his most faithful companions. Loyal friends who stayed by his side knowing full well the end in sight. Then his family. He used a piece of cloth to gather pieces of Qasim, his teenaged nephew, trampled under the enemy's horses' hooves. He held on to the speared chest of his eighteen-year-old Akbar and asked to listen to his beautiful voice one last time. He wept over his brave brother Abbas- watched as the flag he carried with courage fell with his cut hands. He held his six-month-old baby in his arms, tiny neck pierced with an arrow.

Now Hussain stands alone, throat dry, heart torn. In the distance, he can hear whimpers of the women and children. He can make out the voices of Sakina, his daughter; Zainab, his sister; Rabab, his wife. He knows they are thirsty, heart-broken and will soon be in the hands of the most merciless of people. So far he has sacrificed some of the closest to his heart for the sake of goodness, and soon he will sacrifice himself too. But before he gives his own life, he has one last message to leave. Hussain cups his hands around his mouth, and calls out in a loud, clear voice:

Is there anyone who will come to assist us? Is there anyone who will respond to our call? 

He repeats this four times- facing all directions. Who is this call for?

It is for us. A call to be carried forward over the generations. A call to fight against injustice in every time and space. In all its forms.

The Tragedy of Karbala is not simply an unfortunate event in history. It is the most important revolution. It is the only entirely self-less sacrifice by ultimate love against ultimate hatred. It is the only event that has been remembered from the beginning of time, and will continue to be remembered to the end. It is the only event in history that the sky turned red for, stones bled, and the snakes and the fishes in the sea mourned.

Today, millions around the world will be mourning Hussain. Remembering his story, re-telling it in poems and eulogies and plays, re-enforcing his message, keeping it alive for yet another year. Some will choose ways to mourn that you will not like. Hitting themselves with chains or swords to feel Hussain's pain. Whether this is appropriate or not is besides the point today. To ignore the brutal killing of Hussain and his followers, the meaning of his sacrifice, and to instead focus on criticising the way he is remembered in some places is distasteful. To try to reduce Hussain's sacrifice to mundane discussions is disrespectful.

As long as there are hearts in this world that continue to be moved by the fate of his loving self at the hand of his hateful oppressors, goodness has prevailed and Hussain and his message live on forever.

Nature's Complaisance

It's not right what you say                          

Doing what you love isn't key                    

Clouds don't whine when it's time to go grey      

Nor the sand when it's whipped by the sea      

Doing what you love isn't key               

Planets throw no tantrums at routine       

Nor the sand when it's whipped by the sea       

We're the only ones making a scene       

Planets thrown no tantrums at routine       

Think they care about being 'truly content'?      

We're the only ones making a scene       

The only ones expressing dissent        

Think they care about being 'truly content'?        

It's not right what you say                             

Just love what you do; relent                    

Clouds don't whine when it's time to go grey    

___________________________________________

The above is an attempt at a pantoum. It is also a note to myself, in case this comes off as hypocritical! 


In other news, one of the poems I wrote on this blog back in January- Tell Me- has been published in an anthology entitled 'Cover to Cover- A Collection of Poems' by Forward Poetry Publishers. I want to thank my lovely readers who read the poem on here first and gave me encouraging comments :)

The last confirmation of love when everything else falls away

“People talk about the happy quiet that can exist between two loves, but this, too, was great; sitting between his sister and his brother, saying nothing, eating. Before the world existed, before it was populated, and before there were wars and jobs and colleges and movies and clothes and opinions and foreign travel -- before all of these things there had been only one person, Zora, and only one place: a tent in the living room made from chairs and bed-sheets. After a few years, Levi arrived; space was made for him; it was as if he had always been. Looking at them both now, Jerome found himself in their finger joints and neat conch ears, in their long legs and wild curls. He heard himself in their partial lisps caused by puffy tongues vibrating against slightly noticeable buckteeth. He did not consider if or how or why he loved them. They were just love: they were the first evidence he ever had of love, and they would be the last confirmation of love when everything else fell away.” 
― From a new addition to my all-time favourite novels: Zadie Smith's On Beauty

When Noddy arrived and we made space for her, she was the most beautiful baby ever. It's not like you have to take the sister's word for it. I have the testimony of every eye laid on her to back me up. She's beautiful, they all said, somewhat confusedly. New-born babies are meant to be monkeys to everyone other than family, but Noddy defied this with her arresting brown eyes, already thickly-lashed, the perfectly-shaped nose, a thin ruby-red line, matching red cheeks.

That August morning, Peach and I woke up early. 'Your new sister's born,' my aunt said, busying herself with picking lint off her clothes. She had that cheeky smile on, though, so we rushed to the kitchen for confirmation from my other aunt, the serious one. Before we went to the hospital, we went shopping with my aunts. I have no idea why. We walked unhurriedly along the shops in Brent Cross. Somehow, the incredibly exciting fact that a new baby sister awaited us didn't stop us enjoying the moment. I miss that ability. We were giddy- Peach and I, making funny faces at each other through the clothes-racks, taking full advantage of my mother's absence and unashamedly picking out long-wanted items for our aunts to buy for us. At some point, going up a floor, Peach tripped and my panicked aunt dragged her up, her knees painfully scabbing against the escalator stairs. This was exciting beyond imagination. We talked about it for the next hour, replaying the details again and again. Each retelling added greater drama, until it was dangerously hovering towards becoming a story of the escalator swallowing Peach up, and the Hercules of my aunt saving her life.

My mother let us put her to sleep that night. We stood for hours on either side of her bed, Peach and I, singing softly, her hands clutching on to our thumbs. Long after she had fallen asleep, cuddled cosily amongst heaps of pink and white sheets. It really was as if she had always been.

Bil 3arabi

I am reading Jhumpa Lahiri's The Namesake these days. I fell in love with this book from the first page- a pregnant Aashima struggling to adjust to her new foreign world. Ashoke's uncompromising elegant suits and polished shoes. And their son, Gogol, stuck with a name he despises. He tries to strip himself off it, stuck in between Bengaliness and Americanness- speaking this and that, forever conflicted with this identity crisis.

We had a rule at home when we were kids. No English at home. English is for school, only. At home, we speak Arabic. That is your language. A non-negotiable rule. Once a trip to the theme park that we'd been planning for days got cancelled. This is so fun! somebody had said. The No-English rule was like a soapy hand trying to grab on to our threatened Arab identity. It managed to hold on sometimes. But other times, it slipped. Uninvited English words made their way into our carefully constructed Arabic sentences. They invaded our thoughts, visited our dreams. They were the first to arrive when I put a pencil to a paper, the first to come in mind when I opened my mouth to speak.

At gatherings, my uncle tells us of the family history we never witnessed. Of my grandfather and his generation, and the lives they led, an ocean away from the kind I do. On their daily conversations strewn with couplets of poetry invented on the spot. On the recital contests between them that entertained them on lazy afternoons. On the letters they wrote each other- eloquent letters in complex Arabic, ones I'd need a Google translator to decode. On the odes written for the important marriages and births in the family. Personalized ones, with symbolic use of the names in question. They're called a taareekh because in the last couplet, the numbers corresponding to each alphabet that appears add up to the date of that event in the Islamic Calendar.

On my last trip to Baghdad, we stayed over my great-aunt's house- a home that housed the scholar of her husband. I was brushing my teeth at the sink when I noticed a part of the wall by the corridor protruding. It's a library, they said. We slid the wall and the smell of old books whipped me. Books filled shelves from floor to ceiling on all four sides and in the middle as well. I didn't go to sleep pleased with this sight but disturbed, because a thought kept nagging me: You'll never be able to read and appreciate the books that make up your family's libraries.

Maybe the No-English rule couldn't stop English becoming our first language, but I am grateful it existed. I may stumble upon some Arabic words, use them in the wrong places, but at least I speak it at home, talk to my parents in the language they gave me, recognize it as mine. I may not fully comprehend the works of Al-Mutannabi, but at least I can read them, grasp its feel, appreciate the beauty of its rhythm. Maybe I whizz through dozens of English novels, and snail-pace through a Naguib Mahfouz once a year, but at least I try to stay loyal to my language.

A couple of days ago, I was out for lunch with a friend. The waiter brought an English menu for her, an Arabic one for me. English menu too, please, I say. You'll pick quicker in English, Ghadeer. You know how awful it is trying to decipher transliterated dish names, I justify in my head. But as I look through the English menu, I can't help picturing this. My ancestors looking in at this scene. Being told, 'That's your daughter, there, pushing away the Arabic menu, looking through a foreign one and blabbering away in English.' It saddens me, that I am more comfortable in a tongue that's not mine.

Dear New-born Babies of the World

Welcome to our planet! Home of the egocentric, the presumptuous, the hateful, where the rich are bowed down to, the ugly ignored, and not an era goes by when some country is not at war with another. The shape your life takes will vary, perhaps depending on where on the planet you were born, to whom, and how the genetic instructions in your deoxyribonucleic acid molecules are patterned. But typically, it will go something like the following.

A few years of laziness and zero responsibilities that will flash by in a wink, during which the systems you're subjected to kill any creativity you hold inside. Another few years that shake everything you thought was true about your identity, beliefs, and the infallibility of adults. Just when you are recovering from confusion you will have to decide what it is you want to do for the rest of your life. And you will have to make that decision quick. Once you, or more likely, other people, have made that decision for you, you will go through a brief period of solace where your only duty is to get educated. Most likely, you will come up with many ambitious plans during this time and aspire to do a great many things. If your life takes the typical path, though, you will get caught up in other things and achieve nothing of your dreams. Maybe you will even forget them. Or change your mind. Anyway, you will get up everyday, go to work, eat to carry on, sleep to recharge, and then get up the next day to do it all over again. You might get married and have children, and your spouse and kids might add colour to your life, or darken it, but in any case, you will often find yourself not having enough time to spend with them. Eventually, you will grow old, begin to forget things, and need help to walk and bathe. Maybe you will be lucky enough to have someone take care of you, maybe not. Your system will slowly shut down, and one day, you will leave this world. It doesn't matter how.

Wait! Stop crying. I have some good news too.

Some day everything that can possibly go wrong will, and you'll weep your heart out to your mother and spend the rest of the evening a spoiled prince/cess. And you will know there's a mother's love out there worth living to have. Some day you will fall sick and just when you're on the hospital bed feeling dejected, a bunch of friends come in, dripping wet from the storm they had to walk through, or stretching their limbs because of the hours of traffic they were stuck in. And you will know there are kind souls out that are worth living to meet. Some day your kid will run to you from school with a crayoned drawing of you. It'll look like a scribbled blob, but you'll stick the masterpiece to the fridge and know that your kids are worth living to watch grow. Some day, you'll have a really good laugh about something entirely silly. And then you'll realise how seriously you're taking life and spend the rest of the day feeling chilled and awesome.  Some day you will look back at something you wanted so bad at one point, and realise with a jolt how grateful you are that it didn't happen. Some day, when you least expect it, you will create something that changes lives without knowing it: maybe start a business, design a home, write a book, make a movie, click a photo, bake a cake or simply say a few words, and you will realise how much everyone has to contribute to this world. And how you will make a difference without trying too hard. Some day you will talk directly to God. It could be when you're on the prayer mat, on a bus ride, in an office meeting, having breakfast or during a walk on the beach. You will feel the response in your heart, and finally be One and in sync with the Universe and all of creation.

Life is beautiful, babes. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise.

Unerasable

Words are energy
neither created nor destroyed
only recycled.
And the moment your squidish lips squirt their ink
there's no going back
the words are ever-immortalised.
You walk
and they walk with you
the air around your body
quivering under the weight
of everything you have ever spoken.


_____________________________________________________________________________

Blue

You will never find a more empathetic friend than the Universe
It weighs your heart,
awaiting the instant
 it goes heavy.

An ever-ready reflector of spirit.

Then,
skies wrap on their mourning veils,
the sun dims,
winds haste
to suck out the remains of hope and meaning from the air,
and the breathing of all life on earth
revamps
to a single all-embracing, everlasting
sigh.

Can ignorance be bliss?

"Ignorance is bliss" some people say. Not always, but I can definitely defend this expression using life as a kid. Kids are ignorant, and they're happy, and alot of this happiness wouldn't amount to the same if they were looking at their life through educated, adult eyes.

When I was a kid, we moved from London to Dubai and life flipped a one-eighty degrees. Everything was new: from the yellow sky to the multitude of fast-food that was suddenly permissible, from small colourful classrooms to huge confusing ones, from silent house-lined roads to high-rise buildings on streets that never shut up. 

As we slowly started to settle into our new city, the friends and acquaintances that I expected would quickly replace the many we had had in London weren't coming. "We don't know them yet- how can I send you to a house I know nothing about?"- explained my mom every time I huffed away after a rejected birthday party invite. 

One very ordinary morning brought a knock on the door. A wobbly woman stood there, dressed in an over-sized shirt, trousers that did nothing to complement her figure, and a hijab shabbily tied around her head in haste. A boy my age and a girl two years younger cluttered around her legs. "Ah! You have a new friend now!" she bellowed, eyeing me top to bottom, before shoving them to me with a laugh. "Yalla, go play! Leave me alone with khala our neighbour!' She stepped in uninvited and unnoticed by my mother, who was busy staring at my new friends' bare and dirty feet in horror. Little did she know how accustomed my mother's sparking-clean floor would soon become to their rough feet. 

Our visitor came from a flat two floors beneath us: Palestinian, and one of two wives to a man, from an Iraqi village we had never heard of, whose face hadn't learnt how to smile. Their two-roomed apartment was cramped with two families and a zillion of objects, boxes and equipment in no discernible pattern. Zaid and Israa spoke a coarse hybrid of Palestinian-Iraqi dialect and had a wide vocabulary of words that even the walls of our own house would shrink away from. They rang the bell two or three times at uncustomary times of the day to play with us, always with an update on the status back home before letting themselves in. 

"We're bored."

"Mama said to get out off her sight"

"The television is broken."

"They're having a fight." 

Zaid would occasionally grab the garbage bin mid-conversation to spit in. He and his sister were more comfortable walking around our house than we ourselves were. They'd barge into the kitchen for a snack and peek into rooms to see what everyone else was up to. In our family, my father's afternoon nap-time was holy and had to be respected with utmost silence, but any attempts at hushing them up would be met with "Okay, don't worry, I'll go listen at his door to make sure he's asleep first."

My mother, courteous as she is, allowed the kids inside everyday, and from time to time, their mother herself, who like her children thought it perfectly normal to invite herself into my parents' bedroom and spread the collection of latest clothes she'd brought on their bed for display. But her pursed lips and tight smile spoke volumes of the inner debate inside her- between being the polite, good neighbour and between not allowing this clearly un-cultured family from getting too close. This worry intensified after we went to a clothes store once (they had spotted us climbing into the car and hurried over to join us) and I ended up running between clothing racks playing hide and seek, avoiding my mother's glares.

I remember the day they moved out. Zaid and Israa came over to say their goodbyes. They were exceptionally quiet. My sister and I tried to soften up the atmosphere by cracking a few jokes. They laughed but I noticed their eyes shined with tears. All I could see then was that these kids didn't follow the same rules we did. That hadn't come in the way of our play-time. I was blind to all the socio-economic differences between us- to the completely different background their family came from and the strikingly mismatched way we had been reared. 

And that is why I say sometimes ignorance can be bliss. Because if it was not for the blind innocence of kids, Zaid and Israa would never have been able to play with us. They wouldn't have had an escape from the awful environment they faced at home, and they wouldn't have been able to witness a stable family. When they cross my mind, I wonder where they are, what they're doing, and hope they're okay, but deep down, I know if I ever did meet them, the adult me wouldn't be able to ignore the gulf of differences between us. 

The Awaited

Even the night sky celebrates,
carries a bright full moon by the hand,
and I wonder, when, and if, you watch this view,
where it is that you stand,
and how much of this moonlight lighting up our sky
is just your own reflected,
and how much heavier your heart weighs since last year,
and how much more disconnected.

My love and greetings I've sent every day
dispatched them sans address, letting them find their way.
To see you, I'll pray for under one only condition,
that I gain the privilege of your admission.
Do you hear the desperation in our hearts' beats?
the promise of you that makes all worthy,
the seemingly endless cycle of defeat?

Listen - to the sound of hope in every breath of air,
this is all I can gift you, for your patience that never wears,
an inexhaustible fuel to run it. Tiny amends for my behaviour,
anything to keep me alive for
my awaited saviour.

Graduate :)

My schooling began unceremoniously. I remember my first official day. It wasn't exactly my first day. My mother worked in that school, so I ended up doing my kindergarten year twice before I was eligible to start. It didn't feel like my first day of school because I'd been going to school unofficially for ages.

That class-room had hexagonal tables, mini-chairs and colourful walls. The windows were large and let in the little sun-light that was available. By the class-room door were hangers on the walls supporting kid-sized rain-coats, and a shelf with extra sets of neatly-folded uniform. I secretly dreamed of the day I'd get to wear one of them, but that day never came. There was a corner with a sink, and a stool to help us reach the tap. I was always looking for excuses to wash my hands ("Oh, I had to use my rubber, Miss", "I sharpened a pencil", "I touched the carpet strings") because for some reason it was so exciting stepping on to that stool and using the pink liquid soap. Then there was the Reading Corner- a cosy, carpeted area surrounded by low book-shelves, where I spent many hours of my un-official school years napping and flipping through picture-books.

The day I started my "real" kindergarten year, I strolled around the class, feeling in control while kids poured in wailing and clutching their mothers. I finally chose to sit at a table opposite a chocolate-skinned girl with big cheeks and shoulder-length straight hair. She interested me because she was weeping silently like adults do, and she had her hands covering her eyes but I could notice her peeking at me through the fingers. I remember staring at her unashamedly for the rest of the day until we talked. Her name was Ada, and she's a mother to a two-year-old son now, which is both awesome and daunting.

Now I'm done with my university years and it feels like my schooling has ended as unceremoniously as it began. I've spent enough time lamenting the fact that time passes and people have no choice but to grow up. A part of me will always continue to yearn the past. I can't help that.

But I'm looking forward to what's next. I don't have a plan and I don't know exactly what it is I want or where I'd like to land. I do know that the schooling I've spent my whole life at has left me with a load of facts, feelings and precious lessons, and armed with that, whatever I do, I will do it as best as I can. Not change the world exactly, but the bit around me. Cherish my friends, stay true to my principles, live passionately and fully and well. 

For the Love of Words

I recently read a work of pure genius recommended by somebody from my book club. Ella Minnow Pea (if you didn't catch that: L-M-N-O-P!) is set on an island called Nollop, named after the supposed creator of the famous sentence that uses all the letters of the language:
"The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog"

This sentence is preserved on an important memorial in the island, and throughout the novel, the letters begin to mysteriously drop one by one. The government takes this as a sign that the letters that have dropped must be eliminated from the English language, and bans the use of those letters.

Here's the amazing bit:
As each letters falls and becomes prohibited from use, so do they disappear from the novel.

If you're not shaking your head in amazement at that, I don't know what it takes to impress you.

There are several themes brought up in the novel: free speech, totalitarianism, the sanctification of things. But what got me thinking most was the degree to which letters getting banned affected their expressiveness- their connectivity to each other- eventually, their life. It reminded me of 1984 and the "Newspeak" that the government enforced to take away expression from people.

It shows that words are everything.

What's a life worth when you can't give voice to your thoughts? When you can't connect with the world around you? Sure, there are examples, like Hellen Keller who was able to shake the world being deaf, dumb and blind. But she only started to make a difference when she began reaching out and making herself heard.

_______________________________________________

But that's not entirely true.

Some people are all talk. ALL talk. Literally.
There are others who do. Have you ever heard the saying, "What you do is so loud that I can't hear what you say."? I love that line.

Also, sometimes you don't need words. Remember that summer in Lebanon when you and I were official vacation buddies? We left everyone with their afternoon tea-cups and water-melon plates sitting under the grapevine, and we climbed up to where there was that cushioned-swing facing Amu's orchard. We spent two hours just sitting there on a swing in a mountain, with orange and apple trees spread like a carpet before us, watching a breath-taking sun set over tens of villages looking like dots from so far away.

When we went back to everyone else, we laughed like crazy because we realised we spent two hours together not saying anything. Weirdly, it felt like we'd had the longest conversation ever.

It shows that words are nothing.

______________________________________________

Weep the World

When life catches you cry
Tell your tears, as they pour
How noble it is to do so for much more

Like, you could cry
On behalf of every boy brought up thinking it isn't man to
For every face and body scrutinized to be "approved"
For every slashed wrist,
forced puke
and pill misused
For the tonnes of powder and pencil helping to disguise
tired and insecure skin and eyes

Cry
for the kid whose mother's too busy to raise
and the parents on their child's life missing out
for hearts of house-maids far away from home
and the scarce notes they can't do without
for ignored questions
untold bed-time tales
and drawing-less fridges
for couples biting their nails in fertility centres
and for babies left under bridges

Cry
for all the unnoticed flairs and potentials not harnessed
for every time a human heart was demeaned
and every time an ego-injury wasn't spared
for miscalculated rejections
and unprecedented afflictions dealt
for every swear word told
and every insult felt

Cry
for a disease with no cure
and the time-tickers over homes looming
for all the beautiful minds
that are destined for grooming
for emptying bank accounts
and bills demanding to be paid
for skills on stand-by
and economies swayed

Cry

for bullets in innocent heads
and buildings in shreds
for homelands destroyed
and the high price of diesel
for rivers turned to mud
and the cheapness of blood

Cry
for every lie conveyed
and every dark game well-played

No misery weighs more than the other
Everybody has their own story to tell
So weep for yourself
But while you do,
Weep for the world as well

The Toy-shop

I'm on my desk when my sister comes in, props herself across the room. Her eyes cast about the room like it's the first time she sees it, as she often likes to do, pointing out random bits and pieces and pronouncing on them her latest observations.

'Those, it's time to get rid of them'. I look up to see what she's talking about. Two, barbie-sized cardboard shopping bags, one with a Dalmatian dog and one with a Winnie the Poo sticking out from. They sit on the edge of the desk, looking as abandoned as ever. Twelve years of age coat them. Their furry bodies surrounded by that greying dust that's difficult to get rid of.

'No way,' I reply, and she doesn't need an explanation. We both remember the day we brought them. It was one of the best days of our lives.

_________________________________________________________________________________

A green Volvo is driving along one of Baghdad's most popular streets- Al Mansour Road- carrying on its wheels a load of excitement. It slows down, moving towards the sidewalk and finally parks in front of its destination. Just two seconds go by before the doors swing open and four children clamber out, moving slowly because they are slightly dumbfounded. They crane their necks to read the shop's sign, squinting in the sunlight (Al- Jalaywi; a family name scribbled in large Arabic letters across a yellow board) before they are hurried on inside.

A splendid array of red, yellow, green, blue, greets us. The shop is rectangular, its shelves run from ceiling to floor, and there's not a single bit of the wall that can be seen. Toys smile back at us from all sides. There are walkie-talkies and trains and remote-controlled cars. Play-tills, play-kitchens, and anything else imaginable. Cards and trick-games. "Look at the quality of these footballs," gasps my cousin Ali, throwing one from hand to hand. "Barbie sewing machine," whispers his sister Maryam, moving towards the pink display of Barbie and her accessories.

"Remember, Jidu said as many toys as you want. Anything." We all turn and eye her, trying to fathom this foreign message.

People think children aren't fit for making decisions, but nothing could be further than the truth. Give a child an infinite number of choices, and they will end up picking the most rational ones after careful and calculated evaluation. We took a very long time picking our toys in there, but we left with an appropriate number of bags stuffed with goodies, and there were no 'If only's or 'I wish's in the car. We rode back home in silence, clutching on tight to our bags and wearing satisfied smiles.

_________________________________________________________________________________

It's the same day, afternoon, and the "hall" (iraqi term for sitting room) is strewn with evidence of a birthday party. Paper hats with badly-stapled elastics lie on the floor, bored balloons float around, pieces of torn wrapping paper over the sofas. The coffee table in the centre groans under a half-eaten cake, used plates and tea-cups with sugar residues.

Of course, we had to have surprise guests in the midst of our promised party. We watch the garden outside from the open kitchen door, look at the family setting out enough plastic chairs for everyone, eye the guests' girl-our-age from top to bottom. Then we go back to hide all the gifts and tidy-up the party remains as instructed, feeling very disappointed at losing the prospect of flaunting them.

'Not one word about the party,' they whisper to us again, as we call her inside to play.

As soon as we do, in trots our witty three-year-old. 'Did we have a party without you? No, we didn't. And did we get any toys without you? No, we didn't. Okay?'

We all look at each other and burst out laughing.

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Al- Jalaywi's toy shop doesn't exist anymore. I'll never be able to throw away those two filthy and lame cardboard-shopping bags with a Dalmation dog and Winnie. One day, I might show them to my grand-children and tell them about that day. And how an innocent man and his two sons, who sold the best toys to the children of Baghdad, had their lives taken away.

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The Greatest Therapy

It's funny who we want to turn to with our can of worms for a solution - to people just as helpless as us, not really bothered to add anything to their plate, a simple word of comfort, an 'mhm' and an 'aha' with an eye on a phone and a mind on a billion issues other than your own.

But this - this is the real deal. He goes, "You need anything? I'm right here, closer to you than your neck vein." A session with the One behind it all. What idiot would want to turn that down?

It's not so easy standing before You. This isn't like any chat where I can give a biased version and innocently leave out all the little crimes. But knowing of Your Mercy makes me shameless. Turn not away from me when I have turned my face towards You.

Hands to the ears - God is Great. Who can have tasted the sweetness of Your love, then wanted another in place of You?

Hands down - All praise is due to You. How can I ever achieve thanksgiving? For my thanking You requires thanksgiving. Whenever I say, 'To You belongs praise' it becomes thereby incumbent upon me to say, 'To You belongs praise'

Hands on knees, bowing down. Utmost Hope, Patron and Responder. To You is my humble pleading. Have Mercy upon your lowly slave of silent tongue and few good works. Shelter me under your shade.

I stand - God listens. Though my stores travelling to You are few, my confidence in You has kept me hopeful. Your blessings are abundant -my tongue is too weak to count them. Your favours are many - my understanding falls short of grasping them.

On the floor, forehead on the ground- the dust that I was made from, the dust to which I'll one day be bound. Will You show forbearance toward him who puts his face in the dust before You in lowliness?  How should I have hope in other than You, when the good - all of it - is in Your hand? How should I expect from others, when Yours are the creation and the command?

It is overwhelmingly flattering that I'm allowed five appointments with You every single day. And Your undivided attention (in every sense of that word). There can be no greater therapy.

Aziza

Always smells of spotlessness,
soap
(jasmine-flavoured);
Skin,
sagging, yet smooth;
Skin-tone,
snowy,
something in that glow making me think of cold nights,
(the cozy kind)
snuggles at early hours among stainless sheets.

Seldom do you see that,
so silent, but the
sensation of their presence,
so...strong.
She may not say much, but
she's our bed-rock,
starting-point,
seed and stem.

Soothing it is,
your serenity
(it hit me most that day at the ICU)
sitting in all your splendour
self-composure in a room of chaos
slight smile

Steady,
unshaken,
(it may have been many years since
you made even snakes
slither away, but)
sheltered is our place for you
spoken in your name
Aziza, treasured one,
forever our sovereign. 

Dozes of craziness

You need to have a hint of insanity in your life if you plan on surviving. If you don't know anybody who can help you provide this, you need to get introduced to my mom. It's almost midnight, and 3aboody (pet-name for our Nissan X-trail) is carrying us back home. He's at the mercy of one of my mother's kookiest moods yet, the contagiousness of which can compete with a malaria parasite. She's perched in the driver's seat, singing made-up non-sense rhymes on the spot, and a clutter of compressed arms and legs and aching tummies echoes them from the back. When we reach the deserted road behind our building, we know its time to hold on to anything and shriek as 3aboody is sharply steered zig-zag towards a parking spot. We bustle out of the car, and wait, panting. She calmly switches off the head-lights, turns the key and comes out, closing the door behind her. She smiles at us. We look at her for fresh inspiration, still out-of-breath. She takes hold of one of our hands, and we make a train. We're already laughing uncontrollably again. 3aboody sits there cowering as we circulate our train around him, gathering speed. When I glance at the sky, a full moon looks down at us wearing a sneer. 'What are you looking at?' I want to say. Who decided it's not perfectly normal for a bunch of people to run around their car in the middle of the night because they feel like it? It makes perfect sense to me!

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'Mama,' comes an adult squeak from the sofa. Oh boy, there she goes again. I get up to 'pet' my sister-  who is pretending to be a baby, one of her favourite activities. She kicks her arms and legs in perfect imitation. I have to awkwardly hold her down and shush her to sleep. Meanwhile, Dad working on his laptop without as much as a glance at us, mom sorting through the laundry....everyone is so used to this that life goes on as normal.

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Craziness is universal and doesn't only run in my family. We're at university and have an hour to burn before our lecture begins. For some reason, we decide the best place to be is at the basement parking. Where the professors and tutors park their cars. 'One, two, three!' We set off, racing in the parking lot, our abayas flying out behind us like Batman costumes. At some point, we stop running because we need to double-up. We're all laughing so much that we can't hear any laughter.

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