On the Khaleej

3/24/09, Abu Dhabi

"Be steadfast in your devotion to God, bearing witness to the truth in all equity, and never let the hatred of others to you make you swerve to wrong and depart from justice. Be just: (for) that is closest to piety. . .God has promised forgiveness and a great reward to those who believe and do deeds of righteousness." The Noble Quran, 5:8-9

There is so much that you can’t learn from a book or a phone conversation, so much learning and understanding that requires you to just be, be present. Although I have strongly held this belief in the past, it is nice and necessary to be reminded of this axiom in my travels. From Beirut, to Cairo, to Muscat, and finally, to Abu Dhabi; it has been the conversations in Toyota Prados, wondering looks at a coffee shop in downtown Beirut or out of a cab in Cairo, and questions posed walking through Marina Mall that have greatly enhanced my understanding of the cities I have been visiting and the people I have been meeting.

It’s interesting how Abu Dhabi, by virtue of it’s association with the yogurt cup Las Vegas of the Middle East, has garnered an international reputation that regards its accelerated expansion as indication of a diluting of culture and distancing from tradition. Some how culture has died, been cremated and had its ashes spread across the rubble that remains from skyscraper construction. Yesterday morning proved otherwise.

My aunt took me to the Mena first thing in the morning. The intention was to shop for some fresh seafood at the fish market by the bahar. Before we did this, she drove through the adjacent fruit and vegetable market, some imported, and some organically grown on neighboring farms. Next, at the fish market we selected from Sultan ahmar and shrimp, had them cleaned and left them to be grilled while we touring around the plant and flower market. Oversized Tunjaras and stirring spoons were piled on top of each other and varying spices were stuffed into label-less plastic bags on top of each other. Was this the same Emirates much derided for its “plastic-ness,” for a hollowed out soul filled with skyscappers? 

On Family

3/27/09, Abu Dhabi

Today I missed my family-not even in a collective way-but each one during separate moments. I thought about my mother as I prayed jummah at the mosque in Abu Dhabi today. What was it about the khutab about youth, the garden of heaven and the mamluks that reminded me of her? I don’t really know. Maybe it was seeing all the women there together that stirred an emotional reaction from me…probably my subconscious sneaking in a wake dream from a thought earlier in the morning. As I was getting ready for the mosque today, I thought about how khalo insisted that I say hi to mom, in the same way that my ummo, Allah yarhumwho, on his deathbed emphatically reminded dad that he had a good wife. It made me think, my mom is a good woman, and I need to honor that. She was put through hell with her extended family and her own family, her brothers and sister don’t understand her. I am very lucky to have my mother.

Hatta, I even really missed my dad last night and I can’t recall when it was, but I know it was a specific trigger that engendered a specific thought. And as I was watching home videos with ummo's family in the family room after lunch, I thought about his namesake, my brother. One of my cousins explained that when his dad even tried filming his brother back in la during the break, he wouldn’t listen as he was too distracted by the laker game. Then I said out loud, “well, yeah, they are obsessed. They watch every Laker game that is on.” That’s when I thought about the organic ritual that sprouted out from a skyview lane family room: all of the family gathered around our cloth covered leather coaching, dad on in master sofa with ottoman attachment throne, my mom’s tiny frame squeezed into any available space in one of the two couches crocheting the same sweater from last year, my brother bobbing his head and body off of the couch- slinging their amateur commentary onto the flat screen. I thought about my brother’s reaction to a missed free throw or last second 3 pointer shot. I missed him deeply. And even talking to my sister on the phone earlier today-for as much as it was too much about my brother’s dubious life choices, I missed having her there. To run to her, to find someone who understood the lunancy of the situation and also one who really knew all dimensions of it.

 I missed middle brother as I explained to one of my male cousins about his hidden talents. As I write this, I think about a mantra that I promulgated to all on my trip: that boy, man, is the kindest hearted human I have ever known. This is not said lightly, in any respect. When you are around people 24 hour/7 much is illuminated and little of their character can be cast in shadows. I say this because I have been able to see parts of people in my life that were not too obvious before this trip. So, to confidently maintain this opinion about my brother is further corroboration of his benignity. 

What Makes Me Happy...(Part II)

Inspiring a child to be enthusiastic about learning-even if it is about about a eurocentric literature canon.

Earlier yesterday my sister switched off reading pages and passages from Thomas Hardy's "The Mayor Casterbridge" while waiting for a doctor's appointment at an urgent care facility. Her initial hesitancy, best manifested/demonstrated in her insiduous attempts to weazle out of the reading by claiming that she lost the book, soon turned into an engaged reading session-as we stayed, parked on my driveway 10 extra minutes before going inside to finish up a chapter. And is my pathetically nerdy attempt to generate a deeper interest in the text. I call it the high school, celebrity-focused gossip girl approach :

Me wrote at 4:47pm
dude-i can't believe he sold her to the sailor! I wonder how that relationship is going to work out. What do you think?

Sister wrote at 5:07pm
omg idk!
i think he is going to treat herr better than her drunk husband!
i should find out huh?

Me wrote at 5:07pm
yes-and im in the market to find out with you!

Things that make me happy (Part I)

Kids that maintain a vivid imagination marked by precocity-one that does not let the visual cacophony of our everyday lives encroach on its boundaries. I was reminded of such gloriousness when I stumbled upon a short story written by my youngest brother at age 7, BVG (before video games):

Once upon a time there was a snake named Dalegman meaning “one with two legs”. Dalegman was hated among his snake tribe, he was an exile. The reason of his exile was because he had a birth defect that made him grow 2 legs. Dalegman thought that the other snakes were jealous of him having 2 legs. Dalegman lived on his own ever since he was exiled from his tribe. He hunted, fought his own battles, built his own snake burrows, and gathered his own resources. He had the ability to survive and he learned to be clever and sly. He now realized over 7 years why he was exiled when he had found the snake sanctuary’s special writings, the writing states: “…Snakes who are two legged due to the fact that the first snake was different and two legged tried to change us all but failed….” Dalegman would show the tribe that two legged should be respected as others should be to. He was planning an invasion against the tribe. One year later Dalegman appears among the village hills with an army of other snakes from other parts of Snaky-Planet. Dalegman charged forth killing no one but showing how indignant he was because he was an exile. After the invasion, Dalegman convinces the tribe about respecting not only others but different types of snakes. Soon Dalegman is promoted to King Snake and makes sure no one hates one another because al snake has two legs.

Blood Money

2/16/07
My idealism/optimism is at times, so intense and good-intentioned, that it is sometimes becomes exceptionally destructive. Sitting at the 6th floor lounge awaiting a 2pm Arabic Conversational Class, I had to fight with all my might, (employing various strategies) pin-point an area in the room far from concerned eyes to stare at, to hold back my effusive tears-Tears elicited from the trapped ideological position I was put in when I read about Adnan Khashoggi’s infamous involvement with the Reagan administration in Iran-Contra, his making a good chunck of his millions brokering arms-dealing for the US government. I felt dirty, compromised, and like an outright hypocrite by association. There was another feeling too, despair, lost hope in Arabs, in Arabs concerned for the betterment of Arabs, in disgust for Arabs who sell out, and cash checks that are tied to the killing of Arabs, all this blood from our blood! I felt dirty, thinking about the birthday party I attended for him in Cannes, for eating cavier, enjoying the extravagancies of that elite lifestyle begotten out of arms-dealing-blood on my hands, dripping from my fingertips, smearing letters on my keyboard. Blood Money.

Bragging about my grandfather’s association with the depraved billionaire. Unfairly placing judgment on my deceased grandfather who has no means of defending or explaining his political friendships. Why would he associate with such a man? How was this freedom fighter, engaged in, actually leading, anti-colonial resistance against France in Syria, continuing his commitement to Arab people? What of all these secret talks with Arafat and Lebanese politicians to reach peace agreements and advance the self-determination of Palestinians? What of all this when he was closely associated, possibly finanacially-backed by a man who aided the US’s conscience-deprived imperialist mission to kill Arabs and control the fate and cash register of the region?

I am struggling to hold back the tears as I type this, as I prepare to re-engage with the insensate academic community….

And this woman, two tables away, in front of me stares at me…I’m wondering if she is trying to watch CNN’s incessant coverage of the Anna Nicole Smith death or if she’s trying to read my soul…

It astounds me how disconnected people are from other people, from sensing the vibrations of energy emananting from people around. How did we get so disconnected? So bad at reading people, at knowing when to cover a hand, ear, or heart for the energy that vibrations on high soul-singing/speaking octaves, eyes that express inner turmoil

Day 6: Taybanah wa Mareedah-Me So Sick

Day 6: On Assignment From Damascus
Getting sick sucks, but getting sick in a foreign country with no water at night, intermittent electricity (which means no AC in 107 degree weather), a foreign country experiencing it's hottest summer on record and no dependable Internet connection is a death sentence. Ok, perhaps I'm being a little Paris Hilton bougie-esque about this

From the limited view of my bedside view I'd like to ask, why is it that every Damascene seems to have premium satellite television, flat-screen TVs, high-end cellphones, badays!, and yet considers it normal that there is no water at night, that it takes 10 minutes to open up one page (that is if you are stricken with a virus to shut down all your operations in the quarter of your ten minutes of loading), and that the electricity goes off on and on whimsically.

To be fair, as aforementioned, this is the hottest summer on record for Syria. With temperatures 107 and 108 consistently hit for the past week, Damascus is experiencing hotter temperatures than Abu Dhabi! Who knew that was possible! As such, the Minister of Electricity has warned, that because of the unexpected heatwave, water shutdowns and electricity cut-offs will increase in the month of August and will continue through September 15!

Wow, didn't I pick a perfect time to visit Damascus for the first time in my life!

As stated, I have been horribly ill for the past 4 days (out of the 6 I have been here). Today marking the first day I had solid food and didn't vomit water, and today also marking the last day to register for classes for Arabic language training. As such, my plans for Syria have been significantly altered. That will be discussed in a future post (assuming that my next location will have Internet access!).

Anxiety-Ridden Hesitation and Excitement

These are the polar sensations I drift back and forth from as I think about words that I need to learn to explain my father's Syrian citizenship should airport security prevent me from entering the country, as I envision a life without the faces in frames around me, and as internalize what it means to step in the watan of my parents as my own without them...

All these thoughts and many more careen into each other the night before I leave for Damascus.