tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40765555779020284492024-03-06T03:27:00.053+04:00Spill beansGhadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-38023989055673771552016-12-31T19:02:00.003+04:002020-07-23T00:41:12.485+04:00Snippets from 2016<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I'm looking for my uncle's car keys that he entrusted with me and growing more panic-stricken by the second. The keys are nowhere to be seen on the key-hanger by the front door. Strewn on my bed are the contents of all my hand bags, emptied out. "Quick, he wants to go out now," yells my mom. Helpless, I rush around the house, over-turning everything in sight stupidly. Noddy is looking around too. "Is it the black key switch?", she asks in a calm voice. I nod in impatience. A few more hysterical minutes and several rants and gasps later, Noddy comes up to me with a proud face, the key in her hand. Peaches and I whoop and shriek, throwing a celebration. We lift her up and chant 'Hero, hero, hero'. Noddy throws back her head, giggling at our goofiness.</div>
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It's afternoon and I'm walking the Campuhan ridgewalk with my family. My dad makes a comment or two about him getting old and not like before, but he walks on effortlessly, his 100-crunches-a-day clearly working. The rest of us huff and puff uphill. When we reach the top, we pause and drink in the scene around us. Clouds envelope us. It's leafy and green below as far as our eyes can see. Beyond, there are rice-fields and little huts. My eyes feel at peace. 'That's more like it,' they seem to be telling me. And I feel sorry for exposing them more to screens than to our planet.</div>
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It's site visit day and as usual, I'm early and in a waiting room. Soon, Sajan the accountant arrives and we start our tour around the gas processing plant. Sajan has one of those contagiously cheerful faces. He moves around the place with a toothy smile, repeatedly pushing back his glasses up his nose in excitement. "Look look!" he says to me, pointing out the very large and unmissable plant looming over us. "Look!" he says again when we reach the gas cylinder belt. He laughs out loud as each cylinder gets sprayed red and stamped with a date. I laugh with him. Maybe my manager and the other suited, booted men wearing glum expressions think this is unprofessional. But who cares? As Roald Dahl said, "watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places."</div>
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It feels like this moment is borrowed from somebody else's life. I watch myself sitting in the hospital corridor, between my aunt and mother. We take turns to hug each other and sob, then release each other, still feeling lonely. Inside the room is my granny's lifeless body, covered in a white sheet. They bring her out on a stretcher, four nurses dressed in blue and my uncle in a lab coat. The stretcher maneuvers through the many wires and machines that didn't keep her alive. We watch her numbly. I'm still numb as I drive back to work to bring back the laptop I left behind. Numb in my granny-less world, where the sun rudely shines on and drivers rudely drive on. We're all still numb in the funeral, giving our cheeks for kisses and condolences from strangers. It sinks in later - at our Friday gatherings around her empty armchair, on the Eid after that with no hand to kiss, at my sister's engagement where she would've sat dignified, clapping slowly, glowing with a beautiful smile.</div>
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There are five of us zig-zagging our way across piles, heaps, lumps, stacks and packs of donated toys and clothes in a tiny office in North West London. Some of the donations come wrapped with a note. "I hope you like this present - love from Sukaina", says one. Others look like they've been left by accident. All of them make their way into tightly packed cardboard boxes. It's the first day of the year and there's a crisp feeling of newness in the air. We fish through jumpers, doll brushes, colouring books, playstation games, oven mittens and car accessories. Someone talks about the fire in Dubai the night before. Little H demands to see the video and we hear him playing it again and again, wide-eyed.</div>
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Later during the year, we stand in the room to where boxes end up*. There are clothes neatly hanging in ascending size, shelves stacked with clean toys. In the corner, a wedding dress stands alone on display. A lady stands and explains how orphans come in here to take their pick while their guardian collects their monthly stipend. As if in demonstration, a tiny mousy-haired boy trots in, scanning the shelves and smiling shyly. The lady takes us next to the rehabilitation room. The walls and floors are brightly coloured, with pictures of smiling cartoons, plump cushions, big bean bags. She tells us how they try to bring colour back to children's lives in this room. She tells us of 14-year-old Asma, who went from stubbornly refusing to see a soul after her father's death to opening up and gaining an interest in fashion design. Of 5-year-old Ali who went from mistaking his teddy-bear for his lost mother to playing with other children. At some point, the lady and the room look blurry and I'm not sure I can hear what she's saying anymore. It makes me feel silly - that I come here with a few minutes of useless tears while there are those working day and night trying to build what's broken. Oddly enough, I leave the place hopeful. As I write this, twin blasts in Baghdad kill twenty-eight. More parent-less children for the rehabilitation centre. There are many hashtags and memes circulating social media today about how horrible the year 2016 has been, how glad everyone is that it's going to be over. Grim and gloomy the world can get, but there will always be the lady in the rehab room. There will always be people who sit back and curse the darkness, and people who stand up and light a candle.</div>
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Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-73761454309428102015-09-10T21:17:00.001+04:002020-07-23T00:41:48.149+04:00Sneak peek -because I care about what you think<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've been working on a story for some time now. Sometimes it feels like an endless tunnel. When it does, I go back to my blog and read your encouraging comments. It keeps me going. I want to share the opening of the book with you and I would love your honest feedback.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "avenir book";">If
you could only see me now, Abu Tawfeeq. I am not the Najma you married. I have
passed ninety, and I wait everyday for the moment God decides to take His
property back. Even Nabeel doesn’t need me anymore. He can move around in his
wheelchair faster than I can push him. He’s made some new friends in the
neighbourhood. He comes back with a full stomach, and only takes a couple of
spoons from the meals I make him, just to humour me. Maryam comes to visit me
from time to time, but I don’t know what to talk about anymore. I bore
everyone, even myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "avenir book";">Nabeel’s
been spending a lot of his days on his new devices. He taught me how to use the
Skype today. You touch the blue button and touch the name of the person you
want to talk to, and lo and behold, they are there in front of you. A talking
picture. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "avenir book";">‘Halaw,
Mama,’ said the picture of Nada. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "avenir book";">‘How
are you?’ I shouted. The picture and Nabeel burst out laughing. ‘You don’t have
to scream Bibi, she can hear you perfectly,’ Nabeel said. It sounded so simple,
so easy. Suddenly, I could no longer pity myself from living away from her. It
was Nada’s voice but not really, and it was her face, but not really either. I
touched the talking picture and felt angry- I don’t know why.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "avenir book";">‘Put
the webcam on, <i>habibi</i>, I can’t see
her,’ the picture said. Nabeel made some moves on the screen and an old lady
popped up. It took me a second to realize the old lady was supposed to be me. Her
skin had the coarse, spongy look of a badly peeled tangerine. Beaded into this
face were two crinkled eyes, a bulbous nose dotted with spots and odd patches,
and a puckered mouth. ‘Look at how they’re making me out to be,’ I cried. The
picture and Nabeel laughed again. ‘Mama, it’s a camera. They’re not drawing
you! <i>Masha’Allah</i>, you are still the
beautiful moon you use to be.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "avenir book";">I
let them catch up with each other while I sat back, not in the mood for
conversation. It had been a while since I had stepped on to the stool by the
sink to take a look at myself in the mirror, but how could this much change
since then?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "avenir book";">As I
sat down on my bed last night, plaiting my hair before tucking myself in (I can
never plait them as perfectly as you did, though), I looked around at the
furniture and had a moment of realization. That the bedroom knows me better
than any person does. The bed with its white oak headboard, the table de
toilette with the coffee ring stain that still refuses to go, the beige painted
walls that are peeling off in many places. This room and these pieces of
furniture saw me transform from a shy bride to a hideous widower, day by day. I
wished I could give them tongues and see what they had to say about me, after
all these years of their silent observation. I thought of how much has
happened, of you, of my poor Mustafa, of all the ladies I knew who had passed
on. And I thought of Baghdad, and its endless heartbreak. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "avenir book";">The
days merged into each other, the events swirling in my memory,
indistinguishable from each other. And I decided that if it’s the last thing I
do, I must write it all down, document everything. Maybe it’s the heaviness of
my life that’s weighing me down, and if I empty myself of it all, I will be
light enough to leave. <span style="font-size: 8pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-25271001878512982822015-06-19T09:33:00.000+04:002015-06-26T15:21:54.819+04:00Twenty-three lessons to learn at Twenty-three<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #666666; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">t's funny how time works. I remember as clear as crystal how the world smelled to me as a ten-year old. I remember my days being ridiculously long- endless stretches of moments that asked to be filled. I remember seeing myself through the eyes of twenty-somethings: a kid, a human half-done, a work-in-progress. And I remember standing in awe at them. They seemed so <i>complete. </i>So free and so in-charge of their lives. Their legs walked the earth saying '<i>been there, done that'</i> and I longed for my drawn-out days and half-baked body to hurry up and let me begin my life.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Little did I know. Later on, e</span><span style="line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">very year that would go by, I would feel life tugging me by the hand further away, to the exposed world that I watch through the filmy layer of my sheltered cocoon. I usually resist, but by now I have realised how futile it is to... that if life's hand doesn't manage to pull me, its sharp nails will scratch at the lucid layer protecting me until I am out there. </span><span style="line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">T</span><span style="line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">here are signs of inevitable ageing, and there are signs of growing up- signs that the years are changing who I am and not just leaving their effect on my body, transforming the thoughts that keep me up at night from 'What will the other kids think of my new haircut?' to 'What am I getting out of this job?'</span><span style="line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"> </span><span style="line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">And if I had to write one thing to my ten-year-old self, I would break the news that at twenty-three, she'd be as half-done and as much as a work-in-progress as she'd always been. I'd ask her if she could put those end-less days to use and find out some answers for me. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-</span><span style="line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">how to keep my practical glasses on without losing the ability to dream</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-how to drink-in thought, theory and philosophy without allowing them to remain just that: inept thoughts</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-how to swallow failure without degrading myself</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-and how to pride in achievements without getting them to my head</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-how to make out the people worth keeping</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-but treat them all the same</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-how to clutch on to everything I believe in</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-but always keep room for change </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-how to remember to respect hard work</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-but not the power it sometimes gives</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-how to be patriotic without losing the global heart</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-how to be helpful without turning into a doormat</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-how to look for beauty everywhere </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-but not to confuse all that glitters for gold</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-how to draw the line between ambition and obsession</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-or between being peacefully distant and dangerously withdrawn</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-how to continue being a student long after leaving the classroom</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-and how to recognize the teacher in every encounter</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-how to say more through what I do than what I speak</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-how to look at every day with a new vision</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-how to keep the big picture in mind</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">-and most importantly, how to always be able to step back from the frenzied speed the world runs at, slow down, and take it a step at a time.</span></div>
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Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-45391603716659586472014-12-13T16:41:00.001+04:002014-12-13T16:41:05.977+04:00Auntie Attentive<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
They say the name you give a child grows to become a part of their personality. I know this is true for Auntie Attentive, who lived with us for the first few years of my childhood. My aunt would notice the tiniest speck of stain or tear on the clothes she picked to buy. She'd notice the little smudge of chocolate spread at the corner of your lips that you forgot to wash off, or the strand of hair that your hairband missed to pull up. When we pull out the fat photo-albums for a trip down memory lane, there are only two photos documenting her presence in our childhood. In one of them, she is in a park with my sister, their noses and cheeks frozen red. The other, she is in one of our birthday parties, sitting in a corner, looking lovely and smiling shyly. She was never one for being photographed.<br />
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I remember feeling constant fascination with the way Auntie Attentive structured her life- on her own terms, without having to flex them for the unpredictable speed of life. I woke up everyday to the soft jingles of her bangles against each other as she exercised. I'd sit up in bed and watch her, how she moved up, down, left, right without ever going out of breath. My favourite exercise to watch was one where she'd catch invisible tennis balls in the air. I'd giggle and try to catch her attention, but she was so focused on what she was doing I'd soon give up.<br />
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My sister and I went on with our days, and never managed to see Auntie Attentive ever <i>free</i>. She was always doing something. Sometimes she'd be busy reading a book, glasses perched, with a pen in hand making side-notes in a writing pad. Sometimes she'd be cooking, cutting lemons, mixing spices, browsing for ingredients in the cupboards. Sometimes we'd go into the room and see her lying down with round cucumber slices covering her eyes. She had a way of giving equal importance to every activity she engaged in, which made her always look busy.<br />
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Our favourite time of the day was bed-time, when she was in the mood for telling stories. She told us of King Suleiman and how he spoke to animals, of the brave Ali who pulled open the heavy gates of Khaybar... and sometimes, she would sing to us. Rhymes that we never really understood, but left behind an inexplicable feeling of tragedy:<br />
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<i>Mama Najiya</i><br />
<i>Take these hand-cuffs off me</i><br />
<i>Have a bit of mercy on me..</i><br />
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It never occurred to us to ask why Auntie Attentive was staying with us, why she wasn't married with a family like all our other aunties. Auntie Attentive was in fact married. Her husband was in a prison miles away for a crime he never committed, accused of 'betraying the country', just one of the thousands of innocent souls who spent years behind bars at the hands of Iraq's old regime.<br />
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Auntie Attentive eventually re-united with her husband. Prison had changed him. He had a lot of catching up to do. He had to repeat his education, going back to high school. The old and untouched degree he had wasn't worth anything now. He had to go through all the stages of university graduation to internships to finding a job, but with greying hair. She stayed strong and supportive throughout.<br />
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As I grew up and started to understand the things around me better, my fascination for Auntie Attentive has been replaced with deep-rooted respect. For her unwavering strength. For the letters she read from her imprisoned husband in secret, never breaking down in front of us. For her recognition that life goes on. For the way she filled the emptiness she felt from not having the children she had always longed for- with busy, scheduled, productive days.<br />
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Auntie Attentive is seven hours away from me by plane, but I bet you I can tell you exactly what she's up to now. She is either in the kitchen, rummaging through cupboards; on her desk, reading a book with glasses perched and making notes; or catching invisible tennis balls, the bangles on her arms clinking softly.<br />
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Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-62153343834543212812014-09-29T19:24:00.001+04:002019-07-25T19:44:51.358+04:00I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's been long since I've spilled beans on here. The past days have been a breath of fresh air. Days and nights have come to me empty-handed. I've filled them bit by bit and in no rush, making appointments with God, my soul, the sun, the sand, and the vast, unharvested fields of my mind. I have also been growing up with Maya Angelou- smelling in the scent of Grandmomma's store stacked with tobacco, ketchup bottles and tinned sardines... moving around with Bailey Jr from new home to new home across cities... living her hopes, fears and threats... and cheering her on as she transforms from a self-loathing little girl to a lady.<br />
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It is 1936. A little Maya holds her bloodied mouth in one hand, the other hand clinging to her Grandmother, who drags her across in steady, strong steps. Little Maya's teeth are rotting, the pain is blinding, and her Grandmother walks on, meaning business. They stop at the dentist's door. Sure, they're black and he's white, and a white dentist would rather die than stick his hand into a black mouth. But this is Grandmother, who lent him a hand when he was going through some pretty rough times. He wouldn't say no to somebody who owes him a favour now, would he?<br />
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Little Maya and Grandmomma go back the way they came- except with a bloodier mouth, and steps not as steady or strong anymore.<br />
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It is 1941. Eighth-grade Maya stands proud in middle-school graduation robes. Grandmomma's store is closed, a dress the product of weeks of night stitching and sewing flows under the robes, and an excited Maya waves at her family in the audience between her class-mates. It's an important milestone for all the kids standing on stage, and for the sweating family members waiting patiently in the crowd. It's a day that signifies possibility- the hope that, someday perhaps, their hard work could pull them out of the state they're in today- some day, armed with their education, they will transcend all the layers of ceilings placed above them.<br />
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But in comes a suited white man, says a few words on their hard work, how the girls can maybe sew or stitch better now, how the boys can have a better basketball field the coming year..and with those words, he leaves with the air of going off to somewhere more important. Bubbles of hope pop all around, because they have all heard his real message loud and clear: stay in your place.<br />
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It is the 21st century. You and I still have a story to share. Maybe two, three. Maybe as a victim, or maybe simply a witness. Civilization may have advanced since those times, with new laws and new social norms. But people the world over are still being treated differently because of their colour, gender, beliefs, appearance, social background... There remain to be nations with entire under-privileged minorities. There remain to be millions of positions holding incompetent people because they had a flashier name, passport or bank account. You and I can change this. We are human- <u>not </u>capable (yes, not capable!) of ignoring differences or removing the stigmas that have unconsciously leaked in our heads through media. But <u>very much</u> capable of looking beyond the differences and the stigmas, to treat people for who they are. You and I won't change the world- we will change the little worlds around us. And together, help the caged bird's song be heard.<br />
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Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-35270636958555592462014-03-17T18:44:00.004+04:002014-04-18T01:27:15.813+04:00To work with love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Khalil Gibran says:</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">'Work is love made visible.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">And if you cannot work with love but only with distaste, it is better that you should leave your work and sit at the gate of the temple and take alms of those who work with joy.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br />For if you bake bread with indifference, you bake a bitter bread that feeds but half man's hunger.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br />And if you grudge the crushing of the grapes, your grudge distills a poison in the wine.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br />And if you sing though as angels, and love not the singing, you muffle man's ears to the voices of the day and the voices of the night.'</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">It's not easy. When you leave early, come back late and all you have in between is a few hours of sleep where you can't escape swimming numbers and looming deadlines in your dreams. When all that seems to matter is quantity and not quality. When hard work without hustle and bustle remains unnoticed. When hours, days, months go by behind a screen slowly dehumanizing you. When the deepest conversations heard are about which cars are driven by whom, and where the best (and most expensive) places to dine can be found. When there is no trace of appreciation for the beauty of words, thought, and all the million other components that make up each unique personality that exists on this earth besides <i>how much work can be squeezed out of them.</i></span><br />
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Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-3023015962644711132014-02-22T15:45:00.000+04:002020-06-06T03:16:27.962+04:00Ways to count the dead<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">By Persis Karim, poet and professor at San Jose State University</span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<u>"Keeping track of the Iraqi death toll isn't the job of the United States," a student said,</u></span><br />
<u><span style="font-family: inherit;">"and besides, how would we count the dead?"</span></u><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Take their limbs strewn about the streets -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">multiply by a thousand and one.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Ask everyone in Baghdad who has lost</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">a brother. Cousin. Sister. Child - to speak</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">their name in a recorder.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Go to every school, stand</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">at the front of the class, take roll:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">for every empty desk, at least two dead.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Find every shop that sells cigarettes -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">ask how many more cartons they've sold this year.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Go to the bus station and buy ten tickets -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">offer them free to anyone who wants to leave.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Go see the coffin-maker. Ask how much</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">cedar and pine he's ordered this month.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
The dead don't require much. They don't speak</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">in numbers or tongues, they lie silent</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
waiting- to be counted.</span><br />
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Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-17566325619729612692014-01-01T15:40:00.000+04:002014-01-01T15:40:57.415+04:00Snippets from 2013<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's my grandmother's bed-time and it's going according to schedule. Like everything she does in her life. We lift her from her seat at exactly ten. At the sink, she takes off her dentures, soaks them. '<i>Did I take off my dentures?</i>' she asks. '<i>Yep</i>,' we answer. She washes her spotless, lovely-smelling hands in the same way, soap bar trying hard to slip away from her thorough scrubbing. '<i>I washed my hands?</i>' '<i>Yes</i>'. Once she is lying down in bed, I kiss her goodnight, wondering at the mystery of old age. How that re-emergence of childhood dependency blends gracefully with the demanded respect of elderliness, gracefully enough to make this dependency dignified. Before switching off the lights, we tuck her in, throwing the blanket over her. It covers her face for a second before we pull it away. Antin her helper finds this hilarious and bursts out in loud cackles. When my granny's face re-emerges, it's grinning- a toothless, beautiful grin.<br />
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<br />
Noddy and I bond over books, junk food, life questions, beauty care and silence. Today it's a combination. We're munching on flaming hot cheetos with our orange-powdered hands, big glass of water in the other. We look at the muted television screen without really looking- the sound of our crunching filling the room. When we're done, we down the remaining of our glasses, end the ceremony with a satisfied 'Ah' and sit there for a while with our full bellies in appreciative silence.<br />
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Later on, she watches me squeeze a honey-covered lemon slice on my face and lets me do the same to her. '<i>It's good for our skin</i>' I tell her, and she believes me like she always does, just asks how long we have to keep it on. I brush her silky hair that doesn't need brushing while we wait, and she asks me her latest questions on life- why some people are social and others aren't, why I'm scared of animals and why the friends in the book she's reading have arguments. '<i>You're the perfect sister</i>,' she says, but the truth is that <i>she</i> is perfect, with her round, curious eyes and her all-time trusting soul.<br />
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<br />
Awesomeness has another name- Skoon. You will never meet anyone quite like her. We're at her baby shower and she tumbles in, pregnant belly, still not ready. 'What do I wear?' she moans, before getting distracted and changing the subject. In Skoon's world, randomness and spontaneity rules and there are no protocols about ways people are supposed to behave. It's two hours into the baby shower and nothing has actually happened yet, but everyone is having a great time. Skoon moves around a natural ease, bonding with each of her guests without making any effort, spilling her thoughts and feelings on a tray and handing them to you as raw as they are.<br />
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I go to visit her at the hospital a day after she's given birth. Nothing can change Skoon and her down-to-earthness, not even hours in painful labour. 'Hi!' she says animatedly, eyes screaming fatigue but voice unchanged. We look down at her adorable little girl with red cheeks and puffy eyes. She giggles- 'When will she wake up, man?' Skoon was trying to take selfies when she was giving birth. I told you she's awesomeness. I don't stay long, leaving her to rest and bond with her baby. On the way back, I can't stop picturing how much fun Skoon and her girl will have growing together.<br />
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<br />
If there was a measuring device for positive vibes, graduation ceremony halls would win. I have never seen so many truly happy people at once. We march inside looking ridiculous in our blue hats and gowns- to a hall buzzing with the pride of parents, professors and friends. They watch us move around and go up stage with smiles that crease their teary eyes. When the cooped-in parents are finally released, they mix in with the blues. Everywhere around, mothers are crying and hugging their kids. I lean in to kiss mine, and we take a million pictures. There is enough happiness in the air to energize a nation. Then we group up and take that obligatory picture, the one where we throw our hats off. It's a symbol of the end of my academic life- that lovely, comforting world. Over the past three months since I have started working, I have had a lifetime of experience. From keeping confidential the sensitive information of some of the largest firms in the world, climbing fuel tanks, counting in locked warehouses to meeting new people- the inspiring, the weird and the ugly- and struggling to remain diplomatic in a politics-infested world. Some days are good, some not so good, but each one brings me so much more to learn, and though it hurts to wave goodbye at the dreamland period of my life, it is exciting that the real life has only just begun.<br />
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Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-42386894839615543742013-12-08T20:50:00.000+04:002013-12-08T20:50:54.438+04:00Your presence, Your serenity<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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<i>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.</i><br />
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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.<br />
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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: <b>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.</b><br />
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I want to always be aware of it- Your presence; in every emotion I feel, every thought passing through me.<br />
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Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-50686578033414247152013-11-14T22:07:00.001+04:002019-09-10T19:38:25.585+04:00When skies wept blood<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Hussain.</i> 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 <i>Qasim</i>, his teenaged nephew, trampled under the enemy's horses' hooves. He held on to the speared chest of his eighteen-year-old <i>Akbar</i> and asked to listen to his beautiful voice one last time. He wept over his brave brother <i>Abbas</i>- 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.<br />
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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:<br />
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Is there anyone who will come to assist us? Is there anyone who will respond to our call? </span></b><br />
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He repeats this four times- facing all directions. Who is this call for?<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-65898349690555913132013-11-02T16:20:00.000+04:002020-06-06T03:16:10.117+04:00Nature's Complaisance<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It's not right what you say <br />
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Doing what you love isn't key </div>
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Clouds don't whine when it's time to go grey </div>
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Nor the sand when it's whipped by the sea </div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
Doing what you love isn't key </div>
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Planets throw no tantrums at routine </div>
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Nor the sand when it's whipped by the sea </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
We're the only ones making a scene </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<div style="text-align: left;">
Planets thrown no tantrums at routine </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Think they care about being 'truly content'? </div>
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We're the only ones making a scene </div>
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The only ones expressing dissent </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<div style="text-align: left;">
Think they care about being 'truly content'? </div>
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It's not right what you say </div>
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Just love what you do; relent </div>
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Clouds don't whine when it's time to go grey </div>
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The above is an attempt at a pantoum. It is also a note to myself, in case this comes off as hypocritical! <br />
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In other news, one of the poems I wrote on this blog back in January- <i>Tell Me</i>- has been published in an anthology entitled '<i>Cover to Cover- A Collection of Poems</i>' by Forward Poetry Publishers. I want to thank my lovely readers who read the poem on here first and gave me encouraging comments :)<br />
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Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-19391657450516191562013-10-19T19:33:00.002+04:002013-10-19T21:17:03.386+04:00The last confirmation of love when everything else falls away<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;">“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.” </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;">― From a new addition to my all-time favourite novels: Zadie Smith's <i>On Beauty</i></span></span></b><br />
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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. <i>She's beautiful</i>, 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-71873582535543555882013-09-28T02:27:00.003+04:002019-07-25T19:33:20.637+04:00Bil 3arabi<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am reading Jhumpa Lahiri's <i>The Namesake</i> 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.<br />
<br />
We had a rule at home when we were kids. No English at home. <i>English is for school, only. At home, we speak Arabic. That is your language</i>. A non-negotiable rule. Once a trip to the theme park that we'd been planning for days got cancelled. <i>This is so fun!</i> 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.<br />
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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 <i>taareekh </i>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.<br />
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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. <i>It's a library</i>, 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.<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
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. <i>English menu too, please</i>, I say. <i>You'll pick quicker in English, Ghadeer. You know how awful it is trying to decipher transliterated dish names</i>, 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.<br />
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Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-54543030629663138602013-09-09T23:15:00.001+04:002019-07-25T19:30:50.439+04:00Dear New-born Babies of the World<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Wait! Stop crying. I have some good news too.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Life is beautiful, babes. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-71703120989795647612013-08-22T22:57:00.000+04:002015-03-19T21:32:03.005+04:00Unerasable<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Words are energy<br />
neither created nor destroyed<br />
only recycled.<br />
And the moment your squidish lips squirt their ink<br />
there's no going back<br />
the words are ever-immortalised.<br />
You walk<br />
and they walk with you<br />
the air around your body<br />
quivering under the weight<br />
of everything you have ever spoken.<br />
<br />
<br />
_____________________________________________________________________________</div>
Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-29162513382846905092013-07-31T17:12:00.001+04:002015-04-04T13:30:59.111+04:00Blue<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
You will never find a more empathetic friend than the Universe<br />
It weighs your heart,<br />
awaiting the instant<br />
it goes heavy.<br />
<br />
An ever-ready reflector of spirit.<br />
<br />
Then,<br />
skies wrap on their mourning veils,<br />
the sun dims,<br />
winds haste<br />
to suck out the remains of hope and meaning from the air,<br />
and the breathing of all life on earth<br />
revamps<br />
to a single all-embracing, everlasting<br />
sigh.</div>
Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-87396803012896777812013-06-30T14:16:00.001+04:002013-07-29T18:35:32.074+04:00Can ignorance be bliss?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"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 <i>happy</i>, and alot of this happiness wouldn't amount to the same if they were looking at their life through educated, adult eyes.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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 <i>know</i> 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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. "<i>Ah! You have a new friend now!</i>" she bellowed, eyeing me top to bottom, before shoving them to me with a laugh. "<i>Yalla, go play! Leave me alone with khala our neighbour!</i>' 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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
<div>
<i>"We're bored."</i></div>
<div>
<i>"Mama said to get out off her sight"</i></div>
<div>
<i>"The television is broken."</i></div>
<div>
<i>"They're having a fight."</i> </div>
<div>
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 <i>"Okay, don't worry, I'll go listen at his door to make sure he's asleep first."</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
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.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-6873687284811603482013-06-24T22:03:00.001+04:002019-04-20T03:36:17.120+04:00The Awaited<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Even the night sky celebrates,<br />
carries a bright full moon by the hand,<br />
and I wonder, when, and if, you watch this view,<br />
where it is that you stand,<br />
and how much of this moonlight lighting up our sky<br />
is just your own reflected,<br />
and how much heavier your heart weighs since last year,<br />
and how much more disconnected.<br />
<br />
My love and greetings I've sent every day<br />
dispatched them sans address, letting them find their way.<br />
To see you, I'll pray for under one only condition,<br />
that I gain the privilege of your admission.<br />
Do you hear the desperation in our hearts' beats?<br />
the promise of you that makes all worthy,<br />
the seemingly endless cycle of defeat?<br />
<br />
Listen - to the sound of hope in every breath of air,<br />
this is all I can gift you, for your patience that never wears,<br />
an inexhaustible fuel to run it. Tiny amends for my behaviour,<br />
anything to keep me alive for<br />
my awaited saviour.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-71407130955592470222013-05-28T16:25:00.000+04:002019-07-25T19:21:42.482+04:00Graduate :)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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 ("<i>Oh, I had to use my rubber, Miss</i>", "<i>I sharpened a pencil</i>", "<i>I touched the carpet strings</i>") 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.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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 <i>Ada</i>, and she's a mother to a two-year-old son now, which is both awesome and daunting.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "gfs neohellenic"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="readable" style="color: #181818; line-height: 1.4;"><i>Not change the world exactly, but the bit around me. Cherish my friends, stay true to my principles, live passionately and fully and well. </i></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "gfs neohellenic"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="readable" style="color: #181818; line-height: 1.4;"><i><br /></i></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "gfs neohellenic"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="readable" style="color: #181818; line-height: 1.4;"><i><br /></i></span></span></span></div>
</div>
Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-27504109109812594032013-05-23T17:54:00.003+04:002019-07-25T19:18:09.128+04:00For the Love of Words<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I recently read a work of pure genius recommended by somebody from my book club. <i>Ella Minnow Pea</i> (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:<br />
"The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Here's the amazing bit:<br />
As each letters falls and becomes prohibited from use, <b>so do they disappear from the novel.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
If you're not shaking your head in amazement at that, I don't know <i>what</i> it takes to impress you.<br />
<br />
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 <i>1984</i> and the "Newspeak" that the government enforced to take away expression from people.<br />
<br />
It shows that words are everything.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
_______________________________________________<br />
<br />
But that's not entirely true.<br />
<br />
Some people are all talk. ALL talk. Literally.<br />
There are others who do. Have you ever heard the saying, "<i>What you do is so loud that I can't hear what you say.</i>"? I love that line.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
It shows that words are nothing.<br />
<br />
______________________________________________<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-85408982712175875962013-05-06T00:42:00.001+04:002019-07-25T19:16:39.044+04:00Weep the World<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When life catches you cry<br />
Tell your tears, as they pour<br />
How noble it is to do so for much more<br />
<br />
Like, you could cry <br />
On behalf of every boy brought up thinking it isn't man to<br />
For every face and body scrutinized to be "approved"<br />
For every slashed wrist,<br />
forced puke<br />
and pill misused<br />
For the tonnes of powder and pencil helping to disguise<br />
tired and insecure skin and eyes<br />
<br />
Cry<br />
for the kid whose mother's too busy to raise<br />
and the parents on their child's life missing out<br />
for hearts of house-maids far away from home<br />
and the scarce notes they can't do without <br />
for ignored questions<br />
untold bed-time tales<br />
and drawing-less fridges<br />
for couples biting their nails in fertility centres<br />
and for babies left under bridges<br />
<br />
Cry<br />
for all the unnoticed flairs and potentials not harnessed<br />
for every time a human heart was demeaned<br />
and every time an ego-injury wasn't spared<br />
for miscalculated rejections<br />
and unprecedented afflictions dealt<br />
for every swear word told<br />
and every insult felt<br />
<br />
Cry<br />
for a disease with no cure<br />
and the time-tickers over homes looming<br />
for all the beautiful minds<br />
that are destined for grooming<br />
for emptying bank accounts<br />
and bills demanding to be paid<br />
for skills on stand-by<br />
and economies swayed<br />
<br />
Cry<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
for bullets in innocent heads<br />
and buildings in shreds<br />
for homelands destroyed<br />
and the high price of diesel <br />
for rivers turned to mud<br />
and the cheapness of blood<br />
<br />
Cry<br />
for every lie conveyed<br />
and every dark game well-played<br />
<br />
No misery weighs more than the other<br />
Everybody has their own story to tell <br />
So weep for yourself<br />
But while you do,<br />
Weep for the world as well <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-21857434823165983992013-03-15T15:35:00.000+04:002019-07-25T19:08:11.630+04:00The Toy-shop<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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.<br />
<br />
'<i>Those, it's time to get rid of them</i>'. 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.<br />
<br />
'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.<br />
<br />
_________________________________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
A green Volvo is driving along one of Baghdad's most popular streets- <i>Al Mansour Road</i>- 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 (<i>Al- Jalaywi</i>; a family name scribbled in large Arabic letters across a yellow board) before they are hurried on inside.<br />
<br />
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. "<i>Look at the quality of these footballs</i>," gasps my cousin Ali, throwing one from hand to hand. "<i>Barbie sewing machine</i>," whispers his sister Maryam, moving towards the pink display of Barbie and her accessories.<br />
<br />
"<i>Remember, Jidu said as many toys as you want. Anything.</i>" We all turn and eye her, trying to fathom this foreign message. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
_________________________________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
It's the same day, afternoon, and the "<i>hall</i>" (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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'<i>Not one word about the party</i>,' they whisper to us again, as we call her inside to play.<br />
<br />
As soon as we do, in trots our witty three-year-old. '<i>Did we have a party without you? No, we didn't. And did we get any toys without you? No, we didn't. Okay?</i>'<br />
<br />
We all look at each other and burst out laughing.<br />
<br />
_________________________________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
<i>Al- Jalaywi</i>'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.<br />
<br />
_________________________________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-55527934190363246772013-03-01T19:11:00.003+04:002019-07-24T01:55:46.577+04:00The Greatest Therapy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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 '<i>mhm</i>' and an '<i>aha</i>' with an eye on a phone and a mind on a billion issues other than your own.<br />
<br />
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? <br />
<br />
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. <b>Turn not away from me when I have turned my face towards You.</b><br />
<br />
Hands to the ears - God is Great. <b>Who can have
tasted the sweetness of Your love, then
wanted another in place of You?</b><br />
<br />
Hands down - All praise is due to You. <b>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'
</b><br />
<br />
Hands on knees, bowing down. <b>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.</b><br />
<br />
I stand - God listens. <b>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.</b><br />
<br />
On the floor, forehead on the ground- the dust that I was made from, the dust to which I'll one day be bound. <b>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?</b><br />
<br />
It is overwhelmingly flattering that I'm allowed five appointments with You every single day. And Your <i>undivided</i> attention (in every sense of that word). There can be no greater therapy.<br />
<br /></div>
Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-5457229463935358152013-02-19T17:03:00.002+04:002016-05-20T14:46:32.714+04:00Aziza<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Always smells of spotlessness,<br />
soap<br />
(jasmine-flavoured);<br />
Skin,<br />
sagging, yet smooth;<br />
Skin-tone,<br />
snowy, <br />
something in that glow making me think of cold nights,<br />
(the cozy kind)<br />
snuggles at early hours among stainless sheets.<br />
<br />
Seldom do you see that,<br />
so silent, but the<br />
sensation of their presence,<br />
so...strong.<br />
She may not say much, but<br />
she's our bed-rock,<br />
starting-point,<br />
seed and stem. <br />
<br />
Soothing it is,<br />
your serenity<br />
(it hit me most that day at the ICU)<br />
sitting in all your splendour<br />
self-composure in a room of chaos<br />
slight smile<br />
<br />
Steady, <br />
unshaken,<br />
(it may have been many years since<br />
you made even snakes<br />
slither away, but)<br />
sheltered is our place for you<br />
spoken in your name<br />
<i>Aziza</i>, treasured one,<br />
forever our sovereign. <br />
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Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4076555577902028449.post-91002728465633628552013-02-08T17:15:00.001+04:002013-02-15T11:31:53.188+04:00Dozes of craziness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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 (<i>pet-name for our Nissan X-trail</i>) 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. '<i>What are you looking at?</i>' 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! <br />
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'<i>Mama</i>,' 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.<br />
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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. '<i>One, two, three!</i>' 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. <br />
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Ghadeerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04811397676327530873noreply@blogger.com17