maryam
*This originally started as a response to Mariam's post below but when i reached a page I decided that I should continue as a post even though I'm not in the Middle East at the present moment*
Mariam I read your post after a very long day of RA (resident advisor) training here in Chapel Hill. I'm tired from only four hours of sleep but with loads of still unfinished work on how to make sure my residents feel a sense of community.
and I'm crying.
It isn't sadness or even joy. Neither frustration nor anger.
It is catharsis.
Out of a staff of around 215 students who are resident advisers, only 4 are Muslim. This number itself seems large to me. But out of these 4 Muslims (all of them are my friends) I am the only one that is colorfully visibly Muslim when looking down at the packed auditorium. Those who know me know it helps that I'm also very loud and opinionated. :)
I sit in that auditorium happy about my hiring. I feel like a breakthrough has been made (though I don't know how accurate that is) for Muslim activism on Campus, or more bluntly, in regular life.
Everyday though I tire more and more from my battle to prove myself. All because of my hijab.
I feel the need to prove that I am not a stereotypical hijab wearing woman. I feel the need to completely break that stereotype. I am no longer only Maryam. I am now The Muslim Woman.
I am loud to prove that we are not quiet.
I am a leader to prove that we are not subservient.
I am smart to prove that we are not uneducated.
I am wise to prove that we are not ignorant.
And while I am proud that I can prove these things to the world, it is not why I wore the scarf.
I started wearing a scarf when I was 8 and by the time I was 10, I was abiding by hijab. It may seem extreme I know but it was completely by choice. My dad even tried to talk me out of it.
See my childhood was not ideal. It was hard. It was hurtful. It was lonely. It was sad. But through that, the innocence of my childhood shined. Accepting pain and hurt I connected to joy and happiness through God. He was the bigger picture. He was the one who would prove to me in the end that my suffering would not be in vain. He loved me, this caring God, loved me more than I could imagine all the people in my life put together. In my child's mind, the hijab felt like a big, warm, and loving hug from God. He felt like a father to me. A second parent.
So I would do anything for the only love I felt I had. To me it was worth the deepest sacrifices.
But all I had to do was abide by hijab. A partition.
That’s it? I thought. All this love from God and all I have to do is abide by a few simple rules?
You see, my upbringing made me realize from a very early age the scarcity but extreme importance of love.
And I accepted the hijab with a full, open, loving heart.
From that moment as a child to this very day my philosophy in life has always been one of self-responsibility.
It is not what life brings to you, but what you bring to life.
Each and every day I continue in this quest to discover what I can bring to life.
And if through the hijab I can break down of stereotypes to these 215 Resident Advisers this week then maybe I will have brought something to life.
But I need to remember why I first wore it.
Remember the eternal love that I can never lose.
Remember my gratefulness for this love.
Remember God.
Showing posts with label Maryam. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Maryam. Show all posts
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Monday, July 2, 2007
this is your luck
maryam
In a list of the most commonly used statements in the Arabic language, this phrase would be in the top ten. The phrase’s frequent usage speaks so much about the personality of the society. I’ve never been one to believe the view of your life depending on your luck but in Arab culture it is more of an accepted fact than a belief.
Here so many events in one’s life are referred to as your luck. Marriage is commonly called “naseebak” or your luck. Your current job, status of living and even grades can be commonly referred to as your luck. It’s certainly not an atheistic point of view because your luck is from God.
I originally would be annoyed when anyone would use this phrase to refer to parts of his or her life because of the laziness that seemed to ooze from it. Accepting your luck seemed to be a lazy way of accepting circumstance and never fighting for something better.
I’ve grown a lot since those original thoughts.
I have a fighting spirit because I’ve seen things change purely from the hard work of everyday people. I know that I can work with the system to help others and myself. I know there is hope.
But what if you’ve never heard a good ending from a story dealing with the government? What if all your work is thrown back in your face by the system that was set up to protect you? How can you define citizenship if its definition exists in a world you’ve never seen? And what’s the point of marrying your true love if you end up losing your family, friends, home and all you own?
This is your luck not because you are too lazy to change it, but because it is happening to you. To you, your family, your country, your people. And there is no simple answer to why this is happening to us. Why the oppression, injustice, torture and despair? And why to me?
Because this is your luck
Humanity Rages like a tempest,
but i sigh in silence
for i know the storm must pass away
while a sigh goes to god.
-K. Gibran
A poet’s voice
In a list of the most commonly used statements in the Arabic language, this phrase would be in the top ten. The phrase’s frequent usage speaks so much about the personality of the society. I’ve never been one to believe the view of your life depending on your luck but in Arab culture it is more of an accepted fact than a belief.
Here so many events in one’s life are referred to as your luck. Marriage is commonly called “naseebak” or your luck. Your current job, status of living and even grades can be commonly referred to as your luck. It’s certainly not an atheistic point of view because your luck is from God.
I originally would be annoyed when anyone would use this phrase to refer to parts of his or her life because of the laziness that seemed to ooze from it. Accepting your luck seemed to be a lazy way of accepting circumstance and never fighting for something better.
I’ve grown a lot since those original thoughts.
I have a fighting spirit because I’ve seen things change purely from the hard work of everyday people. I know that I can work with the system to help others and myself. I know there is hope.
But what if you’ve never heard a good ending from a story dealing with the government? What if all your work is thrown back in your face by the system that was set up to protect you? How can you define citizenship if its definition exists in a world you’ve never seen? And what’s the point of marrying your true love if you end up losing your family, friends, home and all you own?
This is your luck not because you are too lazy to change it, but because it is happening to you. To you, your family, your country, your people. And there is no simple answer to why this is happening to us. Why the oppression, injustice, torture and despair? And why to me?
Because this is your luck
Humanity Rages like a tempest,
but i sigh in silence
for i know the storm must pass away
while a sigh goes to god.
-K. Gibran
A poet’s voice
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
a rose by any other name
maryam
For those who are lucky enough to have been to Syria know the feelings that cause me to declare, oh Damascus is Syria and Syria is Damascus. She is a city I have visited many occasions over the years. As I come back to her in the different stages of mental development I cannot help but fall in love with her over and over again for different reasons every time. And yes, I cannot refer to Damascus but in the pronoun she, because in Arabic it is a feminine word. But also, I think the affection refers to that of a captain to his ship. The affection between us is one that has existed through the ages, for Damascus is the oldest continuously inhabited city.
The first time I remember falling in love with Damascus was the summer of 8th grade. I fell in love with her beauty, her romantic charm and her incredible etiquette. My cousins used to take me on walks through the city at nights during that summer. At first the proximity of the ancient city with the modern additions took my breath away. The mixture of the two seemed to be a perfectly balanced blend of the two worlds that I was living in. The image that I fell most deeply in love with is the rise of the ancient Mt. Qasoon at the edge of the old city, littered with tiny old-fashioned cement block houses. The mountain as a part of the city, a mountain that paraded the feeling of eternity with its very presence, a mountain that lessened the division between the heavens of the almighty and the poor mortals of the ancient earth; well, that mountain proved to me the special place that Damascus has in God’s heart.
At that age all I could concentrate on was her unique beauty. I did not notice the intense poverty in the areas surrounding Damascus. The result of rapid modernization without a thought to city planning and the people’s welfare was lost to me. Looking at Damascus now I cannot help but be reminded of the favalas of Rio in Brazil (for those who haven’t experienced seeing such images, you must watch Favala Rising immediately). Walking through Damascus now, I cannot help but wonder how this incredible city used to be a beautiful oasis in the middle of the Syrian Desert. I sigh for the cut down beautiful forests that was said to be a literal paradise on Earth. When I remember that all this destruction happened in the last 50 years, I feel like collapsing in a fit of tears. My insane, incredible and persistent hope for a better future though helps me accept the torture that has been done to my lovely city as I look for ways to restore her health.
The last time I was in Damascus was last year. I graduated early from high school and a semester and a summer here before I started college. As I awaited the beauty and charm that drew me to Damascus, I knew that I could no longer look at her the same. I didn’t love her less, for it is impossible to fall out of love with her, but her faults were thrown constantly in my face. The pollution, poverty and political insanity followed me wherever I went. While I was in Damascus, the Danish cartoon incident happened. For those who didn’t hear, a parade of young, angry Prophet Muhammad loving men stormed through Damascus and burned the Danish embassy along with its neighbors just for fun. Easy to believe that a group of angry Arabs could do something as crazy as burn an embassy, but here is the catch: the embassy caught fire before the crowd was even close to it. When I realized this, it opened the bag of worms for me about Arab political affairs. Everything turned into a Kennedy assassination conspiracy. From wondering why the electricity always goes out for an hour a day (some people say that companies pay off the electric company so that appliances will break with the electric surges and people will have to buy new ones) I started to give everything I had taken for granted in Syria a deeper observation.
Despite the betrayal and hypocrisy of the country, I could not dismiss my love Damascus from my mind. She had become a part of who I was and by throwing her away; I would be throwing away a significant part of myself. The result of which caused a race for a cure for my sanity. I felt like two souls were vying for control of one body. I was Maryam, an American citizen, or Maryam, an Arab Syrian. I could not be both for each wanted to live in a different part of the world. I will save you the details of this struggle but only recently have I come to terms with this tug of war.
Coming to terms with all of her faults, and discovering my own identity, I have fallen in love with Damascus all over again. This trip has turned out to be one of healing as once again I can walk through the cobbled streets of old Damascus during the day and tour through the malls of new Damascus at night. I love the sound of the Mosques calling to prayer and I also love the shake-your-hip belly dancing music that blares from stores and passing cars.
I love watching Hummers try to navigate the narrow ancient haras or neighborhood streets.
I love hitting the cafés with my cousins then running home to catch Isha’a prayer.
I love watching the ancient etiquettes of Arabs played out in high-tech scenarios of Internet cafés and Four Season hotels.
I simply love Damascus.
I’ve never known a person who has seen her breathtaking face without falling head over feet for her.
For those who are lucky enough to have been to Syria know the feelings that cause me to declare, oh Damascus is Syria and Syria is Damascus. She is a city I have visited many occasions over the years. As I come back to her in the different stages of mental development I cannot help but fall in love with her over and over again for different reasons every time. And yes, I cannot refer to Damascus but in the pronoun she, because in Arabic it is a feminine word. But also, I think the affection refers to that of a captain to his ship. The affection between us is one that has existed through the ages, for Damascus is the oldest continuously inhabited city.
The first time I remember falling in love with Damascus was the summer of 8th grade. I fell in love with her beauty, her romantic charm and her incredible etiquette. My cousins used to take me on walks through the city at nights during that summer. At first the proximity of the ancient city with the modern additions took my breath away. The mixture of the two seemed to be a perfectly balanced blend of the two worlds that I was living in. The image that I fell most deeply in love with is the rise of the ancient Mt. Qasoon at the edge of the old city, littered with tiny old-fashioned cement block houses. The mountain as a part of the city, a mountain that paraded the feeling of eternity with its very presence, a mountain that lessened the division between the heavens of the almighty and the poor mortals of the ancient earth; well, that mountain proved to me the special place that Damascus has in God’s heart.
At that age all I could concentrate on was her unique beauty. I did not notice the intense poverty in the areas surrounding Damascus. The result of rapid modernization without a thought to city planning and the people’s welfare was lost to me. Looking at Damascus now I cannot help but be reminded of the favalas of Rio in Brazil (for those who haven’t experienced seeing such images, you must watch Favala Rising immediately). Walking through Damascus now, I cannot help but wonder how this incredible city used to be a beautiful oasis in the middle of the Syrian Desert. I sigh for the cut down beautiful forests that was said to be a literal paradise on Earth. When I remember that all this destruction happened in the last 50 years, I feel like collapsing in a fit of tears. My insane, incredible and persistent hope for a better future though helps me accept the torture that has been done to my lovely city as I look for ways to restore her health.
The last time I was in Damascus was last year. I graduated early from high school and a semester and a summer here before I started college. As I awaited the beauty and charm that drew me to Damascus, I knew that I could no longer look at her the same. I didn’t love her less, for it is impossible to fall out of love with her, but her faults were thrown constantly in my face. The pollution, poverty and political insanity followed me wherever I went. While I was in Damascus, the Danish cartoon incident happened. For those who didn’t hear, a parade of young, angry Prophet Muhammad loving men stormed through Damascus and burned the Danish embassy along with its neighbors just for fun. Easy to believe that a group of angry Arabs could do something as crazy as burn an embassy, but here is the catch: the embassy caught fire before the crowd was even close to it. When I realized this, it opened the bag of worms for me about Arab political affairs. Everything turned into a Kennedy assassination conspiracy. From wondering why the electricity always goes out for an hour a day (some people say that companies pay off the electric company so that appliances will break with the electric surges and people will have to buy new ones) I started to give everything I had taken for granted in Syria a deeper observation.
Despite the betrayal and hypocrisy of the country, I could not dismiss my love Damascus from my mind. She had become a part of who I was and by throwing her away; I would be throwing away a significant part of myself. The result of which caused a race for a cure for my sanity. I felt like two souls were vying for control of one body. I was Maryam, an American citizen, or Maryam, an Arab Syrian. I could not be both for each wanted to live in a different part of the world. I will save you the details of this struggle but only recently have I come to terms with this tug of war.
Coming to terms with all of her faults, and discovering my own identity, I have fallen in love with Damascus all over again. This trip has turned out to be one of healing as once again I can walk through the cobbled streets of old Damascus during the day and tour through the malls of new Damascus at night. I love the sound of the Mosques calling to prayer and I also love the shake-your-hip belly dancing music that blares from stores and passing cars.
I love watching Hummers try to navigate the narrow ancient haras or neighborhood streets.
I love hitting the cafés with my cousins then running home to catch Isha’a prayer.
I love watching the ancient etiquettes of Arabs played out in high-tech scenarios of Internet cafés and Four Season hotels.
I simply love Damascus.
I’ve never known a person who has seen her breathtaking face without falling head over feet for her.
Friday, June 22, 2007
cousins
maryam
Matt asked me to elaborate more on the idea of cousins marrying cousins. I mentioned it briefly in my last entry. To ease his confusion, I will oblige. However, there are some disclaimers:
1. Cousins marrying cousins is a tradition that still exists to this day in the West. Even though it is looked down upon in the main stream culture, it is found in places that we refer to with high regards, mostly royal families. Also, it was a part of main stream culture in Europe all the way to the 1800s.
2. Whatever generalizations I make do not refer to all Arabs. There are definitely many families that do no allow the intermarriage of cousins.
3. The generalizations I make refer to the Arab culture, not the Muslim culture. Many Arab Christians hold onto this tradition as well.
4. Whatever generalizations I make does not necessarily refer to my family.
So, the intermarriage of cousins. Don’t be so grossed out. As I mentioned before, it is fairly common despite it being illegal in 25 states in the USA.
To start out with, let’s talk about why it became a tradition. Arabs are, as many other cultures also are, a family orientated society. The intermarriage of cousins is a way to keep the family together. It saves the family name. For example, when a girl gets married, for all purposes she becomes a part of her husband’s family more than her original one. Even if she does not take up his last name as hers, her children will have their father’s last name. In her original family’s eyes, she and her children are lost. Rather than loose members of the family, some families will marry their daughters to their cousins so that when they marry, they will be leaving the family only to come back into it since her husband’s family is hers. This way the girl’s children will keep the family’s last name.
Is that confusing? That really sums up the most basic why of the issue. In the olden times, the unspoken rule was that the cousin of girl had more rights to marry her than an outsider. If the guy wanted to marry her, any other guy stood no chance. But if the cousin didn’t want to, then she was free to marry outside of the family. Many times the cousin didn’t want to marry his cousin, but is pressured by the older members of his family to not let his cousin ‘be lost.’
To lessen the gross factor for the readers, let me explain the relationship between cousins in the Arab culture. Some families think of their cousins as their brothers and sisters. If this is so, then the intermarriage of cousins is NOT allowed in this family, because if you think of someone as your brother or sister and marry them, well that is just incestuous. For most families, cousins are people you know as you know your friends, people you can trust to watch out for you and you watch out for them, and people you are comfortable with. However, there always exists an unspoken partition between the girl and guy cousins. They are not allowed to be alone together and if you are a Muslim, the hijab barrier exists between them. Cousins are your family but are really like close family friends. What if you fell in love with the daughter or son of a close family friend? Sure there would be complications but it wouldn’t be gross would it?
Now society today has been greatly affected by Western ideology, where it is considered wrong to marry your cousin. So most families today generally do not hold very much to this tradition. Cousins are becoming more and more as siblings and less as strangers. In fact, it is actually hard to find people from my generation who would accept marrying their cousins. I’m not saying it doesn’t exist anymore, only that it is definitely less common.
I hope that covers everything. If you have any questions, please leave a comment. I’d be more than happy to answer any questions about this topic or any other topic.
The most important thing to remember when looking at issues in the Middle East, is that the people here have a totally different frame of reference than you do. Trust me. I’ve had discussions with members of family that leave me speechless (and those who know me know how hard that is). For example when talking to my aunts how I don’t want to get married or at least don’t feel the need to get married anytime in the near future they ask me about things that I didn’t think of as an issue before. Like where I was going to live. I hadn’t considered before that I needed to be married to move out of my parents’ home, but they thought it was scandalous that I wanted to get an apartment by myself after college. Not scandalous as in unIslamic or morally wrong, but scandalous as in what will society think?
I’ve learned to accept the different modes of thinking because mistake number one is to think that your way of thinking makes the most sense. Maybe it makes the most sense for you but you cannot push your way of thinking on the world. Me moving out is something that will work out for me (God willing) but I would not recommend it for my girl cousins here.
Sorry if I sound a little preachy but I learned these lessons the hard way so I can definitely imagine people reading this who would not have thought of this before. Just some words of advice.
Well, this update has certainly been longer than the others. But please, don’t shy out of asking me any questions that you might have on Arabs, Arab culture or Muslims. I really would love to answer them. Trust me, I don’t have anything else to do ☺
Take care everyone,
Maryam
Matt asked me to elaborate more on the idea of cousins marrying cousins. I mentioned it briefly in my last entry. To ease his confusion, I will oblige. However, there are some disclaimers:
1. Cousins marrying cousins is a tradition that still exists to this day in the West. Even though it is looked down upon in the main stream culture, it is found in places that we refer to with high regards, mostly royal families. Also, it was a part of main stream culture in Europe all the way to the 1800s.
2. Whatever generalizations I make do not refer to all Arabs. There are definitely many families that do no allow the intermarriage of cousins.
3. The generalizations I make refer to the Arab culture, not the Muslim culture. Many Arab Christians hold onto this tradition as well.
4. Whatever generalizations I make does not necessarily refer to my family.
So, the intermarriage of cousins. Don’t be so grossed out. As I mentioned before, it is fairly common despite it being illegal in 25 states in the USA.
To start out with, let’s talk about why it became a tradition. Arabs are, as many other cultures also are, a family orientated society. The intermarriage of cousins is a way to keep the family together. It saves the family name. For example, when a girl gets married, for all purposes she becomes a part of her husband’s family more than her original one. Even if she does not take up his last name as hers, her children will have their father’s last name. In her original family’s eyes, she and her children are lost. Rather than loose members of the family, some families will marry their daughters to their cousins so that when they marry, they will be leaving the family only to come back into it since her husband’s family is hers. This way the girl’s children will keep the family’s last name.
Is that confusing? That really sums up the most basic why of the issue. In the olden times, the unspoken rule was that the cousin of girl had more rights to marry her than an outsider. If the guy wanted to marry her, any other guy stood no chance. But if the cousin didn’t want to, then she was free to marry outside of the family. Many times the cousin didn’t want to marry his cousin, but is pressured by the older members of his family to not let his cousin ‘be lost.’
To lessen the gross factor for the readers, let me explain the relationship between cousins in the Arab culture. Some families think of their cousins as their brothers and sisters. If this is so, then the intermarriage of cousins is NOT allowed in this family, because if you think of someone as your brother or sister and marry them, well that is just incestuous. For most families, cousins are people you know as you know your friends, people you can trust to watch out for you and you watch out for them, and people you are comfortable with. However, there always exists an unspoken partition between the girl and guy cousins. They are not allowed to be alone together and if you are a Muslim, the hijab barrier exists between them. Cousins are your family but are really like close family friends. What if you fell in love with the daughter or son of a close family friend? Sure there would be complications but it wouldn’t be gross would it?
Now society today has been greatly affected by Western ideology, where it is considered wrong to marry your cousin. So most families today generally do not hold very much to this tradition. Cousins are becoming more and more as siblings and less as strangers. In fact, it is actually hard to find people from my generation who would accept marrying their cousins. I’m not saying it doesn’t exist anymore, only that it is definitely less common.
I hope that covers everything. If you have any questions, please leave a comment. I’d be more than happy to answer any questions about this topic or any other topic.
The most important thing to remember when looking at issues in the Middle East, is that the people here have a totally different frame of reference than you do. Trust me. I’ve had discussions with members of family that leave me speechless (and those who know me know how hard that is). For example when talking to my aunts how I don’t want to get married or at least don’t feel the need to get married anytime in the near future they ask me about things that I didn’t think of as an issue before. Like where I was going to live. I hadn’t considered before that I needed to be married to move out of my parents’ home, but they thought it was scandalous that I wanted to get an apartment by myself after college. Not scandalous as in unIslamic or morally wrong, but scandalous as in what will society think?
I’ve learned to accept the different modes of thinking because mistake number one is to think that your way of thinking makes the most sense. Maybe it makes the most sense for you but you cannot push your way of thinking on the world. Me moving out is something that will work out for me (God willing) but I would not recommend it for my girl cousins here.
Sorry if I sound a little preachy but I learned these lessons the hard way so I can definitely imagine people reading this who would not have thought of this before. Just some words of advice.
Well, this update has certainly been longer than the others. But please, don’t shy out of asking me any questions that you might have on Arabs, Arab culture or Muslims. I really would love to answer them. Trust me, I don’t have anything else to do ☺
Take care everyone,
Maryam
Monday, June 18, 2007
Maryam- outspokenarab
So i saw that I haven't really introduced myself yet. I am a rising sophomore at UNC studying International relations and Arabic. I am half Arab and the other half is a mixture of Irish and German. I'm staying in Syria for the summer visiting family and 'relaxing.' But any Arab can tell you that when you add the rest of the extended family in the picture (and mine easily counts to 75) then it is not very relaxing.
Because I wear a scarf, people in Syria automatically take for a Syrian. And it doesn't help that I have become fluent in Arabic slang from my last stay in Syria last year. But sometimes it gets annoying. Like when I'm at a restaurant and I'm getting the Syrian service, which is to ignore you and wait for the foreigners to come and wait so they can make big bucks. At times I want to scream, "Hey! I'm an American!" I'm sure my experiences are unlike the experiences of the rest of the Tar Heels on this blog.
For example, because I'm somewhat smart and pretty (you can see the modesty right?) and because most importantly, I have an American passport, my older aunts and uncles all think of me as (taking the words from Jasmine in Aladdin) 'a prize to be won.' They would give anything for me to marry one of their sons. Thankfully my cousins don't think this way so we just ignore and make fun of the attempts made by older members of the family.
And also, I don't have easy access to the Internet so my updates will unfortunately always be short.
Until next time,
Maryam
Because I wear a scarf, people in Syria automatically take for a Syrian. And it doesn't help that I have become fluent in Arabic slang from my last stay in Syria last year. But sometimes it gets annoying. Like when I'm at a restaurant and I'm getting the Syrian service, which is to ignore you and wait for the foreigners to come and wait so they can make big bucks. At times I want to scream, "Hey! I'm an American!" I'm sure my experiences are unlike the experiences of the rest of the Tar Heels on this blog.
For example, because I'm somewhat smart and pretty (you can see the modesty right?) and because most importantly, I have an American passport, my older aunts and uncles all think of me as (taking the words from Jasmine in Aladdin) 'a prize to be won.' They would give anything for me to marry one of their sons. Thankfully my cousins don't think this way so we just ignore and make fun of the attempts made by older members of the family.
And also, I don't have easy access to the Internet so my updates will unfortunately always be short.
Until next time,
Maryam
Friday, June 8, 2007
Maryam- outspokenarab
Observing the recent "elections" in Syria have been an experience. I have a few words to say but I tend to write them from the point of view of a story so bear with my writings. Here is some of what happened here with me and my cousins.
Posters of his face, Bashar al-Asad, screened every house, window and open space of air. The promise of peace, hope and future forcefully glittered in every direction. The sight gave her heart a jump a hope for an untouched future without the seeping encroachment of corruption. But she knew no such future existed, despite what the posters promised. Purity cannot be built upon corruption. And like always promises here were never kept, whether it was your father promising to take you tp the park or a promise of justice and equality in a dictatorship only slighted coveted with a thin drape of democracy.
Back in the taxi the conversation centered on the best places to buy scarves. The evil hands that extended from the posters and signs seemed as if nonexistent to the inhabitants of the car.
"There is a store at the end of the Hamadiya market. Do you remember it? We bought scarves from there last year. They have really nice scarves," suggested one cousin.
The others quickly agreed.
"You know, my boss was telling us yesterday," began one cousin, "that he'll give 1000 pounds to anyone who votes.
The only male in the car looked up, "Really? Then I'm gonna vote! Man, a 1000 pounds!"
She sat thinking she'd vote to, a civic duty sure. But a 1000 pounds? Even better. She opened her mouth to agree but then was tackled by a thought that made her stop cold. 'Who would she vote for?' And like that the hilarity of the moment, the joy of the shopping trip disintegrated in her frozen mind. She was left with the cold reality of being told she had the freedom to vote, but not the freedom to choose anyone but him.
_______________________________________________________________
Here is where my cousins and I get caught up in a demonstration for the President in my cousin's car.
They rushed by in their cars, chanting, screaming, whisatling, clapping. You name it. They had left the cafe to head home when the madness started. Cars stopped and started all around them with flags attached and posters waving. A march to support him for sure, his picture loomed in every direction like the darkness of the night sky above them.
Music shook from every car, sporadically switching from military beat nationalistic songs to gangster rap. The air was filled with joyfullnes and laughter and despite the chants for God, President and Country, no one's mind was on the future of the country or the upcoming election. They screamed their youth, sung their boundless hope and clapped for the moment.
She sat in the back, amazed and quiet at first. The reality of the occasin slowly began to sink in and she started to understand the laughter that peeked from her cousins' faces. They hated him. They always made sure to steer far away from topics that easily led to jail sentences without trials. Yet the young of the family were quickly becoming ocercome with the emotions of the moment. Soon she even found herself shouting cheers from the car and desperatly looking for a flag to wave. The moment seemed like it would never end as the night held to her ferstive mind and the tears of despair from the eyes of the oppresed in the country were silneced by the please of youth for joy in a time of utter helplessness.
_______________________________________________________________
In solidarity,
Maryam Al-Zoubi
Posters of his face, Bashar al-Asad, screened every house, window and open space of air. The promise of peace, hope and future forcefully glittered in every direction. The sight gave her heart a jump a hope for an untouched future without the seeping encroachment of corruption. But she knew no such future existed, despite what the posters promised. Purity cannot be built upon corruption. And like always promises here were never kept, whether it was your father promising to take you tp the park or a promise of justice and equality in a dictatorship only slighted coveted with a thin drape of democracy.
Back in the taxi the conversation centered on the best places to buy scarves. The evil hands that extended from the posters and signs seemed as if nonexistent to the inhabitants of the car.
"There is a store at the end of the Hamadiya market. Do you remember it? We bought scarves from there last year. They have really nice scarves," suggested one cousin.
The others quickly agreed.
"You know, my boss was telling us yesterday," began one cousin, "that he'll give 1000 pounds to anyone who votes.
The only male in the car looked up, "Really? Then I'm gonna vote! Man, a 1000 pounds!"
She sat thinking she'd vote to, a civic duty sure. But a 1000 pounds? Even better. She opened her mouth to agree but then was tackled by a thought that made her stop cold. 'Who would she vote for?' And like that the hilarity of the moment, the joy of the shopping trip disintegrated in her frozen mind. She was left with the cold reality of being told she had the freedom to vote, but not the freedom to choose anyone but him.
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Here is where my cousins and I get caught up in a demonstration for the President in my cousin's car.
They rushed by in their cars, chanting, screaming, whisatling, clapping. You name it. They had left the cafe to head home when the madness started. Cars stopped and started all around them with flags attached and posters waving. A march to support him for sure, his picture loomed in every direction like the darkness of the night sky above them.
Music shook from every car, sporadically switching from military beat nationalistic songs to gangster rap. The air was filled with joyfullnes and laughter and despite the chants for God, President and Country, no one's mind was on the future of the country or the upcoming election. They screamed their youth, sung their boundless hope and clapped for the moment.
She sat in the back, amazed and quiet at first. The reality of the occasin slowly began to sink in and she started to understand the laughter that peeked from her cousins' faces. They hated him. They always made sure to steer far away from topics that easily led to jail sentences without trials. Yet the young of the family were quickly becoming ocercome with the emotions of the moment. Soon she even found herself shouting cheers from the car and desperatly looking for a flag to wave. The moment seemed like it would never end as the night held to her ferstive mind and the tears of despair from the eyes of the oppresed in the country were silneced by the please of youth for joy in a time of utter helplessness.
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In solidarity,
Maryam Al-Zoubi
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