Waiting

I have found, that writing provides solace.

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

But I cannot.

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

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

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

What have I accomplished in the past year? Nothing

In the past three years?

In the past twenty six years?

I cannot grasp anything.

I have accomplished nothing.

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

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

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

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

Remains of the Past

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

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

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

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

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

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

Validation

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

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

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

Timely Insanity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, it will make a difference. 

Mother

رحتي و تركتيني 

You went and left me

يا نور عيني يا أمي 

Mother, light of my eyes,

يا أنس ليلي يا 

The comfort in my nights,

رحتي و تركتيني 

You went and left me

Now who's going to wipe my tears away?

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

Books

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

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

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

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

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

The Gift of Books

"Noor, what have you ordered from Amazon?"

"Me? Nothing that I recall..."

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

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

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

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

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

Letters [4]

My dear,

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

Nobody else matters. But your opinion mattered to me.

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

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

For now, I'll try to look ahead

Carnations and Roses

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because perfection isn't bought. It just is. 

Midnight Stalking

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

That was before twitter became a public platform though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Continuing Misconceptions

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

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

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

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

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

Letters [3]

Dearest, 

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

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

I enter your email. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I didn't decide. 

Look after yourself ok? 

Your sister. 

Old Friendships

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

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

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

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

Letters [2]

Dearest,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 ***

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

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

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

Have you forgiven me?