Hey y'all,
The name's Ian, and I'm the latest addition to this little community of Tar Heel bloggers. I thought it'd be best to give a little introductory post just so you know a little bit about myself before I actually start posting.
As some of you might already know, I'm a UNC alumnus from the class of '07 who's currently living and studying Arabic at the University of Damascus in Syria. I 'll be here till the end of September, and then I'll be traveling for a month or so to Yemen (or Iran, if things in Yemen are still dicey), Lebanon, Jordan, Palestine and Israel.
I'm new to this, but I've been a regular reader since last summer, so I'm really excited to officially be part of this community. I must confess to feelings of both envy and admiration when I first started reading the blog last year, given that so many of my fellow Tar Heels were off having adventures in the Middle East, while I was stuck behind a desk in Washington DC. Now, after squirreling away money for several months, I'm finally back in a part of the world that really has become quite dear to my heart.
Thanks to Matt's kindness, I'll be posting thoughts and observations from my little corner of the Sandbox during the next few months. I can't wait to get started!
Salaam,
I a n
Friday, July 11, 2008
Sunday, July 6, 2008
An Omani Wedding
Some parts of Salalah remind me of West Amman. Both consist of dusty open areas interrupted by 1) recently constructed white buildings that are so bright that they make you squint at noon and 2) soon to be constructed buildings covered in scaffolding. Neither place is particularly pedestrian friendly. But I, undaunted in my cheapness, continue to walk. And one of walks last week brought me into contact with some cultural heritage I most definitely would not see in West Amman.
As I walked west on 23rd of July Street (in my professional opinion, streets named after dates are wicked), I noticed a group of men gathering on a street corner. I continued to walk but couldn’t help but notice the steady stream of men and boys headed to the street corner. Looking regal in their white dishdashas and colorful muzzar, nearly all of them wore ornate khanajir (the traditional dagger common in Yemen and Oman) around their waists. Some even balanced rifles on their shoulders.
I decided to figure out what was going on so I walked to the side of the street opposite the corner where all the men were gathering and I loitered, not sure if what I was witnessing was an Omani street theater production of West Side story or just a lazy Friday in Salalah. An Egyptian teacher named Mahmood, who probably was not wondering if the Sharks and the Jets were about to break into painstakingly choreographed musical combat, informed me that this was a traditional Omani wedding, or ‘urs. In his eight years in Salalah he had never seen anything like this.
When over a hundred men had gathered, the group began to walk down the middle of the road. The group – all men – sang and danced their way to a nearby wedding hall. And lest you fear, dear reader, that I’d forgotten words of wisdom about rifles and the bullets that come out of them, a week ago I luckily visited the Bayt Zubair museum on Omani culture in Muscat, where I learned this great bit of information as part of an exhibit on rifles:
Although no one fired their arms in the air, I can attest to the fact that their presence certainly added excitement to the proceedings. As Mahmood and I trailed the procession, he encouraged me to take pictures, lamenting the fact that he’d forgotten his camera phone at home. The wedding party had hired musicians, dancers, and marchers for the occasion. Notice the women carrying incense - an Omani specialty - on their heads.
As they neared the wedding hall the men began making laps around the front of the building. Thinking they were finished and ready for sitting down time, Mahmood and I moved to get a better angle. All of the sudden the wedding party made another lap around the wedding hall and Mahmood and I found ourselves facing this:
Notice the groom in the black garment, known as a bisht, with a look of Kevin Garnett-like focus on his face. He maintained this level throughout the proceedings. I imagine he acted something like this later in the night.
After nearly bringing Mahmood and me into the wedding party, the men sat down in plastic chairs around the outside of the wedding hall. The musicians played and small groups of men danced. I had trouble understanding the Omani dialect in the songs, but judging from the actions of the dancers the words were probably “put your khanajir in the air and wave them like you just don’t care.” Or something like that. Although it should be noted that waving of said khanajir was done with ample care because, as everyone knows, putting a khanjar in someone’s face is just bad manners. My other favorite dance was when the dancers threw money in the air and men close to the dance area quickly picked it up.
All of the women were inside the wedding hall and they watched the events from windows and the roof, asserting their presence with frequent ululations. You can see a few women in black here. (more on gender in Oman to come…which is not to say that this piece shouldn’t be read as an examination of gender)
Mahmood informed me that this ceremony cost some thousands of dollars. And that leads me to an important point. These men were not uneducated peasants but rather the business elite of Salalah. They closed the doors of their Toyota Land Cruisers and Chevy Suburbans and engaged in some of the traditions that have stayed the same even as much has changed. But this is not to suggest a stark dichotomy between tradition and modernity. Like people everywhere, Omanis blend tradition and modernity into a synchronized whole, with men carrying a khanjar in one hand and a cell phone in the other.
I watched the celebration from the outside of the seating area. But I wasn’t the only curious observer. Oman is a diverse place and it has been said that Salalah resembles Mombassa more than any Middle Eastern city. Alongside me, Pakistani and Indian guest workers watched the proceedings. The South Asian men handing out Pepsis to the wedding attendees even brought a few boxes to our group of onlookers. The relationship between Omanis and migrant workers will be explored in future posts, as well, and it’s not always a rosy one. But for now this image of a curious coexistence will suffice.
As I walked west on 23rd of July Street (in my professional opinion, streets named after dates are wicked), I noticed a group of men gathering on a street corner. I continued to walk but couldn’t help but notice the steady stream of men and boys headed to the street corner. Looking regal in their white dishdashas and colorful muzzar, nearly all of them wore ornate khanajir (the traditional dagger common in Yemen and Oman) around their waists. Some even balanced rifles on their shoulders.
I decided to figure out what was going on so I walked to the side of the street opposite the corner where all the men were gathering and I loitered, not sure if what I was witnessing was an Omani street theater production of West Side story or just a lazy Friday in Salalah. An Egyptian teacher named Mahmood, who probably was not wondering if the Sharks and the Jets were about to break into painstakingly choreographed musical combat, informed me that this was a traditional Omani wedding, or ‘urs. In his eight years in Salalah he had never seen anything like this.
When over a hundred men had gathered, the group began to walk down the middle of the road. The group – all men – sang and danced their way to a nearby wedding hall. And lest you fear, dear reader, that I’d forgotten words of wisdom about rifles and the bullets that come out of them, a week ago I luckily visited the Bayt Zubair museum on Omani culture in Muscat, where I learned this great bit of information as part of an exhibit on rifles:
Although no one fired their arms in the air, I can attest to the fact that their presence certainly added excitement to the proceedings. As Mahmood and I trailed the procession, he encouraged me to take pictures, lamenting the fact that he’d forgotten his camera phone at home. The wedding party had hired musicians, dancers, and marchers for the occasion. Notice the women carrying incense - an Omani specialty - on their heads.As they neared the wedding hall the men began making laps around the front of the building. Thinking they were finished and ready for sitting down time, Mahmood and I moved to get a better angle. All of the sudden the wedding party made another lap around the wedding hall and Mahmood and I found ourselves facing this:
Notice the groom in the black garment, known as a bisht, with a look of Kevin Garnett-like focus on his face. He maintained this level throughout the proceedings. I imagine he acted something like this later in the night.After nearly bringing Mahmood and me into the wedding party, the men sat down in plastic chairs around the outside of the wedding hall. The musicians played and small groups of men danced. I had trouble understanding the Omani dialect in the songs, but judging from the actions of the dancers the words were probably “put your khanajir in the air and wave them like you just don’t care.” Or something like that. Although it should be noted that waving of said khanajir was done with ample care because, as everyone knows, putting a khanjar in someone’s face is just bad manners. My other favorite dance was when the dancers threw money in the air and men close to the dance area quickly picked it up.
All of the women were inside the wedding hall and they watched the events from windows and the roof, asserting their presence with frequent ululations. You can see a few women in black here. (more on gender in Oman to come…which is not to say that this piece shouldn’t be read as an examination of gender)
Mahmood informed me that this ceremony cost some thousands of dollars. And that leads me to an important point. These men were not uneducated peasants but rather the business elite of Salalah. They closed the doors of their Toyota Land Cruisers and Chevy Suburbans and engaged in some of the traditions that have stayed the same even as much has changed. But this is not to suggest a stark dichotomy between tradition and modernity. Like people everywhere, Omanis blend tradition and modernity into a synchronized whole, with men carrying a khanjar in one hand and a cell phone in the other.I watched the celebration from the outside of the seating area. But I wasn’t the only curious observer. Oman is a diverse place and it has been said that Salalah resembles Mombassa more than any Middle Eastern city. Alongside me, Pakistani and Indian guest workers watched the proceedings. The South Asian men handing out Pepsis to the wedding attendees even brought a few boxes to our group of onlookers. The relationship between Omanis and migrant workers will be explored in future posts, as well, and it’s not always a rosy one. But for now this image of a curious coexistence will suffice.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Qaboos and lassies
I’m back, friends. And by back, I mean away. Between now and August I’ll periodically post on my thoughts and experiences in Oman this summer. I’ve been fortunate to spend some time in Egypt and the Sham so I’d especially like to use this place to apply the comparative lens to Oman.
I’ve been here about a week now, having spent a few days in the capital of Muscat and since moved on to Salalah. One of the first things I noticed about Oman is the cultural diversity. From the mango lassies to the samosas, the South Asian influence is particularly pronounced. As I walked around Muscat, I found my Arabic was no use in many cases, whether with a Kashmiri shop owner, a Baluchi internet café attendant, or a Tamil waiter. According to reliable sources, the population numbers 3,311,640 with 577,293 non-nationals included. I've heard much higher estimates of the number of non-nationals on the street.
These disparate flows of culture and people are nothing new for Oman. The Sultanate’s power once stretched from Zanzibar in East Africa to Sri Lanka and the cosmopolitan nature of Oman has been preserved under the leadership of Sultan Qaboos bin Taimur, the man who has ruled the country since taking over for his father in a bloodless 1970 coup. Subdued portraits of the Sultan hang high on the walls of most stores and homes. My favorite so far was at the Muscat airport departures terminal, where Qaboos’s leonine visage looked on, one hand raised in a solemn farewell. His pictures certainly lack the dress-up quality of, say, King Abdullah of Jordan. Instead, they reflect a stately man who, in the eyes of many, has been fundamental in navigating Oman toward development while maintaining traditional culture. (If you don’t believe me, you can check out his facebook page. I’m not a fan…yet.)
But, as I mentioned earlier and as the Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque demonstrates, Oman’s traditional culture is anything but exclusivist. Completed in 2001 after six years of construction, the structure features a Khurasani carpet that was at one time the largest carpet in the world (maybe Qaboos would have more facebook fans if he boasted about that in his “about me” section); tiles from Esfahan; and design themes from different geographic areas for each wing.
You don’t see much like this in Egypt or Jordan, partly due to money and partly due to geography.
Just as the mosque underscores the pluralist heritage of Oman (as well as Islam, for that matter), the location also belies Oman’s developmental status. The minaret of the mosque mingles with cranes in the somewhat hazy skyline. Parking lots surround the complex in a location removed from the center of Muscat.
With a sprawling layout and mediocre public transportation, a car culture definitely exists, with Muscatis clogging the car dealership lined highways. All of this is to say that Muscat is Los Angeles, except without medical marijuana, Vincent Chase, or the Reverend Keegan de Lancie.
That might be an overstatement. For one, our German tour guide described the relatively short buildings of Oman’s skyline as such (in a wicked German accent): “This is not like Manhattan. It is more like Lilliput.” All Jonathan Swift references aside, what is clear is that the coming years will be interesting for Oman. Lacking vast oil resources to sink into large-scale infrastructure / weather control projects like in Saudi or the Emirates, the Sultanate must spend its money wisely so as to ensure that the mango lassies continue to flow even after the oil dries up.
I’ve been here about a week now, having spent a few days in the capital of Muscat and since moved on to Salalah. One of the first things I noticed about Oman is the cultural diversity. From the mango lassies to the samosas, the South Asian influence is particularly pronounced. As I walked around Muscat, I found my Arabic was no use in many cases, whether with a Kashmiri shop owner, a Baluchi internet café attendant, or a Tamil waiter. According to reliable sources, the population numbers 3,311,640 with 577,293 non-nationals included. I've heard much higher estimates of the number of non-nationals on the street.
These disparate flows of culture and people are nothing new for Oman. The Sultanate’s power once stretched from Zanzibar in East Africa to Sri Lanka and the cosmopolitan nature of Oman has been preserved under the leadership of Sultan Qaboos bin Taimur, the man who has ruled the country since taking over for his father in a bloodless 1970 coup. Subdued portraits of the Sultan hang high on the walls of most stores and homes. My favorite so far was at the Muscat airport departures terminal, where Qaboos’s leonine visage looked on, one hand raised in a solemn farewell. His pictures certainly lack the dress-up quality of, say, King Abdullah of Jordan. Instead, they reflect a stately man who, in the eyes of many, has been fundamental in navigating Oman toward development while maintaining traditional culture. (If you don’t believe me, you can check out his facebook page. I’m not a fan…yet.)
But, as I mentioned earlier and as the Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque demonstrates, Oman’s traditional culture is anything but exclusivist. Completed in 2001 after six years of construction, the structure features a Khurasani carpet that was at one time the largest carpet in the world (maybe Qaboos would have more facebook fans if he boasted about that in his “about me” section); tiles from Esfahan; and design themes from different geographic areas for each wing.
You don’t see much like this in Egypt or Jordan, partly due to money and partly due to geography.Just as the mosque underscores the pluralist heritage of Oman (as well as Islam, for that matter), the location also belies Oman’s developmental status. The minaret of the mosque mingles with cranes in the somewhat hazy skyline. Parking lots surround the complex in a location removed from the center of Muscat.
With a sprawling layout and mediocre public transportation, a car culture definitely exists, with Muscatis clogging the car dealership lined highways. All of this is to say that Muscat is Los Angeles, except without medical marijuana, Vincent Chase, or the Reverend Keegan de Lancie.That might be an overstatement. For one, our German tour guide described the relatively short buildings of Oman’s skyline as such (in a wicked German accent): “This is not like Manhattan. It is more like Lilliput.” All Jonathan Swift references aside, what is clear is that the coming years will be interesting for Oman. Lacking vast oil resources to sink into large-scale infrastructure / weather control projects like in Saudi or the Emirates, the Sultanate must spend its money wisely so as to ensure that the mango lassies continue to flow even after the oil dries up.
Friday, June 20, 2008
women are like tea-bags
perhaps we need to change the images we have of a feminist. i do not pretend to know how to best define a feminist and i’m too smart to even fall into that trap, or too obsessed with deconstructing labels. either way, i have learned that just like how i hate being defined, i hate defining others.
in my mind (which is a very dangerous place to be), a feminist is like a snowflake, unique and intricate.
the women i am meeting are so incredibly different and none of them are easy to dismiss. one woman i met, who is a private english teacher, described the woman of syria so beautifully: we are simple, yet clever women.
these women are sick of the colonial powers’ desires still limiting their lives. as one woman was driving me home, she told me that the first Arabic fashion designer rose about ten years ago. great, i thought. she paused before the clincher: “who then has been designing syrian clothes for the past 50, 100 years? the clothes we are wearing, both male and female, are what the french colonizers want us to wear.”
the word ‘moda’ (fashion) follows me everywhere. walking down al-hamra street or the white bridge, i see stores like “raghda’s mode” copying after designer stores like “vera moda.” if you speak to some of the revivalist women i have been talking to, you will hear woman after woman complain how ‘moda’ has limited their movements, oppressed their creativity and destroyed their sense of identity.
tomorrow i will be trying to hunt down some women artists. we’ll see how far these thoughts reach across the rest of syria.
i suspect that same fed-up-of-the-west-telling-them-what-to-do sentiments will not be hard to find.
as for me, well, i think this poem says enough:
let me put on my scarf
she gathered herself for an
odd, normal ritual,
ducking under twisted teal drapes,
or perhaps,
raising green’s careful spread,
she intricately pins
covered freedom
-exactly three feet squared-
reaching in delicate tucks
wrapped by whirling,
she sighs in the day’s face
that will tan her liberty
into a shield.
originally planned as
a self test of her control,
forcing the world along
her eye-line,
she would fold and arrange
their vision
in rainbows.
but she took this morning to
dress,
cover,
breathe,
remembering the private joys
of inner peace
in my mind (which is a very dangerous place to be), a feminist is like a snowflake, unique and intricate.
the women i am meeting are so incredibly different and none of them are easy to dismiss. one woman i met, who is a private english teacher, described the woman of syria so beautifully: we are simple, yet clever women.
these women are sick of the colonial powers’ desires still limiting their lives. as one woman was driving me home, she told me that the first Arabic fashion designer rose about ten years ago. great, i thought. she paused before the clincher: “who then has been designing syrian clothes for the past 50, 100 years? the clothes we are wearing, both male and female, are what the french colonizers want us to wear.”
the word ‘moda’ (fashion) follows me everywhere. walking down al-hamra street or the white bridge, i see stores like “raghda’s mode” copying after designer stores like “vera moda.” if you speak to some of the revivalist women i have been talking to, you will hear woman after woman complain how ‘moda’ has limited their movements, oppressed their creativity and destroyed their sense of identity.
tomorrow i will be trying to hunt down some women artists. we’ll see how far these thoughts reach across the rest of syria.
i suspect that same fed-up-of-the-west-telling-them-what-to-do sentiments will not be hard to find.
as for me, well, i think this poem says enough:
let me put on my scarf
she gathered herself for an
odd, normal ritual,
ducking under twisted teal drapes,
or perhaps,
raising green’s careful spread,
she intricately pins
covered freedom
-exactly three feet squared-
reaching in delicate tucks
wrapped by whirling,
she sighs in the day’s face
that will tan her liberty
into a shield.
originally planned as
a self test of her control,
forcing the world along
her eye-line,
she would fold and arrange
their vision
in rainbows.
but she took this morning to
dress,
cover,
breathe,
remembering the private joys
of inner peace
Monday, June 2, 2008
silence is a source of great strength
every time i walk into a mosque or attend a lecture for my research, i cannot help but feel that i am about to be judged. every woman is wearing the same long rain coat style dress and the same round white scarf. last week i walked into a mosque wearing varying shades of blue and (rather lovely if i may so say myself) light blue wrap-around hijab. and two minutes after sitting down a girl comes by and asks me my name. i tell her and she smiles and asks for my family’s phone number. ‘oh, she’s trying to hook me up,’ i thought. i guess that means she doesn’t disapprove. (i told her my father wan’t in the country so who was she going to ask for my hand?).
yesterday i attended the halaqa of the second oldest sheikha in syria and i was going to interview her afterwards. she is very well respected, wears a black scarf and black abayeh. her voice is so soft i can barely hear her during her talks and she would not let me record our interview. i was intimidated. i thought for sure she would disapprove of me as soon as she saw me. what a mistake. she grabbed my hand, smiled and exclaimed ‘mashAllah, you are very beautiful, visibly beautiful but also beautiful on the inside.’ now, not that i want to brag but she is said to be able to sense other people’s thoughts.
however they are still very suspicious when i ask them personal questions in the interview. so i guess them liking me only gets me so far.
there is this one sheikh, sheikh rajab. he is one of the main sheikhs for the abu nur mosque in damascus, where most of my research is centered. he is an adorable old man probably in his 80s who lives in the rows of apartments that are built into the mosque to house its students. my cousin taghreed, who knows him, and i went to see him when i first got here. we walked in on him eating lunch with his wife and daughters in his apartment. he tells us to sit and join him. the table is lined with dishes small in quantity but varied (they even had grilled goat’s brain which is actually pretty good).
he is a very witty and hilarious man. during lunch he randomly turns to me and declares ‘your husband does not ask about you!’ i stuttered a reply, completely caught off guard because umm i’m not married. he then laughs ‘your pair of socks!’ and for those of you who love puns get this. the word for husband in Arabic (jooz) is the same as ‘pair’ (jooz) in the phrase ‘a pair of socks’ (jooz grabat) because couples are pairs. i came in wearing sandals.
while drinking tea after lunch he randomly turned to me and asked if i wanted this to be my family’s house. again i was completely caught off guard and could barely stammer a reply. he continued saying that i should consider his small apartment in the mosque my family’s house. i was completely touched. in the end i got to know his daughters and he gave me some books about the mosque. but he did tell me to bring my husband next time!
i have been keeping my opinions to myself and hope they will tell me theirs.
i have to admit, maybe being outspoken is not helpful all the time. i guess lao tzu was right about some things.
yesterday i attended the halaqa of the second oldest sheikha in syria and i was going to interview her afterwards. she is very well respected, wears a black scarf and black abayeh. her voice is so soft i can barely hear her during her talks and she would not let me record our interview. i was intimidated. i thought for sure she would disapprove of me as soon as she saw me. what a mistake. she grabbed my hand, smiled and exclaimed ‘mashAllah, you are very beautiful, visibly beautiful but also beautiful on the inside.’ now, not that i want to brag but she is said to be able to sense other people’s thoughts.
however they are still very suspicious when i ask them personal questions in the interview. so i guess them liking me only gets me so far.
there is this one sheikh, sheikh rajab. he is one of the main sheikhs for the abu nur mosque in damascus, where most of my research is centered. he is an adorable old man probably in his 80s who lives in the rows of apartments that are built into the mosque to house its students. my cousin taghreed, who knows him, and i went to see him when i first got here. we walked in on him eating lunch with his wife and daughters in his apartment. he tells us to sit and join him. the table is lined with dishes small in quantity but varied (they even had grilled goat’s brain which is actually pretty good).
he is a very witty and hilarious man. during lunch he randomly turns to me and declares ‘your husband does not ask about you!’ i stuttered a reply, completely caught off guard because umm i’m not married. he then laughs ‘your pair of socks!’ and for those of you who love puns get this. the word for husband in Arabic (jooz) is the same as ‘pair’ (jooz) in the phrase ‘a pair of socks’ (jooz grabat) because couples are pairs. i came in wearing sandals.
while drinking tea after lunch he randomly turned to me and asked if i wanted this to be my family’s house. again i was completely caught off guard and could barely stammer a reply. he continued saying that i should consider his small apartment in the mosque my family’s house. i was completely touched. in the end i got to know his daughters and he gave me some books about the mosque. but he did tell me to bring my husband next time!
i have been keeping my opinions to myself and hope they will tell me theirs.
i have to admit, maybe being outspoken is not helpful all the time. i guess lao tzu was right about some things.
Friday, May 30, 2008
in the depths of winter I finally learned there was in me an invincible summer
in one of the oldest cities, deep in the piles of my research, my mind can only think of one thing. eve. there has not been a single day where i have not thought of you. every night i dream of your perfectly lined hair, your lighting eyes, god, your smile. this city has seen too much loss, too much destruction and here i am bringing one more loss.
i swear to you eve, none of this is easy. when nights dreaming of you turn into days, i don’t want the morning to come. i wake up alone, clutching a blanket, shaking from my thundering tears. i shudder and think what is there to move on to?
my research. eve, i am wrapping myself in it because every time i do, your joyful smile and quick jump of excitement when i told you about it dance in the shadows of my mind. your hair brushes over my books; it is your eyes that is searching for a glimpse into the minds of these syrian muslim women. your tears mix with mine when i cannot help but fall into the beauty of these mosques and the devotions but into every single inch.
i want your passion and your love but sometimes all i can find are my weary muscles and swollen eyes. these women i am meeting definitely have a passion and deep love for something in this world. i know i will find what lingers in their mind in their waking moments, the image that pushes their thoughts into conscious actions. i will find their eve.
there is too much in this world
struggle to salvage the soul the world shreds with its flailing clutches,
shriveled fingertips, worn from grasping the end of thoughts,
stories that erode my eternal faith.
i do not want to hear the end.
how can the end be good when there is so much pain?
turn aside and lose your mind in nothingness to forget.
forget their stories, forget your stories,
forget that there is too much in this world.
i grab my pen to record the evidence of my existence,
with it, i multiply word archives.
difference has been added.
now, open to your control of the journey,
i will connect myself to this earth,
rooting my limbs while muscles still inspire,
and breaths long enough to shape actions,
so when my part in this tale ends,
it will be such an end,
as to be worthy of remembrance.
i swear to you eve, none of this is easy. when nights dreaming of you turn into days, i don’t want the morning to come. i wake up alone, clutching a blanket, shaking from my thundering tears. i shudder and think what is there to move on to?
my research. eve, i am wrapping myself in it because every time i do, your joyful smile and quick jump of excitement when i told you about it dance in the shadows of my mind. your hair brushes over my books; it is your eyes that is searching for a glimpse into the minds of these syrian muslim women. your tears mix with mine when i cannot help but fall into the beauty of these mosques and the devotions but into every single inch.
i want your passion and your love but sometimes all i can find are my weary muscles and swollen eyes. these women i am meeting definitely have a passion and deep love for something in this world. i know i will find what lingers in their mind in their waking moments, the image that pushes their thoughts into conscious actions. i will find their eve.
there is too much in this world
struggle to salvage the soul the world shreds with its flailing clutches,
shriveled fingertips, worn from grasping the end of thoughts,
stories that erode my eternal faith.
i do not want to hear the end.
how can the end be good when there is so much pain?
turn aside and lose your mind in nothingness to forget.
forget their stories, forget your stories,
forget that there is too much in this world.
i grab my pen to record the evidence of my existence,
with it, i multiply word archives.
difference has been added.
now, open to your control of the journey,
i will connect myself to this earth,
rooting my limbs while muscles still inspire,
and breaths long enough to shape actions,
so when my part in this tale ends,
it will be such an end,
as to be worthy of remembrance.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
the time has come to talk of many things!
maryam
syria never fails to draw me into her lap. i am terrified of her embrace, yet somehow long for her familiar scent. perhaps i took her in when i longed for a mother who never came. perhaps i sought refuge in what should be my home country. but never really knowing a home or a mother, i didn't know how to love her or be loved by her. with every visit i only increased my yearning and naively allowed her to take advantage of me.
yet again, i am returning to syria for the summer but this time, it will be different. i am not going to visit my relatives on my father's side. those visits leave me aimless, eager to find anything that would keep me busy. my restlessness lead me to be easily sucked into their soap opera lives. a family that consisted of more than my brother and father was so alien to me. i wanted the closeness, the affection, anything that hinted of the families i saw others had. but somehow i always left tearfully lost in definitions that never ceased to plague me.
i am syrian. i am american. but there is a part of me that lies before, under, over and after nationality. what will i find if i look under all labels of time and space? i am not hoping for a total de-construction of my being. i want to embrace what has constructed my being. i want to live within my body unafraid of defining skin that encloses my self.
this summer i am on a mission to reclaim my land, my love and my life in this country. life has to be more than the dramatic outbursts of terror and joy that cascade through our lives. I have to find that stream that guides my spirit, to find the river before the rapids.
i approach syria without a suit of armor that deflects everything that is thrown on it. inside this armor my spirit cowers when it thinks of what lies beyond. instead, my soul will protect me. the thundering showers that used to sting when they rained upon me will now roll into raindrops upon reaching my skin. the rain will nourish my body, but i will not let myself be drowned.
and here begins my journey. in the words of a fictional but wise hobbit:
"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."
syria never fails to draw me into her lap. i am terrified of her embrace, yet somehow long for her familiar scent. perhaps i took her in when i longed for a mother who never came. perhaps i sought refuge in what should be my home country. but never really knowing a home or a mother, i didn't know how to love her or be loved by her. with every visit i only increased my yearning and naively allowed her to take advantage of me.
yet again, i am returning to syria for the summer but this time, it will be different. i am not going to visit my relatives on my father's side. those visits leave me aimless, eager to find anything that would keep me busy. my restlessness lead me to be easily sucked into their soap opera lives. a family that consisted of more than my brother and father was so alien to me. i wanted the closeness, the affection, anything that hinted of the families i saw others had. but somehow i always left tearfully lost in definitions that never ceased to plague me.
i am syrian. i am american. but there is a part of me that lies before, under, over and after nationality. what will i find if i look under all labels of time and space? i am not hoping for a total de-construction of my being. i want to embrace what has constructed my being. i want to live within my body unafraid of defining skin that encloses my self.
this summer i am on a mission to reclaim my land, my love and my life in this country. life has to be more than the dramatic outbursts of terror and joy that cascade through our lives. I have to find that stream that guides my spirit, to find the river before the rapids.
i approach syria without a suit of armor that deflects everything that is thrown on it. inside this armor my spirit cowers when it thinks of what lies beyond. instead, my soul will protect me. the thundering showers that used to sting when they rained upon me will now roll into raindrops upon reaching my skin. the rain will nourish my body, but i will not let myself be drowned.
and here begins my journey. in the words of a fictional but wise hobbit:
"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."
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