Parents roasting tomatoes over a friend's fire

.1. Do you keep forgetting that your momma and poppa are individuals before they are parents? That they had and continue to have dreams and that they may look at their lives today and wonder what happened to those dreams? How they fell through? Why they didn't work? How life isn't all it's cracked up to be?

Do you forget that they also have fears? That sometimes, their actions and reactions are filled with terrors that we might not recognise because we expect our parents to be fearless?

I do. Occasionally, I forget.
So, I'm asking you to take a step back with me...remind ourselves that although we sometimes believe that the actions of our parents are entirely centered around us, they are also, in great measure, centered on them as individuals before them as parents.

& if you already knew this, then you need to start a blog and start telling my ignorant ass.

(Exercise patience, please.)

.2. Dear Man Who Emailed Me Asking Me To See More Pictures Of Me Because You Think I Am Pretty:

I have your email.
I FaceBooked your email. (Something you may consider creepy, but that my friend M would call 'crafty'.)
I noted that you are married, with children.

Please direct this sort of attention to your wife, not me.

Thank you.

- M

.3. It is astonishing how the moods and spaces of those we love affect our own. Baby J is walking through a relatively delicate and difficult situation, and I am doing my best to walk alongside her. Sometimes, I walk behind her and push her forward, other times I run ahead and drag her along. Always - I hope and I try - to behave with understanding and patience; the reality of this sentence I leave to her discretion.

Earlier this week, she experienced what I can only call an entry of toxicity into her life; a toxicity that I reacted to on an extremely visceral level, and one which I carried with me throughout the course of my day and into my night; on her behalf, because I love her, because I respect her, because I am proud of her, because I do not wish to see her hurting. Also, because - as many of my friends have noted - I have zero tolerance and react with a ferociseness (not a word, but should be) when I feel as though being taken advantage of is someone I love.

A long time ago, someone said that "dealing with a friend's problems is like sitting around their fire and inhaling their smoke". Although I can't in fact remember who said that, I do recall it was said in derogatory fashion, as an indication that we shouldn't have to deal with the problems of our friends all of the time, some of the time, part of the time.

I call bullshit on that sentiment. The true meaning of friendship is unyielding support and sensitivity to the problems of our friends all of the time, some of the time, part of the time, no matter that we may be "inhaling their smoke".

If you don't recognise that being invited to sit around someone's fire is something to be cherished then you are an unworthy idiot.*****

.4. I recently took a new direction in my life (one which, literally, witnessed me throw up in a snowbank upon the decision taking & making. Sexy.); this is the reason I have been quiet. I will not write about the decision or the move, but I will only make this small mention here as a gentle reminder to myself. It is documented.

.5. Dear Sugar Plum Grape Tomatoes:

I love you.

- Maha

==========
*****This sentiment does not hold true for people who tend to invite everyone, including the kitchen sink, to sit at their fire. I believe these sorts of individuals tend to be exhibitionists who have a fire only for show, and are usually in and out of my life within 24 hours. I don't want to sit at their fire because that means that I am not sitting at the fire of someone who cherishes my presence. (Even in friendship, the value we see in one another must go both ways; otherwise, one of us is a chump.)

Dear Dr. Aalya

I love you very much and am proud of you beyond words or measure.

I have printed Bordering on Fear: A Comparative Literary Study of Horror Fiction, your 399 page whopper of a PhD, into which I am extremely excited to sink my teeth.

(And to the end of this PhD sojourn, I shall add: Ameen, sister.)
xox

P.S. Entry coming this weekend. Thank you to all for your emails of curious 'wtf are you doing not writing?' and 'when in the hell...'.

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Mama, The Eccentric Weirdo

The good news is that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

The bad news is that I discovered mama hides her large squash-like homegrown vegetables in the basement. This is not sexual innuendo, but rather is a fact I discovered moments ago when mama went downstairs empty-handed and came back upstairs carrying what is called a spaghetti squash, grown by her, the size of her bum.

As I type, she is showing off her back garden (again, not sexy innuendo) via web-cam to our family in Gaza. She is also wearing pistachio green sweater to "matching" lime green socks (yes, with pants; no, not any shade of green). She is as happy as a squirrel with nuts amongst her squirrel friends who have less nuts on which to feast and so is gladly sharing said nuts.

Everywhere I have looked recently, I have felt defeated, usually beginning all thought with 'I hate people; why are they so useless?; why do they care so much that some pop singer's small pet died / was carried away / is lost?; why aren't they reading about Palestine?; paying attention to Darfur?; seeking out more info on the women in the Congo?; Why so mean?; Why such bullies?; Find balance outside of pill-aw-tees, you entitled useless twat, SHUT UP!' Then I look at the eccentric weirdo with whom I live and I am made better.

And I recently realized that when she is gone, she will take 95% of the love I feel in this often-times grotesque and hurtful world, and that turns me into a sad sobby creature with mascara around her nose. But in the interim, I get to appreciate her weirdness and her bizarreness and love every bit of it and for that I am grateful.

So, most especially for those of you who have had a tough Ramadan and who were trusting enough to share their experiences with me, I thank you and hope that you too have at least one person whom you are able to turn to and who is capable of swallowing you up in their innocence and kindness. If it is your mama, then get up and hug her, high five her, kiss her, tell her you love her before you wish her Eid Mubarak.

Peace and love to you all, including you asshats.

Where the Wild Things Were

Four years old, seated in the gymnasium of the community center where mama, new immigrant, was receiving language lessons.
I was shy (then) because I had trouble communicating in the foreignness of English, so I saucer-eyed-stared rather than spoke.
(Mostly, I watched my small bare legs splayed out ahead of me, ending in white patent leather shoes that I loved dearly shiny and shinier still.)

I sat with my back to the window, my tiny doughy fists always frantically clutching Where The Wild Things Are.
The characters were my safety blanket I understood as they were written in Child.

It remains my favourite book of all.
And every time I see this trailer, I cry.



(Thank you, Mr. Sendak & soon Mr. Jonze.)

Toddlers & Tiaras

This spotlights one of the reasons why I think our world is going to sh*t. (P.S. While you're sl*tting up your babies, your government is r*ping you and other countries.)

How To Feel As An Underachiever (& so off to Portugal & the Azores)

When I was 13, a boy broke my femur. We shall call him 'K'.

K was the son of our neighbors at the time. He was only a year older, but to my 13, he was an older man worthy of my secret crushing. I believed him to be the cat's meow, being drawn to the alpha of the male even as a child. He was the cool one, always at the gym, always busy, always with his equally cool friends while I ate twinkies and coveted from afar in my knee high socks, awkward shorts, puffy hair and glasses covering half of my face.

As a child, I would have followed K anywhere and on one unfortunate day, I did just that. He said we should go across the street to the store, and so I quickly pulled up my socks and followed. Followed is here the operative word, so please pay close attention to this next...

As we were about to cross the street, we noticed the You Should Not Cross But If You're Already Crossing Then Please Hurry It Up hand signal was already flashing. K said we could make it and so began to run. Naturally, I followed, only was incapable of running as fast as K. He made it to the median and sadly, I did not.

I made it to the pavement as I had been hit by a car.

Luckily, I wasn't run over, merely knocked over, and so what could have been complete devastation was just a broken femur. (Enter 5 weeks of traction in a hospital bed, 6 months inside of a body cast and 2 years of physio therapy to complete the cycle. Not only had my femur been broken, but so too was canceled the high probability of a very successful career in figure skating.)

That I should blame him for any of it never crossed my mind. I poke fun now only because he will be reading this (Hello K!).

I have very few memories of K past this point.

Fast forward to now.
Saw him, chatted with him for a few hours, and were caught up on bits and pieces of our lives and adventures as much as time permitted.

He has come a far cry from the boy who broke my femur.
He has achieved, my friends.
He is today a surgeon. Specializing in urology. Specializing in cancer in urology.

Bravo.

*****

You have all read me about H. She is among my handful of best friends who has kept my secrets hidden safely within her heart. H is a writer for Elle UK and last I saw her, I jumped over to London for a short weekend to do nothing more but be caught up face-to-face, eat at The Wolseley (yum) & The French House (yummier), attend a play, shop and become sleep deprived over the course of said weekend.

A little while back, H bought a summer home on one of the islands of the Azores. She is now in the process of purchasing a second stone cottage - also only for summer - in the hills of Portugal. It is to be a writer's retreat, with ramblings in the hills and many long luscious nights of food, drink and conversation.

We are working out details as I will be, inshallah, heading over to roam in Portugal and write while there. We may pop over to the house in the Azores, but we're undecided on that at the moment.

Spring is looking as though it will be among the best as trips are in the works for the above, also to Napa Valley, NYC and Paris. Late summer is to take me to London and one as-of-yet undefined destination, though I know it must be a hot one. I am inspired & excited by it all...

As an only child, I have a hard time maintaining only one train of thought (Sparkle = Good)

People hold the very strange assumptions that being an only child renders one somewhat spoiled and incapable of sharing.

As most of you know, I am an only child and this "opinion" is one I have heard my entire life, most recently from an individual who also put forth the sweeping generalization that if someone's parents are divorced, that same child's ability to take marriage seriously isn't actually possible because a child from a 'broken' home is not a 'healthy' individual inside of a relationship.

Unlike him whose parents are still married. Naturally, according to his stellar reasoning ability, he is therefore a 'healthy' individual inside of a relationship.

To prove that he's so healthy, he pointed out that he's not afraid of relationships.
It doesn't matter that he's an emotionally retarded monkey who is incapable of being alone and so must always be in a relationship.
It doesn't matter that he's spent his thus far 'adult' life jumping from one relationship to another and to another and to another and still, to another without the fear of committing for longer than a 2-3 year period.
It really doesn't matter that by this point in his relationship career he's an "I Love You" slut and has shared these words with at least a dozen different women. (Oh Romeo! Willst thou e'er make me thy number 13? Siiiigh.) All of that = He's Healthy And Would Take Marriage Seriously Because His Parents Are Still Married.

And before any of you ask, the answer is: NO, I did not date him.

But I digress as an only child is want to doing because unlike the rest of the normal world, we follow our whimsy, see.

My main point is that although it is and will always remain a complete and total honour that I am the only child to two people (because in this day and age, 'two' seems the anomaly), it can be relatively difficult at times because on occasion, I would really welcome being the black sheep seeing as how I am and will always remain the only sheep and every sheep.

There's no one to shoulder the blame. I can't fail since there's no one else to succeed.
All of mama and baba's dreams and hopes rest on my shoulders.
When the Parental Crazy comes out, there's no one to deal with it but me.
I can't deflect anything.
And: When mama and baba are elderly and need taking care of, it will be me and only me who will take care of them. (This duty I will complete with pleasure and honour, Inshallah.)

(I also expect that my husband will be a man about this and do the same with his parents since I don't plan on marrying a shit who would ever even remotely contemplate not taking care of his parents and instead throwing them into an old age home. [Because last I checked, when you were an annoying whiny sick drooling and poo-pooing infant, your parents didn't chuck you toward the Children Annoy Me And By The Way They Smell Funny home.])

See. I'm off topic, again.

Anyway, as I was saying: I pity me. Ha! Ha!

Oh! The other day I was sitting around thinking about how blessed I am. Honestly. Super Duper Incredibly Blessed (SDIB). There's not one thing in my life that I can complain about...isn't that amazing? Honestly: Amazing. I have all of my limbs. I am healthy. I am pretty looking. I am relatively intelligent. I have an incredible social circle of friends. I travel a lot. I think I am funny (and when compared to: 'I am funny', that's good enough for me). I'm kind and I like most people, too, and that's a blessing because I can't imagine being one of those miserable bitter people who don't like people. (It's not a secret that no one actually really liked Sartre, anyway.) I also have an incredible job. I have a blog! Just being here and possessing the ability to push myself and attempt to improve is pretty spectacular (because, uhm, no, generation Chopra: 'you, just as you are' is not perfect and you can always be improved).

Mein Gott! (Thank you, Yaznotjaz.)
Imagine! I don't have to worry about imminent threat, shelter, food, or water. I have the unbelievable luxury of going to a movie theatre when I need to escape because I'm sort of a wanker and even though my life is brilliant, I sometimes need to escape. Amazing. SDIB. Alhamdulilah.

Tangent over.

As for people thinking that an only child can't share; I can only speak for myself here and say that sharing has never been a problem. I have no problem giving anything away and I have no problem bringing people into 'my' space.

Admittedly, though, my problem has always been controlling a situation. Because, as an only child, we shoulder everything and we can't deflect anything, we try to control that thing in an effort to ensure it happens properly (however we define 'properly'). Years back, I was around someone man enough to take control and take charge without hesitation or fear. Turns out that I actually had no problem letting go of that control - in fact, I enjoyed that someone else was taking that control. This man, though, was a man who had proven that he was worthy of responsibility and so never once shirked it; it's why we're such good friends today. (Warning! When you load responsibility on a man unworthy of it, he will eventually tuck his tail between his legs and run.)

Another tangent is over.

Right. So, even though I greatly appreciate the spotlight, I really wouldn't mind having siblings on some days. Hopefully I'll make up for being an only child by having a litter and / or marrying a man who has a lot of siblings (preferably boy siblings. I always wanted a lot of brothers). That's all I was trying to say in the first place...

100 acres of land

Is one of the properties my (father's) family owns in Gaza. On this land were thousands of orange, grapefruit, lemon, olive & valencia trees. We've owned this land for generations and it has fed and housed generations.

There are pictures of me as an infant playing and sleeping among the trees, covered head to toe in dirt.

It was where we welcomed guests; it was where my cousins and I ate fresh cactus fruit and hid from the adults.

It was there pictured my mother and my father and a newborn infant, still a happy couple.

It will always be there that my favourite picture of my paternal grandfather and I was taken; it's a black and white photo of him seated shelling peanuts and handing them to a four year old me in bloomers and a sleeveless dress covered in flowers. I was looking at the camera squinting, smiling and waving with a fat hand because my grandfather was spoiling me.

My paternal grandfather commanded respect, not love. As an infant, the barriers paid attention to by adults meant nothing to me, though I would later grow into a teenager who was scared of this man, who held her tongue in his presence and who often wondered why he'd bothered having children.

I have become a woman who understands that the choices we make in this life define who we are, and even though his choices made him a difficult man to love, I hold on to that photo, on that land, in that summer house, and let it guide my heart when I think of this Seedo.

This past weekend, the Israeli Defence Forces went on to our property and uprooted each one of those trees.
They demolished our home.
They have left: Nothing on 100 acres of land.

There is no justification, but there is an explanation: Apart from the psychological warfare in which Israel is engaging against the Palestinians, so too does it every day engage in economic warfare. This instance is one of them. The land was viable. The land was productive and healthy and offered fruit and vegetables to Palestinians. That is reason enough for the State of Israel.

Our property is not unique, we are not to be pitied for this loss as there is nothing 'special' about it (only that we've managed to escape the bulldozers for so long); our land is one of thousands that has been raised. It will not be mentioned in history aside from a default into the land that was destroyed by the State of Israel.

Only, it is unique to us, my family; it is a part of our history and no matter the size of that tank or the size of that bulldozer, that is one thing that - try as they might - the State of Israel will never occupy or demolish.

"Stop, O people, that I may give you ten rules for your guidance in the battlefield. Do not commit treachery or deviate from the right path. You must not mutilate dead bodies. Neither kill a child, nor a woman, nor an aged man. Bring no harm to the trees, nor burn them with fire, especially those which are fruitful. Slay not any of the enemy's flock, save for your food. You are likely to pass by people who have devoted their lives to monastic services; leave them alone.”
-Islamic rules for engaging in warfare. (If only...)

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Something F*cked Up This Way Comes

Have you read about this yet?

These are teenagers. They are no longer children. Although - clearly - their minds have not yet developed fully (and I can't help but wonder if with this much stunted growth already, what kind of stellar brain power they will have in the future), they are old enough to know what's right and what's wrong. Albeit a lacking one, they possess the ability to distinguish which actions are acceptable and which are not.

And yet...and yet...

And what of their parents?

Well. According to the Trash Mother of one of the Trash Teenagers, the Trash Teenager was provoked into this behaviour. Forget that the Trash Parent isn't sophisticated enough to make a distinction between justification and explanation, and is not attempting her speak to help us understand, but is rather using her Trash Tongue to justify her Trash Kid's actions...

Well done, mamas and papas. Well done! You get an A for A**hole. Thanks for the exceptional future you're building through your children.

And if the woman who was beaten did in fact post something inflammatory on her mySpace, then where the hell is her parental control? (Am I blaming the victim, here? Because. Seriously? Seriously. If she is indeed talking sh*t about the other kids, then her actions need to be brought under speculation so that the situation may be traced back to the source. Something, somewhere would have set this off. Something, somewhere went wrong and that - whatever it is - remains the catalyst for what we're seeing today. And if that very thing isn't rectified now, then this situation will never cease.)

If anyone wishes to dispute the level of control you can exert over your child - and that this is in no way to be associated with / blamed on / traced back to the mamas and the papas - then bring your stupid, disassociated, uneducated, wanting excuse for a life-view on. There is nothing I would enjoy more, at this moment, than discussing the messed up individualistic, alienist, Leviathenesque jack-ass behaviour of these teens and the direct correlation of this behaviour to their parents' lack of direction, lack of morality, lack of kindness, lack of humanity and lack of making clear accountability and responsibility. I can guarantee that these kids have never understood the concept of either the later.

...and an excellent Monday morning to you, sunshine...

'Caramel'

Except for the occasional political one, I rarely recommend films on this blog. But if you are free tonight, this Thursday evening, tomorrow or Saturday and live in Ottawa, then please find the hour and a half needed to head over to the Bytowne Cinema where you can catch Caramel. (Tonight it's on at 5pm, Friday at 4.30pm & Saturday at 2.15pm.)

Later, I will insert here why I loved this movie as much as I did...check back.

I'm Out of Touch

Hi all - okay...

(1) For those of you new to me, please understand that the mobile is perhaps the bane of my existence. I rarely have it on and check my voicemail perhaps once every two weeks. Last year, and for reasons beyond my control, I had to make myself accessible as best as possible.

Now that I no longer have to do that, it also means that my response time has slowed.

Please don't feel ignored...it's not you, it is most definitely me...

(2) I've not been blogging much because I've had a super crazy schedule and I am planning a super busy summer. Trips to NYC, Vermont, Toronto, Montreal, Washington, (perhaps) Thailand, definitely the Azores, all forthcoming.

Now that curling is over, I am back to boxing once a week. In five weeks' time, boxing will be upped to twice a week. (Please note: this is not faerie boxing, nor is it kick nor muay. It. Is. Boxing. And it beats the shit out of your body.)

I try to have dinner with only one friend a week, but that's turning a little impossible, so now it's two a week.

C and I will be training to run a 5k in mid-June. This is a first for both of us and so terribly exciting and awkward and hilarious.

I will be taking my first sailing classes in July / August.

I will also be taking care of a very specific region in mama's garden. (More on this in the future months as it is a very big deal for me.)

I am maybe going to try rowing, depending on whether the schedule fits my own. Neither for competition nor dragon boating, but simply rowing. I hear it's excellent for your arms and shoulders...and those are two key muscle groups for girls.

So all this to say that I am currently a little busy. Not to mention that I still have books to read.

If I am out of touch, please know that I'm not ignoring you; it's only that I'm living a perhaps-to-you-but-not-to-me hectic schedule. There are only 27 hours in my day and I enjoy making the most of them. "Idle" = "lazy" and though that's an excellent way to pass maybe two days a month, it is no way to live a life. (At least not mine.)

(3) Please visit following album sets to see what's been happening.

As promised previously, photos of Sophia and I have been uploaded (simply click on the picture):


Aalya / Sophia's baby shower photos linked here:


Muslims, They're Just Like You! They Shovel Snow! (Click the picture to see what has buried Ottawa this past winter, and also to check out my stellar shoveling outfit that consists of pyjamas, mama's panda bear coat, her boots and her headband.)


More to come (including the images from my trip to the Middle East this past December).
xox to each...

Babies are collapsible as well as spring-loaded

Please say hello to my niece Sophia:



Whose papa called me a few hours after the above photo was taken on March 8th, 2008, to leave me the following message:

"hi maha it's dietrich and i just wanted to let you know that our baby sophia was born early this morning at about twenty to one a.m. and she's a beautiful baby girl and she's very happy and she has dark curly hair and long eyelashes and her mother's nose - lucky her. And she's just wonderful and she was 7 pounds and 13 oz and her and Aalya are doing just fine they are sleeping here in front of me right now and they're both just so beautiful (voice cracks) and we wanted to let you know and we can't wait to see you as soon as we get home. Bye bye."

I started crying.

After a C-Section / See-Section / Sea-Section (because, really, all of them could arguably apply), mama was satiated and calmed and bonding with baby Sophia:



As was papa:



These next two photos break my heart because while I was carrying her, this is how she looked



and she was collapsible as is apparent in this photo



Funny this, that she is spring-loaded. When you tap Sophia's little round belly her arms flip out and up, much like The dude crucified in the image of Jesus. I couldn't stop myself poking and watching the spring load.

I am in love with Sophia and I think it'll be so much fun to grow one of my own, inshallah. (Pics of her and I forethcoming.)

Conversations with little girls

This is Deema, my baby cousin aged 12. Last night, we had the following conversation that very nearly made me pee in my pants...

Deema: Maha, I need to ask you a question.
Maha: Okay, habibti, what is it?
D: It's personal, though?
M: Okay, go ahead - you should know that you can ask me anything you want to - there's nothing that's too personal.
D: Uhm. Okay. So. Uhm. Ahem - ahem.
M: Deema, just ask it.
D: Okay. WHEN DID YOU GET ARMPIT HAIR?
M: What?
D: Oh my GOD. SEE! It's too personal. I KNEW IT! Why are you laughing? Are you laughing at me?
M: NO! Nothing is too personal, and to answer your question, I was thirteen.
D: I'm almost 13! WHY DON'T I HAVE ANY? I WANT ARMPIT HAIR!
M: You'll get it when you get your period.
D: DUDE! Who said anything about my period? I'm talking about armpit hair!
M: Deema. It's all or nothing.
D: That's so gross. I just want my armpit hair.
M: Why do you want armpit hair, tayeb?
D: Because I want to start buying and using deodorant. I REALLY WANT TO BE ABLE TO BUY IT! I LOVE THE WAY IT SMELLS! AND I LOVE THE WAY YOU HAVE TO APPLY IT! (silence) My period, eh?
M: Yup.
D: Hmph. That seems really unfortunate. (and with full drawl of sarcasm) You know, I don't think it's very appropriate that you're laughing at me.
M: You have the most sarcastic sense of humor, ya Damdooma!
D: If I knew what that word meant: 'sarcastic', I'd offer you a reaction.
M: AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!
D: When you're done laughing, missy, come and find me in the living room. (muttering to herself) Crazy woman! - that's what happens when you get your period.

I took her 'shopping' for deodorant this morning. (I believe she's already used up half of it.)

Eid Mubarak

I've finished my trip to Oman where I saw for the first time ever wild dolphins. They move in the most beautiful symmetry...and I will post videos soon enough, Inshallah.

A special note on the man in the pictures; he's been keeping me cozy by giving me at least 20 hugs a day (each one of which I've needed almost desperately). My baby cousin Ahmed. He's 7 years old and likes food. Whenever seated on the couch, he comes over and cuddles in close, and before bed, he kisses me goodnight and tells me I'm his favourite girl and would I promise to not tell that to either of his sisters. (We have a secret handshake that consists of feigned spitting and a Point Break wave of the hands and scream. Because it's 'secret', you mustn't tell anyone.)





I find that lately I've been more comfortable around children as their innocence and trust is filling me up with calm that's placing kind, soft and protective hands around and beneath my heart.

On the occasion of this first day of Eid, I hope this coming year is good to each and every one of you and your families. (& May each of your hearts find the innocence of a child should it require it.)

P.S. Any photo showing up as a broken link will be fixed and back to normal as soon as I'm back in Canada.

A Childhood Photograph

When my matrilineal grandmother - Teeta - died, found in her night table drawer was the most important photograph she’d carried with her throughout her life.

Teeta came from what remains one of the oldest and richest families in Jerusalem. My great grandfather was a man I never met, but about whom I still hear many great stories, both in terms of his incredible business mind and generosity to his children and community.

Apart from owning much of the farmland in Jerusalem, my great grandfather also owned much of the downtown core where the family home still stands, now a famous hotel, along with 56 shops remaining, both of which are on the same street as that of The Church of The Holy Sepulchre. Weekends and summers were spent in Ashkelon, once known by its Arabic name: Al Majdal, where Teeta swam every morning in the pool surrounded by their orange groves, and rode every evening as she was a trained equestrian.

My great grandfather was a very pious man and when he died, he wanted to make certain the following two things happened: (1) That his children worked hard to ensure their own children were well taken care of; and, (2) That the community would benefit from his riches. For these reasons, his will indicated that for the duration of the lives of his children, they would receive the rental fees from the shops in the Old City, as well as any money generated by their farm lands. When the last of his children die, all of this money is to be funneled directly into the social welfare system for the needy (specifically: for orphans).

Although he spoiled his children, there was a limit to that grace and he taught them well that obligation and responsibility began with one’s family, and spread to the community.

It was a lone and particular photograph of Teeta and Saa’da - meaning 'happiness' - which was found in her night table after her death. Saa'da, an Arabian horse, was gifted to my grandmother by her father.

A black and white picture of my 12 year old Teeta with blonde hair, fair skin and hazel eyes. She wore a white dress, white socks and white shoes to match the white horse, perfectly groomed they both stood. Saa’da was sideways facing, looking at my grandmother, who was staring directly into the camera, filled with mischief, happiness, pride, and a million secrets ready to burst out of her as soon as the picture was taken. The energy of her leapt out of the photograph, and one couldn’t help laugh – not just smile, but actually laugh – when they saw the beauty of her youth, which is in so many ways, one of the purest of art forms gifted us by God.

When I was younger, I didn’t much pay attention to the relationship between Teeta and Seedo until the summer she had to go to the hospital. Seedo hardly ate, hardly slept, would spend his entire day next to her in the hospital – and when she came home, I remember standing at the top of the stairs as he held her hand and gently and patiently walked up with her, half-way stopping and bending his head to kiss her hand and tell her that the house had been filled with darkness in her absence. After 50 years of marriage and seven children, they still liked one another.

When Teeta died, Seedo stopped living, and died shortly thereafter.

As deeply as Teeta loved her life with Seedo and her children, she would occasionally tell me about Saa’da, and about the freedom of riding her. There were no rules for her while she was with Saa’da, neither obligation, nor consequence in the endless hours she’d spent with her.

Teeta had very strong opinions and was a force to be reckoned with when she wanted something; anything she pursued, she did it with justice and not a shred of selfishness. She ran her house with equal amounts of iron and love and her children and husband worshipped her for it. Being the first grandchild, I always remained a novelty and had access to secrets and stories the others didn’t.

She was a free spirit, Teeta, this being so obvious in that photograph with Saa’da. This spirit was dulled and fragmented by the hardship of war and occupation, that wouldn’t allow my Teeta to visit her childhood home in Ashkelon from 1948 – 1967. All of the land we still own, but the farmland is no longer workable as when Israel became, they placed a ban on the watering of farmland and so my family’s orange groves died, except for the few trees that stood beside the swimming pool. These same trees still stand today, but the orange groves were never rejuvenated.

More importantly was that Teeta’s own brother was murdered by the IDF in Khan Younis, after the nationalization of the Suez Canal. Awakened and pulled from his bed, alongside all of the men in the neighborhood, my great uncle and Teeta’s brother in law were among the first to be lined up against a wall and shot dead because they were young Palestinian men and that made them a danger; pre-emptive strike the essence to the actions of the State of Israel.

Later, she would have to endure the imprisonment of her husband for nine months, as he was deemed a political threat. Worse still was that her youngest boy would be taken to jail for being a part of a protest and while in jail, beaten so badly that he walked out a man with epilepsy.

The smile on Teeta’s face as a young woman always told a story far removed from the pictures themselves and the surroundings within. Eternally, there was something happening behind her eyes, always standing out from the rest of the men and women in the pictures. Even though it was until the day she passed that she had a strange mix of innocence and naughtiness, pride and humbleness, the young woman who once pulled you out of your reality and into her photograph was lost after 1948.

It’s only as an adult that I understand the seduction of Saa’da. It is innocence in a distilled form, and freedom in the greatest sense. Not as entirely real as Teeta or any of us ever imagine it to be, but when captured in a photograph, the feelings and representations are encapsulated, frozen and melancholy. Where we often lack perfection in every day, we find it in the stories we tell and the pictures we hold tightly.

It was no surprise to her children when they found a photo of Saa’da but none of themselves, as Saa’da was Teeta’s lament for freedom in all of its varied forms.

'Glam' Shots (aka 'If a Moroccan prostitute & a Russian prostitute had a child)

I chose Moroccan and Russian, because they are the crème de la crème and if I am to emulate any hooker, it would be a combination of the two. My family would be proud.

The following are what Major & Homer call 'Glam' Shots and it scares me they are both aware of this terminology...but I actually sort of dig the pictures as I don't usually go beyond mascara and kohl - and in these pictures, I've actually got a little eyeshadow on (hence the SuperTrash appeal).







Fiery: I am, once again, and to your great sorrow, wearing leggings. Let me tell you, my friend, the leggings with that black/grey mini dress and my red Mary-Jane Crack work as a show-stopper. I plan on living in the outfit until my a** hangs around the back of my knees and my children force them off me.

This picture I'm adding for good measure because of the sheer size of my head. When compared to that of beautiful quaint little Sarah, my over-sized head is comical and Godzilla like. It's huge, just huge, look (I call this shot 'Big Head Maha':



You can stalk our week of photos by visiting The Collection here. (Major took a ton of photos of my Crack - while I was wearing the different ones - and I should have them soon enough. And by 'soon enough' Major Time, I assume in the next 12 months.)

Conversations and such (Warning: Explicit)

You’re about to get insight into male-to-male conversations between brothers who love each other to death.

Disclaimer:: The following are some seriously crass quotes that are not the norm, but are funny and jaw-dropping enough that I really must post them. As all of my girls can attest, these young men don’t speak like this anywhere but when they’re together…

Disclaimer no 2: The following is by no means a fair representation of the boys. Remember that these are the same boys who, two nights back, made me a huge glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and filled it with honey because I was starting to get a scratchy throat. They came into my room and placed it on next to my bed and then woke me to tell me to drink it throughout the night before kissing me on the forehead and leaving.

Enjoy!

“Good morning.”
“Hey man.”
“Oh. Uhm…did I mention? My d*ck’s bigger than yours.”

“Dude. I’m totally gonna steal all of your wives.”
“I don’t plan on getting’ married.”
“That’s ‘cus you’re a little b*tch.”

“That girl’s SO hot.”
“She forgot to put her pants on.”
“I think she likes me, too, man. She winked at me when I opened the door.”
“She’s just being nice to a retard.”

“That’s bullsh*t, there’s no way you would’ve partied with Ragheb then. You would’ve been 13.”
“Dude. I’ve had fake I.D. since I was 13.”
“Whatever.”
“Major, I was 18 before you were 16, man.”
“Shut up”
“Ha ha. You’re such a little goodie-goodie. Go back to mama, man.”
“Shut up.”

“How can you not think Eva Mendes is hot?”
“She looks like a man.”
“She’s gorgeous.”
“That’s ‘cus you don’t know what a real woman looks like.”
“Shut up.”
“Dude. You wouldn’t know real p*ssy if it slapped you across the face.”

“I was thinkin’ about opening a t*tty bar. Is it haram? I mean, I’m not doing the stripping.”
“Well. There’s no surrah that says: ‘Thou shalt not open a t*tty bar’, but I’m pretty sure you can deduce that the answer is ‘Yea, it’s haram.”
“Damn. I was hoping I could get away on the technicality.”

Strange boys.

My Favourite Boy

Two of my cousins are in town from Denver this week. These boys are the closest thing I have to brothers and they have never once let me down. Naturally, we get into fights, as do all family members...but 99% of the time, we're solid. We share sibling mothers and so are quite aware of the attempted emotional terrorism and torment the sisters often wield; this serving as a special bond, much like the one shared by POW survivors. (I have to say here that I have an edge because mama's changed dramatically these last few months and is still doing just that; it was either that or further fragment our relationship. Maybe one day I'll post about this point in particular...I'm not sure yet.)

This is Homer (Omar):



He's had a pretty rough year about which I will only say that I, Alhamdulilah, am so thankful and amazed to see him so well and vibrant and healthy and back. I love this kid to death and I've yet to meet anyone with a heart the size of his. He's finishing up Business something-or-other and he'll own half of Denver some day - he's a hustler of the first order and can manage and charm anything and anyone. He also grows the world's tastiest tomatoes.

This is Major (Maher):



Currently working construction and soon to begin pre Med in January, Inshallah. It's been interesting having him around because he's matured so very much in this last year and a half and it's an absolute pleasure to talk politics, religion, family, friends, relationships and life with him. He's a sponge for knowledge, and I can see him in ten years being such a strong and solid man in the lives of those lucky enough to know him.

The only one that's not here at the moment is this guy (who you may remember was the first boy to ever send me flowers), Rock (Ragheb), the soon-to-be 'Homo Doctor' (currently in Tempe, Arizona studying at Southwest College of Naturopathic Medicine):



...this being my favourite picture of him because he's not even posing. Needless to say, women tend to drop trou around him and I'm sure the girl who took this photo passed out as soon as she went Click. (Re the beads, I think in Tempe there's something similar to Mardi Gras and chances are he started with a U-Haul of those necklaces.) He's here receiving a special blog entry because of how much support he's given me these last few months, and how engaged and patient he's been. He is my touchstone and my comfort blanket. Period. (When we're not chatting on the phone, he's offering me support via email such as found here.)

I can only here discuss him because the other boys are still developing who they are; I have no doubt that within the next few years, they'll be the same calibre of man as Ragheb...God knows they're well on their way. Also, I'm going to talk about Ragheb because it's to him that I'm closest. (And he knows all of my secrets.)

There are two things I admire most about Ragheb - apart from his obvious willingness to listen to me for hours and actually pay attention to what I'm saying and then provide feedback. First is that's he's a fighter, and from this comes a fierce confidence. I've never known him to back down, to be scared of anything, or to ever simply stop. Ever. Nothing to him is unattainable and it is amazing to learn just how engaged he is in this life. Even when he's f*cked it up - which we've all done - he's immediately stood up and forged a different road to get to where he needs to be. His only fear is one: God.

Second, he never imparts blame and instead takes full responsibility for his actions, absorbing the repercussions of his choices without so much as a sigh of protest. I am reminded of this at every conversation and I am pushed to be a better woman because of it. I've recently discovered just how critical it is to acknowledge all of the errors I've made as an individual and that find me where I am today. The moment we blame others is the moment we say: I am not responsible, I am not accountable. There's a fine line here between moments in life where we are truly not responsible, and those instances where we actively cede responsibility because it's the easier thing to do.

The bottom line is, we live and we learn and we make mistakes - for most of which we are responsible - and we move forward still. (I think the choice here is that we live our lives either blaming everyone else or acknowledging our engagement in the composition of who we are and where we are. Obviously, this doesn't mean that people don't wrong you, because sooner or later someone most definitely will, it just means that apart from you dealing with that particular wrong, those people are of no concern to you - your concern is your own character and how you treat people, even when you've been wronged.)

Back to My Favourite Boy. I've said this before and I'll say it again: the woman to whom he will be devoted is blessed, because for all of his fierceness, the core of him is of unshakeable devotion and loyalty.

I LOVE HIM.

Ok. I'm done gushing.

My Seedo!! My Seedo!! My Seedo!!

Allah yir7amak ya Seedo. I can't even begin to express how much I miss my Seedo. It's been years since he passed, but these last couple of weeks have seen me spend moments of paralysis because I've been overwhelmed by my need to see him. He grounded me and I have felt anything but grounded as of late.

For some reason, in my family, I was the one who dreamt of both my Tata (grandmother) and Seedo shortly after their deaths and before anyone else did. As already mentioned elsewhere, there is a very deep tradition of dream interpretation in Islam and when you dream of someone whose left this world, it usually means that you're seeing them as they are in the next one. At the time I had this dream, there was a man who'd asked for my hand in marriage and they were waiting for a response. I didn't like him and I didn't trust him but I couldn't put my finger on it.

I was sitting next to some plants on the main floor of an area that was surrounded by four buildings. There was no roof, and I couldn't see an exit/entrance.

My grandfather walked into the area where I was sitting, looking no older than perhaps 40 years old. He was fit and he was full of life and he was wearing a beautiful three-piece green suit. He walked over to me and said 'Be very careful and take very good care of yourself' (this is a translation from Arabic and so has lost a little of it's flavour). Then he was gone.

I understood instinctively that he was referring to the man who was waiting for an answer from me. I told mama about my dream and she understood why I had to say no. It was simple and straightforward and not questioned.

A few months later, we found out that he'd regularly beaten his ex-wife (his university sweetheart), placing her in the hospital on two occassions of which we're aware.

Seedo was - and remains - a very respected and noted figure in Occupied Palestine. For some time, he worked with Gamal Abdel Nasser, and so would tell me stories about working with a man who serves as a heavyweight in the history of this world.

By trade, Seedo was a 'principal', the meaning of which differed then. 'Principal' referred to someone who not only ran a school but also established it from the ground up and from A to Z. His funeral was among the biggest in the Gaza Strip, and men - who were not related to my family - all over the world, opened their homes in mourning because Seedo 'rabba ajyaal', which means he raised generations. He is considered among the men that built the very infrastructure of Palestine, and there isn't anyone above the age of 40 in all of Palestine who doesn't know my Seedo. This reality would sometimes be intimidating, most especially when he used to take me out with him.

Mama is his oldest and all of the siblings know that she was his favourite. That she had me, his first grandchild, sort of placed me in an unusually lucky place in his heart.

...all this to say there's a website built and dedicated to a certain group of individuals who helped establish much of the infrastructure - among whom is my Seedo. I won't post the link to the site, but here is my Seedo...front row, center. He's the fifth man in from either the left side or the right...



The picture was taken somewhere between 1950 - 1955 on one of his school grounds, beneath the locust tree planted in the middle of the school. It's my SEEDO!!!!

Al-Sahar

'Al-Sahar' = Dawn
'Tasahur' / 'yitsa7ar' = Eating at dawn

Another tradition most of you would enjoy immensely during Ramadan is 'tasahur', which is the Arabic word describing the meal taken right before dawn (when fasting begins). During Ramadan, different customs take over in different parts of the Muslim world. For example, in most of the Middle East, you'll find the streets overflowing with families and friends heading out to eat at restaurants between 3.30 and 4 am. In Gaza, and due only to circumstance, families will eat together at home and listen to the radio (when they have electricity).

This specific time of day - when dawn breaks - Muslims believe to be unique. I'm uncertain as to whether this is lore or religion, but I do believe in the spirit world and so understand that there are things entirely beyond my comprehension; I believe that the significance of this time, is one of those things.

It's said that dawn is when the spirit world is most palpable to us in this world. (1) Prayers at this time are encouraged and it's only at this time that visions (the Arabic 'ru'ya' = the English 'vision', which is not to be confused with the Arabic 'hilm' = the English 'dream') are received. (2)

The last time I was in Gaza for Ramadan, this was also the time that Israel would drop the most bombs. Against my family's wishes, I would go to the rooftop with my sweet mint tea and watch the light show courtesy of Israel. I felt I owed it to those being murdered...it was all I could do...I would sit there, usually with tears in my eyes thinking of how blessed we were to be given another day of fasting while others who'd prepared their 'tasahur' never had a chance to enjoy the triumph of one more day making a reality this particular gift to God. (3)

Seedo was the only one who would be able to pull me back inside, and so everyone knew this, respected it and left us alone. Without saying anything to me, he'd come to the rooftop, open the door and I would go downstairs with him. He'd kiss me before I went back to bed, always taking my tea cup to the kitchen for me...

The next time you wake up anywhere between 4am and 5.30am, know that you're waking up with thousands of Muslims in North America eating and having their morning coffee and tea in preparation for their daily fast. Also: Be thankful that you're alive.

*****************************************************
(1) So then the spirit world has EST and Mountain Time? No...I think this means that wherever you are located geographically and in this dimension you can sense the spiritual world most when you are within the time frame of dawn. Anyway, the initial question is perhaps moot as it presupposes that the spiritual world runs on the same schedule of 'time' as we do, and this is a question we'll never be able to answer.

Seriously, yo, even Hawkings won't deny the possiblity of something beyond us, so open your mind a little bit...

(2) I'll eventually discuss the deep tradition of 'vision' interpretation in Islam which dates back to the Prophet.

(3) Because for all of the logic and reason behind fasting, the true reason for it remains unknown - it is the one pillar within Islam that God asks us to do for Him and Him alone. The 'reasons' given are all interpretations, possibilities, potential; a reflection of the human mind's endless need to answer the question: 'Why?'

Mama, The Riddler

When mama gets anxious or upset or nervous and tries to communicate in English, she sounds a little like Dr. Seuss. I tend to avoid her calls when she's in such a state because her emails make me laugh really hard and I have a record of the insanity.

Exhibit A:
'If I could tell her I would tell her but I can't tell her because I don't know what to tell her! Would you tell her? What would you tell her?'

On her good days, she still manages to make no sense in her emails because she has full conversations in her head and then I am only made privy to the last five seconds of the conversations.

Exhibit B:
Maha: 'I am going to C's house tonight.'

Mama: 'What's there at C's house tonight! Party'

Maha: 'Yeah we're gonna get drunk with the kids ;o) Nothing, really, I'm just going over...I'm going to pick up some coffee on the way there and we'll likely get a movie for when the kids go to sleep. I like hanging out with C, she's so similar to me in so many ways...one of the closest, actually.'

Mama: Good for you I wish it was me going to some one who has half a dozen. Any way I will go home now and make maftool, I just craved it right now so put it in mind to eat it tonight. Why do you have to go to your dad's place? As I said, I am leaving right now, bye

Did you catch that, kids? She's leaving RIGHT NOW. RIGHT NOW. She was going to click the Send button and then leave RIGHT THEN.
And let's not forget that she craved maftool (or 'cous-cous' to the North American) RIGHT NOW and so she's placed it in her head and then later she's gonna eat it. Not RIGHT NOW, but tonight.
Finally, we have the timeless wish of wanting to go "to some one who has half a dozen". Really, your guess is as good as mine, because last I checked C had only two kids and so I haven't the faintest idea to what or whom mama is referring.

Sailing with Seedo

I know. I’ve been away for some time and even I’m annoyed with myself. I received all of the emails, including those threatening me with boycott and virtual demonstrations.

Look. I do this thing that can only be called “spinning”. When something goes amiss or askew in my life I spin like a crazy Dervish. Only, I don’t get to a hire state of being, rather, I get to – usually – a relatively deep state of nausea.

When I do that, I cocoon. I don’t see very many people and I don’t do a lot of writing except to work out the voices and the ideas in my head. I also read a lot of children’s novels because they’re nice and for the most part, they have very happy endings even when the reality is that the main character dies, I ignore it and stick to the metaphor. Because apparently, anything can be turned into a metaphor.

I’ve been contemplating what I will do with the next year and a half of my life and I think I may have a general idea that involves farming in the south of France and something in the Middle East. How these ideas may come to fruition is another matter and it’ll take me some time to sort through them. For now, all I know is that I will be taking sailing lessons as of next month, Inshallah.

I’ve always wanted to sail and I’m likely the sort to place a down payment on a sailboat before a home. Most definitely before a condo – so I figure before I do that, I should at least learn how to sail. Since a little girl and maybe because I spent four months of the year next to the Mediterranean, I’ve always been more comfortable near water than land. My ideal life would be to load hundreds of books on to a sailboat and hang out in the middle of the Mediterranean, occasionally coming to shore to do whatever needs to be done.

I have vivid memories of my childhood in Gaza. After supper (at around 3 pm), my seedo (grandfather) would go to his bed to take a little nap while listening to the radio station ”Voice of Peace” anchored somewhere in the Mediterranean. I never knew – and still don’t know - much about the radio station, but it was seedo’s favourite and so I would lay next to him smelling him and holding his fingers while we listened and he slept. I would stare at his hands for hours because each one of his fingers and palms was very soft and puffy. I would listen to the music and push down on different parts of his hands with my little ones and watch as his skin filled out again and became just as puffy. I’m sure he pretended to be asleep, just to provide me with the comfort of poking his hands without being nervous or scared. That’s the kind of seedo he was.

When seedo and tata visited us in Canada, he would take the oc transpo and go downtown to walk around Ottawa. I went with him once, only I was sixteen and so didn’t spend as much time with him as I should have; I noticed he would get off the oc transpo as he said “Cheerio” to the driver. The drivers liked that, I could see it all over their smiles. I only thought about the British occupation of Palestine and wanted to yell out “Cheerio is not who you are, seedo!” but always kept my mouth shut. I’m happy I did and only now understand that Cheerio was every bit a part of him as his puffy hands.

Seedo was a principal until the PLO started and he was asked to run their Khartoum office being their representative abroad. He left the PLO shortly thereafter on account of disagreeing with their politics and went home to Palestine. He returned to schooling and was elected the representative of all teachers and principals across Palestine, and finally ended his career as the head of the Red Crescent in Palestine. When he retired, he opened and ran a bookstore – something of a rarity in Gaza. He used to bring me a different book each day and a pretty pen to match, explaining that knowledge and the pen were the essence and the beginnings of Islam and that I should be proud. I always was. Of all the places I could be, I most preferred being in that bookstore. I would sit near seedo at his desk with a book and a smelly eraser that I kept in hand and used to erase just so I could smell.

Seedo would close the store at high noon when the sun could burn holes in his customers. He and I would walk to the souq to buy vegetables and fruit before going home for supper. After praying asr, he and I would head back to the bookstore taking usually an hour to walk the simple ten minutes. He would walk me past the coffee shops and introduce me to all of his friends every single day, sometimes sitting down for a sweet mint tea and a game of tawlah in Turkish.

The rest of the evenings in the bookstore consisted of me sitting by and listening to the conversations of politics and religion that inevitably ensued when the bookstore’s four extra chairs were filled with my seedo’s four best friends. When something really big was said, seedo would turn to me and ask me if I understood – if I didn’t, he would take the time to explain the concept to me until I could explain it back to him and his friends. Infinite patience, this man had.

I wish you could have met him, but he's been away now for nearly five years and on days like today, when the weather is humid enough to make the pages of my book moist and the air salty, I really miss him and his soft puffy hands.

Cheerio.

Tunnels aren’t fun

As most of you are aware, I’m living with Baba these days. Baba’s a very rational and controlled man – he likes things exactly where he’s placed them and in the way that he’s placed them. He deals with problems head-on and doesn’t wallow, preferring to instead deal with things in as clear and focussed a manner as possible.

Which, for the most part, isn’t me.

Since Baba and I had such a long time of separation, he’s now sort of been forced to hit the Baba Road running and he’s doing a pretty amazing job of keeping up.

I tend to tunnel and then pop up in unexpected places, much like a crazy & blind groundhog in glittery crack & a skirt with sparkles. For a man such as him, this is problematic because (a) much like I he doesn’t know in which direction I’m headed as I tunnel & (b) he doesn’t know at which hole to wait for me, so that he may then contain me in an effort to keep me as together and as controlled as possible…or, at the very least, place me in a little glass box with holes in it so that I may breathe as I stare out at him and everyone else in this world. Because, I admit, that sometimes I could use a lot of restraint.

Having recognised that, I’m trying to change that about me as honestly and as slowly as possible so that it remains rectified. And I think (& really hope) it’ll work and that I may learn something from it…’cus tunnels aren’t fun and they exhaust both myself and those I love most, even though it’s not my intention to do so. Worse still, they dirty crack.

Mama is a Mexican

I was hanging out with mama the other evening when I noticed an interesting straw chapeau. It was a rich coffee cream colour with a red trim and an elastic that one uses to strap around their chin. There is a dancing man carrying maracas drawn on to the back of it. He too wears the same hat: the sombrero.

I didn’t think anything of it until I went upstairs to read. Half an hour later, I came back down to make a cup of coffee and noticed that the sombrero had mysteriously disappeared. I searched high and low and considered that the dancing man had come to life, packed up and took our sombrero away…

Until mama came in from her garden. She was wearing the sombrero.

Not a little.
Not slightly.
But rather completely, with chin strap firmly beneath her chin.

“It keeps the sun out of my eyes.”
“It’s a sombrero.”
“It keeps the sun out of my eyes.”
“But. It’s a sombrero.”
“Yeeeee, ouf, Maha, who cares! It’s a hat.”
“No, mama -- that, on your head, is a SOM-BRE-RO.”
“You think you’re so smart” were the words I heard as a set of sparkly maracas appeared in her hands and she danced her way out of the door and back to the garden.

Iman (Faith) on this day

Before beginning I would like to let everyone know that my dear friend Sami (who lives here) has ventured out in business. Wish him well, please. Mwafa2a inshallah ya Sami; I have no doubt you will succeed and inshallah spend a lot of money on your dear friend Maha and her love of Crack reap the rewards of your hard work.

& on to the entry itself…
Since my return from volunteering in Beirut during the war, I have been trying to figure out what I am, where I belong and what sort of life I want to lead. Understanding fully well that identity is not static and – for those of us blessed enough – that it is a life-long journey, I have felt that whatever I am or have been is not concrete enough for my liking. More importantly, it’s not concrete enough for my peace of mind. I was displeased with my lack of Iman because although ‘I am a Muslimah’, I wanted to be more than that. I want to be more than that.

In simple terms: It was time to challenge my state of acquiescence.

In the last little while, this process has been heightened and intensified. I am demanding much more of myself than I have ever in my entire adult life. The repercussions of this have been extremely far-reaching as it has meant that those I love most have also been forced to challenge themselves and most everything they’ve believed to date, how they viewed their present and, more importantly, their future. More heartbreaking is that the situation may alter forever our relationships. I pray Allah will protect us all from that.

I didn’t provide them a choice in this and for that I will have to pray that they will one day understand my actions and that they will have faith in both myself and these very actions. More importantly, I pray I have not and will not disappointed the family that has held me together and up during my weakest moments of 32 years past. They are the glue of me and I fear that without them I would quite literally fall to pieces.

Further to this and with full Iman I have chosen to alter my life as I had planned its unfolding in the coming couple of years. By my own hands, I have turned my world upside down; nothing in my life today is as it was and sometimes, it’s hard not to spin.

There are moments, hours, days where I have been drained and where I have questioned my actions and my purpose. To calm and temper me, I read Surat Yâ-Sîn daily either during salaat el-subuh or right before I sleep. The Quran is where I place my heart when I have neither the strength nor the courage to stand alone. It’s in His words that I find solace when I can not rest my head in my mother’s lap.

The Prophet (SalAllahu alayhi wasalam) said, ”Surely everything has a heart, and the heart of the Qur’an is Yasin. I would love that it be in the heart of every person of my people”[Bazzar]. (S.Muhammad Ali Sabuni, Tafsir-al-SabuniVol.2)

Today, I am tired.

That sentence is hard to see and it’s hard to share because of the depth of my fatigue. I have always had great difficulty sharing the weight of my heart except with a select few; I do my best to carry the hearts of others, but rarely burden individuals with sharing in the pain that is the consequence of the choices I make.

Although I may be demanding of myself and of individuals, I try to keep the particular burden of me as far away as possible and I try to minimize its pain as much as possible. Individuals have their own problems and most certainly don’t need mine to compound their own.

Unfortunately, I have caused pain in the heart of the family who loves me and I can’t share or lighten the weight I have forced upon them. And so today, I am tired. And today, I am hurting a little more than yesterday and the day before that and the day before that and the day before that…

Today, I am tired but I believe that we are never handed more than we can tackle. He never gives us more than we can face and overcome. And the greater the challenge, the greater the strength of character one possesses.

Today, I am thankful, Alhamdulilah.

I am thankful that I have a warm home and food and friends and family. I am thankful for all of the good that is in this world and the blessed life I continue to lead. I am thankful for the challenges and for the struggles, for the pain and the hurt and the tears. I am thankful for the burdens and for the sunshine. And I am thankful for the birds. I am thankful for being tired and I am thankful for the reserve of strength I have at my disposal…a reserve I never had to touch before and so a reserve the depth of which I am uncertain.

But whatever the outcome, I am thankful.

Alhamdullilah.

& May peace always be upon you, most especially on the days that find you exhausted. Remember that your heart is the center of your Faith and it is from the center that God speaks to you.

Living with Baba

Last Baba and I lived together was when I was 13, and the relationship then was very different than it is today. Nineteen years brings with it many changes…

So to does it bring many Baba-specific idiosyncrasies.

Baba has lived on his own for the past five or six years; he’s become used to a certain flow and organization to his home and life. I was not a part of either until five weeks back when I moved in. (It was a necessary move and one that has done both he and I a lot of good, mama too.)

I’m a girl. I own a lot of crack and I have many different varieties of hand creams and face creams and shampoos and perfumes for all sorts of occasions. As girls are wont to doing, we kind of expand when we live somewhere…our items proliferate at an un-male like rate, something to which my father was not accustomed.

I NEED MORE CLOSET SPACE.

And I’ve developed some sort of bizarre turrets, but that’s really neither here nor there.

The other evening I was sitting in the living room reading when I heard my father scream: “My computer’s broken! I can’t see anything! My computer! Maha DID YOU UNPLUG MY COMPUTER? I CAN’T HEAR ANYTHING EITHER! DID YOU UNPLUG THE CABLES? WHAT’S WRONG WITH MY COMPUTER?”

I had powered off both the screen and the speakers. And by that I mean ‘I had quite nearly given my father a massive coronary with neither sound nor sight’.

Apparently, baba doesn’t turn off the screen – rather he,lets it fall asleep, Maha - and neither does he turn off the speakers because they don’t make noise when the computer’s off, Maha.

AND I COULD REALLY USE SOME SHELVING SPACE AS WELL.

On yet another evening, I was cleaning the kitchen, which is REALLY SMALL, OK. And I don’t mean that in the joking sort of haha way, I mean that in the between baba’s belly and myself, we can’t fit in there at the same time. SMALL. You can’t misplace anything in the kitchen, because if you do, you will trip over it, or it will hit you in the face.

In the kitchen and hanging from the hand of the refrigerator is baba’s kitchen towel.

D has nicknamed me The Folding Gnome because I fold everything in my path. In full Folding Gnome mode, I folded baba’s kitchen towel and hung it next to the sink.

Sitting in baba’s office my room, I heard baba scream “WHERE’S MY TOWEL? DID YOU TAKE MY TOWEL? MY TOWEL’S GONE, MAHA!”

I came running out of baba’s office my room and ran the entire 12 centimeters to the kitchen. Baba was staring at the kitchen towel while still screaming; because the towel was not hanging off of the refrigerator door but rather folded and hanging next to the sink, he was incapable of recognizing it, and the following conversation ensued:

“Baba, that’s your towel.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Why is it here? I don’t understand. It’s usually there.” (Stops, turns one quarter of an inch and points at the handle of the refrigerator before looking up at me in shock.)
“Because I folded it and placed it next to the sink where you are most likely to use it.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“I need the towel placed here on the refrigerator. It’s been there for the last 5 years and I need it to remain there. When I need to wipe my fingers after washing something, I need the towel to be hung on the refrigerator door or else I will never be able to wipe my fingers and then I risk turning into one big prune.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Ok.”
“So leave the towel alone.”
“Ok.”
“Good.”
“Sure.”
“I have idiosyncrasies.”
“Yes. As do we all, baba.”
“Ok.”
“Ok, habibti.”
"Are you ok?"
"No, I'm feeling a little tepid."
"Maybe you should go lie down."
"Is my bed still in the same place or have you moved it too?"

And one final random: Baba has an awesome little ironing table. But no iron. It was really exciting to stare at the ironing board and think of all the possibilities and potential it held.

AND I’D REALLY LIKE A SEPARATE BATHROOM AS WELL, PLEASE.

Baba’s absolutely the cutest thing in the world…and notwithstanding the circumstances that have led me to live with him or the fact that I am no longer in my gorgeous warm cozy room that I was looking forward to for years and that took me nearly a year to decorate…I am loving getting to know baba in this way.

P.S. I am having dinner with mama tonight! Slowly, but surely…slowly, but surely inshallah.

The Honour of Being A Daughter

Sarah & Sharshoora: Alhamdulilah all is well, so please make no mention of the following to your mothers. Shukran ya amameer.

This happened recently and I’ve been uncertain as to how or what to post, so forgive me if it is a little without context.

Recently, mama had a health scare which landed us in the hospital. The Doctor feared it was something…not good. Either that or muscle pain. (I know, I know…the gulf that exists between the two potentials is ridiculous.)

Due to the nature of the pain and the fear of the Doctor, tests were performed immediately and we weren’t allowed to leave before the results came back. I hadn’t been in the room when the Doctor explained to mama what it could be, and so it was mama who told me.

By Allah’s mix of my grandparent’s genetics, mama’s eyes are a stunning and unusual crystal pale green. Her younger sister has what can only be described as yellow eyes, a younger brother with lime green eyes and a third brother with…someone once described another’s eye colour as “seafoam green” and I am using this to describe my uncle N’s eyecolour. All of the siblings have black hair and so they have always made for a stunning family. Mama was always the prettiest, her reputation and beauty preceded her in Gaza. She was the storybook “the prettiest girl in the city” because Gaza was small enough that everyone knew everyone else. And by small, we’re still counting in the thousands. Here’s a photo of mama at my age…



I’m lucky I look like baba because if I had my mother’s looks, I would be charging people money to look at me. That’s not true, I’m kidding. I wouldn’t sell myself so cheap; I’d be charging them money to breathe in my direction. But this isn’t about me or my ego…

When mama is emotional or tired, her eyes become an even more vivid shade of that same green that wallahi glows. When she was telling me what the Doctor said it could be, her eyes were the greenest I’d ever seen them. And although she was looking directly at me, I could tell she wasn’t really focusing on me and it scared the sh*t out of me because I could taste the fear coming from mama and if I could have eaten that pain away and carried it with me for the rest of my life, I would have. I will never be prepared to lose Her. I just can’t. It’s just not a possibility. Never.

After she finished telling me, she put her head in her hands and placed her elbows on her knees. I sat next to her and did what she’d done to me on so many occasions: I put my hand on her back and read what little Quran I know by heart. I couldn’t sit there for very long because it felt as though my chest were going to explode.

During that same lapse in time there was an 83-year-old man sitting across from us. Earlier in the evening he’d fallen down the stairs and had called his friend and asked him to bring him to the hospital to make certain all was well. The Doctor came in and told him – in front of us – that the scan showed he had two cysts at the front of his brain. The cysts were bleeding and they’d already called in the neurosurgeon. He wasn’t allowed to eat because they were going to perform surgery immediately. When he heard this news, his response was a stressed giggle and a “I could really use a beer” and although that was funny, it just made my chest tighter.

I excused myself to grab a coffee, make a call and go to the washroom. In reality, what I did was simply go to the washroom where I let my heart break and chest explode as quietly as possible. I sat down and cried with my hands over my mouth so no one would hear. (I think I’ve already said this but among the millions of things for which I am thankful is that I can cry for hours, wash my face and within a moment look as though nothing had happened.)

When the Doctor came to give us the results, I was watching mama. She was looking at the Doctor as would a child their saviour. There was so much fear and adoration and hope in those green eyes that I couldn’t look away; the Doctor most definitely couldn’t either. She looked like she was a four year old waiting to find out whether the world was going to be okay or not.

…she was told that the world was going to be okay.

And with that, she put her head down and just listened to the questions I then took it upon myself to ask. Alhamdulilah, it was the exact opposite of the worst and it was nothing more than muscle pain. Just as quickly as the fear had stepped into our lives, so too did it leave.

When the Doctor left, mama still had her head lowered and I could see she was shaking again. I walked over to wrap her in my wool jacket and as I reached around, she leaned her forehead onto my heart and cried. I kissed the top of her head and couldn’t do anything but hold my breath because I knew that anything else would have caused an emotional collapse and at that moment, there was only room for strength, and so it had to be and it was.

Sometimes it’s exhausting being an only child and though as a younger girl, I didn't appreciate it fully, it’s only as an adult that I understand and respect what parents are: they are giants and must be treated as such. I understand this will likely shift should I marry and have children of my own, but I can’t imagine it will shift away from, but rather make my heart expand to include everyone.

What I may have in teenage folly considered a potential burden, is now something I am honoured to carry (and I do so) with pride.

As we were leaving, I went to find the old man but he has already taken him away to surgery. I just wanted to give him a kiss on the cheek and wish him well, and I hate that I went out too late. I’ve kept him in my prayers since and I hope that he’s also been told that the world is going to be okay.

At the moment, mama and I are hitting a rough patch and I miss her. I ache for her, actually. She is my best friend and the only individual in the world with whom I wish to share my heart, but right now, and at her request, I can not. Every night, I touch my forehead down to my prayer mat and ask for her...inshallah all of what is happening is happening for the right reasons.

I rarely ask you for anything, but I'll ask that you remember her in your prayers, please.

Recurring Dream

Since a little girl, I have always had the same dream. I’m uncertain as to what it means or why I have it when I have it.

Alone, I find myself standing at the top of a dull brown stoned building in the evening. I’m standing by the ledge and there’s usually not much else around except for the building itself; there’s never been a sprawling landscape or green of any kind. (I often dream in colour and I’m certain some psychiatrist somewhere proved that to dream in colour is to be a sociopath.) The height of the building has always varied, but more so than not, it averages perhaps ten stories. Several times, it’s been a skyscraper made of very clean and shiny glass.

Within a heartbeat, I find myself in my first freefall. There has never existed a precursor to how that actually happens; no one pushes me and I never actively throw myself from the building (this first time). As things often happen in dreams, the freefall just is.

I remember as a baby less than four years old, there was a stretch of road my family and I would take to get to the beaches of Jabal Al Akhdar.** I would always be strapped into the middle of the back seat and baba knew that the trick to making me laugh and squeal was to drive fast. Along that road were – and I would think remain - many large bumps that were more natural than man-made, and so not large enough to harm your car, but large enough to make your stomach fall if you were driving at a fast pace. I loved that feeling…

In these dreams, it’s that same feeling only heightened by ten thousand times. No doubt, that first freefall of my dream brings with it complete terror.

As I freefall, my body is perfectly parallel to and facing the ground. I am not in my body, but rather watching my body. (Can we ever be in our bodies while sleeping a dream?)

At a maybe one foot distance from where I could pound into the ground, I stop freefalling. This is not a ‘flying’ dream because I never fly…I just stop freefalling.

I instinctively understand I can’t be hurt and I’ll never hit the ground. With this knowledge, the rest of my dream consists of me running up the stairs (always stairs, my dreams are clearly not technologically advanced…or maybe I’m just a health freak…or maybe I just like prolonging the anticipation and working hard to enjoy what’s to come…), back to the top of the building from where I then start to actively throw myself off.

I stop freefalling before hitting the ground and run back to the top again…and on goes my dream.

I feed on the feeling brought about by the freefall and spend the rest of my dream reveling it. Strange because it would take a lot of convincing – or maybe a simple dare – to get me to freefall from anywhere. I have a fear of ledges because I believe my head's too heavy and it'll fall forward and over the ledge, taking me with it. Maybe this isn't a fear of ledges but rather a fear of heads? Or maybe just my own because it has...a mind of it's own. Oh my God that sentence proves how lame and cheesy I really am.

Right. So how about you?

**For those of you unaware, I was born in North Africa.

Fashionableness: Language barriers, AA & hospitals

My mum’s been in this country 28 years and speaks English good. Naturally, she has an accent that I find utterly adorable, most especially when instead of ‘Thank God’, she usually comes out with ‘Thanks God!’, like he’s right in front of her and sharing her cup of tea. One morning, we were speaking with the nurse who, after a 10 minute conversation with my mother, asked/stated ”You speak English?”

WTF, lady, seriously?
My mother has been speaking in fluent English for the last ten minutes.

It occurred to me that I should respond Socratic with: “You have fashion troubles?” because although she was covered in a manner of cloth, she was wearing a Christmas sweater covered in reindeer, snowflakes, a baby Jesus and a Wal-Mart. Were I to stare at her sweater a little longer or spin it in the dryer backwards, it would tell me that I’m going to burn in hell because I am a Muslimah.

Mama is much more diplomatic and responds “Yes. Have we been speaking in a different language for the past ten minutes?” with a little laugh that queues the nurse’s own laugher alongside that of the baby Jesus’.

Speaking of unfortunate fashion choices, I was walking through the main shopping centre located downtown a few days back minding my own business. I happen to be a people watcher and as people watchers are wont to doing, I watch people on a regular basis. I do this in an effort to make grandiose generalizations about their lifestyle, political leanings and personal break-up habits. I walked past this one woman who was wearing white patent leather boots over her jeans. With this, she was also wearing a black patent leather jacket, a white scarf and a white patent leather golf cap tilted & sideways. I recognized her because the glare which came off her patent leather wear brought me to my knees in the middle of St-Laurent.

(A) If you wear caps, fedoras, baseball hats, earmuffs, earphones, and/or headbands, I entreat you to please please please never tilt it sideways. Except for perhaps J who lives here, and in whose profile picture there is a photo of a cap sideways and it actually looks surprisingly charming, there is no one on this earth who may be able to pull it off.

Hasn’t anyone told you how stupid you really look? Maybe you’re drunk? Are you? Is that why you wear your cap sideways; you think it’s actually straight?

(B) Honestly, fashion sense is like dancing. You’ve either got it, or you will never find it, let alone use it wisely. What you will do is be seduced to the point of complete idiocy. I am a masterful dancer. I know this because people stare and point in awe whenever I get busy, getting jiggy with it. They wish they were I, dancing. I also have awesome fashion sense, Alhamdulilah, and for this reason, I would never tilt to the side anything I wear on my head.

(C) And speaking of wearing things on my head, I am considering wearing Hijab…or at the very least, promising Allah that by a certain age, I will be wearing it. I have been playing with different scarves and wraps and means of putting it on and I have become relatively partial to a couple of really pretty ones (knowing full well that ‘pretty’ has nothing to do with it). We’ll see, Inshallah.

I've received a ton of emails about this remark. I am not going to do it any time soon, but I have been thinking about it and the greater meaning of it. I should have clarified that, although your responses have been lovely, thank you. (Ultimately: Without lying to you, the bottom line is that I am currently much much too vain to wear Hijab. And to take such a decision when "under duress" of any sort, is never a good idea.)

Speaking of alcoholics, here’s a recent conversation had:
Boy: I have vices.
Girl: Vices?
Boy: Yeah. Vices, dude.
Girl no.2: That’s coooool.
Boy: Yeeeeeeah.
Girl: Vices aren’t ‘cool’. Besides. Real men get straight to addictions without wasting anyone’s time with ‘vices’.

As an aside: Late last month when I wrote much of this entry, I was waiting for someone to finish day surgery and I wrote: I am surrounded by sick people. I don’t entirely mind, but I’m wondering if I should perhaps move to another part of the hospital, such as the parking lot, where I am less likely to catch anything.

I chose to instead stay where I was and eavesdrop on other people’s conversations in order to figure out what they were in for…right before I found myself reading the mint green booklet of rules and regulations titled Aren’t you excited you’re having surgery? WE ARE! which triggered my own personal queue to leave.

I forgot: My new year's resolution

I adopted another child.
That makes three that I support financially on a monthly basis, Alhamdulilah. I can't adopt physically at the moment, but a very important part of my future will be to physically bring one child into my family, Inshallah.

If you haven't made your resolution yet, consider making one for yourself (as is the norm, they're usually something akin to "I shall lose my fat a** this year...") and one for this world. Email me at
one.female.canuck@mac.com
if you want some direction.

There’s nothing ironic about losing your heart

.1. On Sunday, my heart took a hike. She flipped me the bird and left.

Do think she’s gone to the Azores to visit with Hannah and Charlie and I shall leave her be until she’s ready to come back to the comfort of her home. There’s never a point in forcing her to do anything because she is as stubborn as a mule and will always win out in a fight if I challenge her to change her mind at my whim.

.2. Recently, someone said to your blogMistress: “I have something “ironic” to tell you…”

Under different circumstances, I would have cut this person off and offered:
“(A) Misuse of the term ‘ironic’ because you are not telling me the opposite of that which I expect. You really mean coincidental, or interesting, or mind-boggling, or funny or neat. You do not mean ‘ironic’.
&
(B) Ill use of the finger quotes. You are not emulating a written quote. I understand that Hemingway used the word ‘ironic’, properly, but there really is no need for you to use your fingers and make little bunny ears at me in this way.
&
(C) Pick up a book, please.
&
(D) Maybe just stop talking altogether.”

Only instead, I let this individual proceed because I was quite literally having a panic attack and was left with no choice but to smile wide and feign both happiness and interest.

.3. Nanno’s wake is this evening.

.4. If any of you have ever feared that your actions and/or words may be misconstrued as bitter, please take a moment to absorb Liza Minnelli’s following statement, in which she expresses her hopes for ex-husband David Gest (who is to do a reality-type show in Australia): "I hope he gets f*cked by a kangaroo and eaten by crocs."

.5. Rock is in Arizona studying his a*s off in some special homeopathic schooling thing. Upon his graduation in four years, he will be a chiropractor, a homeopathic doctor, an acupuncturist, a super masseuse, a rock star and Heidi Klum. I am really quite excited for him…and for me, as he will be my free “homo doctor”. He doesn’t know I call him this thinks it funny that I call him this.

Of my entire family, he is the one who understands me best and who reads me like an open book. Yesterday was his birthday and I rang and left him a very brief message. In his ‘thank you’ email, which he will kill me for sharing with you, he wrote: “ You seemed a little all over the place on your message and I'm thinking you need a vacation yourself. (…) So who's giving you grief? (…) I can schedule a trip down there and break some knee caps if you want me to. I've been throwing the big f*ck you around to anyone that rubs me the wrong way lately so you can try that approach too. I've got numbers in my phone down to 8 now. I figured I've got too little time and way too much sh*t to get through the next few years to have negativity brought into my world, so I warned people not to f*ck with me. I'm an asshole though and you’re a princess so if you want I could be your ambassador of a*s whippings. Let me know.”

Aren’t you in love with my cousin, then?

A little after 3 am today, nanno died

An update to my previous post.
Writing calms me so I'll be back when I need it.

Rough night, excellent reason to shop

Mama wasn’t feeling well last night and so she woke me at 2 a.m. After a difficult few hours, she finally fell asleep at around 10 a.m. but I’ve not yet had any sleep.

Too wired to crash, I instead spent a couple of hours and made it through one too many emails that have sat in my Inbox far too long. If any of you receive incoherent messages – Shawn – this is partly why. Please forgive my sloppiness.

If tired or sad, I shop. I caved and went to IKEA to purchase the ektorp Slite Red armchair and the ektorp bromma Leaby Red ottoman. IKEA’s to deliver them on Monday, inshallah.

After everything I wrote about that shade of red, I caved. I’ve been looking everywhere and have been incapable of finding anything that was as cozy and comfortable as that chair. I’ll eventually buy different coloured slip covers, but I’ll just have to accept that my daughter may be a wh*re because I needed to shop today and so purchased that shade of red.

As I walked through the store, I discreetly used my brightest red lipstick and ran it across all of the walls to my left (kind of like a dog peeing on things to mark his/her territory). Much thanks to my capital idea and rouge, I didn't get lost and it took me under one hour to locate the items, purchase them and then make my way out of The IKEA Matrix where Children Of The Corn run wild and Sarah hangs out to eat Swedish meatballs.

I forgot to mention that off my list are the chandelier:



& art work for one of my walls:



I was originally contemplating purchasing one large tapestry and went everywhere searching for just the perfect item. There was nothing to be found until that photograph you see in the bottom right corner. It’s a photograph in warm sepias and the frame is a little rustic. I fell in love with this and stood in the store staring at it for a few minutes until a cute little old lady accidentally ran into me with her face.

I purchased it immediately and thought how small it was to place on my relatively large wall, and so decided to give the wall an overall theme of trees and landscapes. Everything fell into place that very day and I found the one painting on the left and the other photograph at the top right (behind the mist of that photo is a castle).