More عبثية

ما حد سائل..

لأني مش منكم..

لأني مش مثلكم..

لا متلَك ولا مِتله ولا متلها..

مش مهمة متلكم..

مش شيخة..

مش اشي كتير متلكم..

مش غنية..

ولا أصلية ..

لا أنا مسلمة ولا ملحدة

ولا مسيحية..

ما ليش مكان أنا..

في تقسيماتكم الاجتماعية...

لا انا من طبقة ناعمة بيضا..

بضة.. غضة.. أرستقراطية

ولا من عيلة ذات اي اهمية..

بتمروا جنبي ما بتشوفوني..

ولا المرحبا بتردّوها..

لا بتردوا السلام..

ولا بتفتحوا مجال..

لأي كلام..

عشاني انثى في عالم ذكوري..

فنانة في عالم مادي متطرف.

اماكن الفن فيه محدودة ومعدودة

ومحسوبة ومدروسة.

وتكاد تكون معدومة.

انا مش متلكم مهمة.

لا أنا معروفة... ولا مشهورة..

الظلم في حياتي حقيقة..

وإحساس بالحزن والألم ..

ودايما مقهورة...

بتخبط بين يأس وآمل

ما بين احلام لسة ما تحققت.

ووعود مكسورة..

وفقلبي نار

تحت الرحى.. مجروشة..

وبقاوم باستمرار..

بعرف،

ما الي عندكم جدوى اقتصادية..

او فايدة عملية..

لا عندي منصب ولا مركز حساس..

لا رح أزيدكم شهرة

او شعبية..

بوينتلس أنا الكو..

أنا بوينتلس أنا..

مش من هون أنا...

وين ما بروح أجنبية..

أنا اللي رقصت عالسلالم

في العتمة

سنين وسنين..

لا حد سمع ولا حد شاف..

رقصتها العبقرية..

مش من هون أنا..

ولا حتى هون أنا..

بعيدة كتير أنا ..

عن كل آشي..

عن كل حدا...

في الغربة منفية..

مش من هون أنا..

ولا من هون

او هون او هون..

انا الغريبة..

البرّانية...

ناسف على الوضع..

ناسف على الحزن...

نأسف علي العبثية..

كل عام وانتم بخير.. انتوا وكل البشرية..

Blind Privilige

I look up ...
and all i see ..
is  whiteness..
above me..
like a bright light..
blinding me..
Blind betterness..
that cannot see me..
and does not want to..
see me..
or hear me..
or know of me..
whiteness shines so bright
it hurts my eyes..
It doesnt care
It doesnt know..
it doesnt want to know..
That down here...
in the bottom of the well..
it is bitterness..
it is pitch black..

Sorry to piss you off, 

sorry to disturb your calm, 

my dear, 

but it looks very different 

from down here!

Stories of stories.. and the stories about them

Editing my book turned out to be its own story. So far, 5 people offered to do it, one changed his mind about doing it for free, the other 4 volunteered to do it totally free, for the sake of justice and human rights, they said.  1 dragged her feet and didn't have the energy/ time anymore. One overestimated her ability to do the job.  The other 3  started but then 'it didn't work out'. I don't think any of them were that serious for real to start with, not as serious as they thought they were. Many people don't know themselves. These volunteers were Jewish and White / European . Interestingly , None of them were of Arab or Palestinian origin. I did approach some north American Arabs but most of them were too busy to even answer, let alone help, شيوخ ماشالله  . in addition, most thought i was asking for too much! that only means they think it is too much to give to the Palestinian cause. None of them helped so far. The most I got was: Mabrouk. not that much mabrouk if i cant get the book out to the world, is it? I am talking about activists from a class I once belonged to (on the margin, around the lower edges) .
Many of those I approached, volunteered more opinions than actions.   'You can't ask someone to do something for free!?' many of them said. Of course I can! because I did it myself. I still do. I give my time and heart and volunteer for human rights till i am blue in the face without expecting a thank you. A I am sure I am not the only one like this in this world. A world that is full of loving gentle compassionate human beings. Many of which have raised about their petty little egos and developed the capacity to CARE beyond their family and tribe and worked out their identity issues and are ready to be humans, to see other humans. to jump through compassion into their humanity.

The stories involved in my "editor quest" are worth telling. stories of indifference, denial, guilt... Stories of racism, entitlement, and sexism, stories of ignorance and white privilege. stories of Zionism and Jewish identity issues, Arab identity issues, Palestinian identity issues, immigrant identity issues, all kinds of identity issues. even white identity issues.
so called activists enjoying and even making a living off of causes that others live and fight for and die for. Some claim to defend & try to represent those they indirectly participate in crushing. Self proclaimed justice activists who are too busy enjoying their middle class privileges to have a dialogue with the underprivileged that they claim to be fighting with/for... all kinds of discoveries; in a nutshell, stories of power dynamics . a lot of juicy stories.
Even though pro palestinians , anti zionists, pro justice, feminists, human rights activists , social justice activists etc...  are all over the place wherever i look,
Yet  West Bank stories book is still unedited, unpublished, unread. Like an unborn baby. Once again I'm looking for an editor.
But
new stories are being written. stories of a book that is not born to a person with privilege or power so it stays unborn, unread, unheard. A book of a unique voice about a unique time and place. Stories that ache to be heard, but cant find worthy allies to help them see the sun.

Not yet. 

Happy new year, by the way.

Introduction to my book : West Bank Stories - by Abd El Majid Hamdan + his Bio - in English (Translated from Arabic)

This is the first draft. I translated it from Arabic 

Foreword By Abd El Majid Hamdan

This book: This book is not a novel, or story. It is not a diary, not even the writer's childhood memories. It is tales from the reality of a childhood of a Palestinian child from the city of Christ's Nativity, Bethlehem. A female child whose luck, or fate decided that she would arrive to this world a few days after the rest of her homeland fell in the grip of a cruel ruthless occupation. It was Israel's occupation of the rest of Palestine, or what was known as the Gaza Strip and the West Bank of the River Jordan. It was natural, as she was raised under this occupation, that it would leave its fingerprints all over the details of her life, in the forefront of her soul. But this child, like the majority of the Palestinians, has resisted attempts to disfigure her soul, and succeeded.

Hence perhaps it might seem to the reader, for the first glance, that the writer will stuff her book with fabricated stories about the brutality of occupation. But she, who has succeeded in saving her soul from disfiguration, did not do that. She, when subjected to the occupation, stands only at those stories, or events, which touched her life directly. On the basis of absolute confidence in human goodness, whatever their religion or ideology, she keeps looking hard, and tells tales which confirm that in the society of the occupation there are good people, which denies that society the status of 'the wicked'.

On each page of the pages of this book, I found amazing beauty. I admit that I was confused by that beauty. The copy that I read, once, two and three times, was just a draft of the book. And my literary English doesnt help me to discover the esthetics of the sentences and their structures. I asked myself a lot: So from where did the secret of this aesthetic come? I remembered a Palestinian proverb that gifted me the key to the secret of this beauty. The Palestinian quote says: "Honesty gives birth to beauty, but lying breeds only ugliness."

Throughout telling her childhood tales, the writer was committed to the truth, and stayed away from any attempt to embellish her stories. That is what brought her writing to this wonderful aesthetic, and gave her stories this power of persuasion. The best evidence of the sincerity of her stories is her recognition that her childhood is not the typical Palestinian  childhood. She was, to an extent, a lucky child. She did not live the harsh life of Palestinian children in refugee camps, villages or poor city neighborhoods. She did not suffer the hardships they endure. She was a lucky girl because she grew up in an educated, middle-class family which left her the freedom to research and the pursuit of knowledge, without restricting her with society's restrictions and did not impose any ideas or beliefs that are not consistent with the movement of her mind.

In addition to the honesty which gave this beauty to the book, the writer decorated it with a number of beautiful drawings, most are a product of her creativity, that increased the beauty of beauty. But despite that, dear reader, and when you see the cover of the book, perhaps you would say: 'I never heard of this writer, what does she have to give to me? A story of a childhood in Bethlehem!? What would that mean?! Will she tell me anything I didn't know?'.  I have to admit, dear reader, that I said that as I started reading the draft copy of the book. I know the writer since the day she was born! I know details of her childhood and adolescence and maturity. I am Uncle Abed that she talks about in her stories. She is the twin of my daughters, and the daughter of my life long friends. Despite the fact that I dont prefer to read in English, because my English is limited, The writer's tales had a different plan.

Once I started reading, I felt as if the writer held my hand gently, to bring me back, and I have resigned, to forty years behind. to the playgrounds of her childhood. The fields she discovered, the trees she climbed and their branches she hung on. Plants, insects and animals, which she explored at the start of her journey. I started hearing her singing again, as she played and jumped rope. I followed them, her and Salam, my daughter, in their childhood adventures that are innocent and wild at the same time. They took me with them as they climbed trees, and swung on their branches like a couple of small monkeys. I enjoyed their exploration journeys of the world and its secrets.

With successive pages of the book, A smile floated on my lips a lot. I laughed at times, anger and sadness overwhelmed me at times. This happened exactly as the writer expected. In one of her stations, I began to pace above the sorrow, tears started gathering in my eyes, and then suddenly, I burst into tears. The sound of my sobbing called my wife from a nearby room, frightened, she asked me what happened. She tried to calm me down but to no avail. Having calmed down a bit she asked me what made me cry. I said, still choking and a rock in my throat suffocating me: Wadida! She said:  Wadida died 35 years ago, what reminded you of her now? I remained silent. She said: 'It must be Lubna'. I said: Yes.  it is Lubna's honesty in telling the event. Honesty that recalled that event as if it is just happened now. Honesty in how she displayed the disease of my daughter Wadida, and the pains she suffered, after the accurate presentation of the her distinguished character, is what made me live again those cruel moments, and then burst into tears.

In the Tales in the book, Lubna not only takes you on a journey to explore the playgrounds of her childhood, Palestine's trees and their delicious fruits, pets and animals and how children treat them, her school, her friends, and her teachers. She also takes you on a fun journey to the corners of Bethlehem and the Church of the Nativity, and to Jerusalem, and its old streets. I walked with her, I got overwhelmed with the sense of pleasure that filled a child. As my mouth filled with that sense of bitterness, and longing to return to Jerusalem, a longing that is being killed by the separation wall, torn by the brutality of the occupation soldiers on the prevention barriers.

And the joy of reading grows with the transition of the writer from tales of childhood, to the tales of the search for knowledge and truth. A research journey which began in the early days of infancy, and went forward at the age of adolescence until completed at the age of maturity. A trip that will you will not feel boredom, but a lot of great pleasure as you follow it.
So, it is a book, dear reader, that you will not regret reading, on the contrary, you might say after reading it: I would have lost a lot if my if I wasnt lucky enough to discover this book.
And to the writer, with all the love and gratitude, I say: Thank you, O beloved, for giving me all this pleasure with the lines of your book. Thank you for giving me this beautiful gift.
I thank you for proving your talent that i saw in you in your early childhood. Thank you for taking pride in the nickname I gave you in your early childhood: 'El fannana'. (the artist).

Abd El Majid Hamdan is the son of Arourah village, near Ramallah. He was born in 1938. He graduated from high school in 1957 and joined the Faculty of Science, Alexandria University. He graduated in 1962, then he became a teacher of mathematics and physics for grades 11 and 12 until the year 1974. He Was arrested and got fired from teaching after two days of his 'administrative' arrest in the prisons of the Israeli occupation, where he stayed for two years, at the end of which they released him and informed him on the same day that he was not allowed to teach anymore. He wasnt allowed to approach the field of education.

Mr Hamdan started working in the press with the release of the 'Taliaa' newspaper.  He became a columnist, then an author of political articles in more than one newspaper and magazine such as : Al Kateb, Al Watan and Al Ittihad.

In prison in year 1975, Mr Hamdan was chosen as member of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Jordan, then a member of the central Committee and the Political Bureau of the Communist Party of Palestine. Then a member of the Palestinian People's Party,  until retirement. In 1997, Mr Hamdan was appointed assistant of the Secretary-General. In the third conference he was selected as a member of the Secretariat, then he became the Secretary General between 2000 and 2003. He then applied for retirement, while retaining the membership of the Central Committee, until the first government of national unity, where he completed his retirement fully.

Publications: Mr Hamdan's first book: 'The promise in the Torah' was published in 1993, , He since then wrote and published a total of 13 books.

 1 - The promise in the Torah 1993
 2 - Palestinian democracy in practice 1995
 3 - 100 questions about democracy c {1} 1995
 4 - The uprising 2002 , an assessment attempt.
 5 - The rights of women between the robe of law and the law of the tribe 2005
 6 - 2006 Testimonies
 7 - political reading in the two eras -Mohammadi and Rashidi / The Mohammadi era 2006
 8 - political reading in the two eras -Mohammadi and Rashidi / The Rashidi era 2007
 9 - A look at the cause {part1} 2007
10 - 100 questions about democracy c {2} 2008
11 - A look at the cause {part2} 2009
12 - Entering the field of taboos 2010
13 - The Free Muslim (female) 2011

West Bank Stories - Book Introduction by Abd El Majid Hamdan - Arabic

هذا الكتاب : هذا الكتاب ليس رواية ، أو قصة

. وهو ليس مذكرات ، ولا حتى ذكريات عن طفولة الكاتبة . هو حكايات من واقع طفولة طفلة فلسطينية ، من مدينة مهد المسيح ، بيت لحم . طفلة شاء حظها ، أو لنقل قدرها ، أن تطل على الدنيا ، بعد بضعة أيام من وقوع بقية وطنها في قبضة احتلال قاس لا يرحم . هو احتلال إسرائيل لبقية فلسطين ، أو ما كان يعرف بقطاع غزة والضفة الغربية لنهر الأردن . وكان بديهيا ، وقد نشأت في ظل هذا الاحتلال ، أن يترك آثار بصماته على تفاصيل حياتها ، وفي المقدمة روحها . لكن هذه الطفلة ، كأكثرية الفلسطينيين ، قاومت محاولات تشويه روحها ، ونجحت.

من هنا ربما يتراءى للقارئ ، ولأول وهلة ، أن الكاتبة ستحشو كتابها بحكايات مختلقة عن وحشية الاحتلال . لكنها ، وقد نجحت في إنقاذ روحها من محاولات التشويه ، لا تفعل ذلك . فهي ، حين تعرض للاحتلال ، تقف فقط عند تلك الحكايات ، أو الأحداث ، التي مست حياتها مسا مباشرا . وانطلاقا من ثقتها المطلقة بإنسانية الإنسان ، أيا كان دينه أو أيديولوجيته ، تبحث جاهدة ، وتورد حكايات ، تؤكد فيها أن في مجتمع الاحتلال من الناس الأخيار، ما ينفي عنه صفة مجتمع الأشرار.

وفي كل صفحة ، من صفحات هذا الكتاب ، طالعتني جمالية مدهشة . وأعترف أن الحيرة تملكتني بخصوص هذه الجمالية . فالنسخة التي قرأتها ، مرة واثنتين وثلاثة ، كانت مجرد مسودة الكتاب . وانجليزيتي الأدبية لا تساعدني على اكتشاف جمالية العبارات وتراكيبها . وتساءلت كثيرا : إذن من أين أتى سر هذه الجمالية . وتذكرت مقولة فلسطينية أهدتني مفتاح سر هذا الجمال . تقول : " الصدق يلد الجمال ، أما الكذب فلا يلد إلا القبح " .

التزمت الكاتبة طريق في إيراد حكايات طفولتها ، التزمت بالحقيقة ، وابتعدت عن أية محاولة لتزويق حكاياتها . ذلك ما أضفى على كتابها هذه الجمالية الرائعة ، وما جعل حكاياتها بهذه القدرة على الإقناع . وليس أدل على صدق حكاياتها من اعترافها ، بأن طفولتها ليست النموذج لطفولة أطفال فلسطين . فهي ، بقدر ما ، كانت طفلة محظوظة ، لم تعش قسوة حياة أطفال المخيمات والقرى وأحياء المدينة الفقيرة ، ولم تعاني شظف عيشهم . طفلة محظوظة لأنها نشأت في أسرة مثقفة ، من الطبقة الوسطى ، تركت لها حرية البحث والسعي للمعرفة . لم تقيدها بقيود المجتمع ، ولم تفرض عليها أفكارا ، أو معتقدات ، لا تتفق مع حركة عقلها.

وإلى جانب الصدق الذي أضفى هذا الجمال على الكتاب ، زينته الكاتبة بعدد من اللوحات الجميلة ، أكثرها من إبداعها ، لتزيده جمالا على جمال . لكن ورغم ذلك ، عزيزي القارئ ، وحين يقع نظرك على غلاف الكتاب ، ربما ستقول : هذه كاتبة لم أسمع بها ، فما الذي ستقدمه لي ؟ حكاية طفولة من بيت لحم ؟! وما الذي سيعنيه ذلك ؟ !هل ستقدم لي معلومة كنت أجهلها ؟ ! وأصارحك عزيزي القارئ أنني أنا أيضا قلت ذلك وأنا أفتح المسودة . فأنا أعرف الكاتبة منذ يوم ولادتها . وأعرف تفاصيل مسيرة طفولتها ومراهقتها ونضوجها . فأنا عمو عبد في حكاياتها . وهي توأم بناتي ، وديدة وسلام . وهي ابنة صديقي عمري . ومع أنني لا أفضل قراءة الأدب بالإنجليزية ، لضعف إتقاني لها ، كان لحكايات الكاتبة رأي آخر . فما أن بدأت القراءة ، حتى شعرت وكأن الكاتبة أمسكت بيدي برفق ، لتعيدني ، وأنا مستسلم لها ، أربعين سنة إلى وراء . إلى مرابع طفولتها . الحقول التي استكشفتها ، والأشجار التي تسلقتها وتدلت على فروعها . النباتات والحشرات والحيوانات التي بدأت رحلة التعرف عليها . عدت أسمع غناءها وهي تلعب وتنط الحبل . تبعتهما ، هي وسلام ، في مغامراتهما الطفولية البريئة والصاخبة في آن . أخذتني معهما وهما تتسلقان الأشجار ، تتأرجحان على فروعها ، مثل زوج من القردة الصغيرة . أمتعتني رحلات استكشافهما للدنيا وأسرارها . ومع توالي صفحات الكتاب ، طافت البسمة على شفتي كثيرا . ضحكت أحيانا ، وتملكني الغضب والحزن أحيانا أخرى . حدث ذلك كما توقعت الكاتبة تماما . وفي إحدى محطاتها ، بدأت وتيرة حزني تعلو ، والدموع تتجمع في عيني ، ثم وفجأة انفجرت باكيا . واستدعى صوت نشيجي زوجتي من غرفة مجاورة ، ولتسألني مذعورة عما جرى . حاولت تهدئتي دون طائل . وبعد أن هدأت قليلا سألتني عما أبكاني . قلت والغصة ما زالت تخنقني : وديدة . قالت : وديدة ماتت قبل 35 سنة ، ما الذي ذكرك بها الآن ؟ سكت . قالت هي لبنى إذن . قلت : نعم هو صدق لبنى في رواية الحدث . صدق استدعى ذلك الحدث وكأنه يقع الآن . صدق عرضها لمرض وديدة ابنتي ، والآلام التي كابدتها ، بعد عرض دقيق لتميز شخصيتها ، هي ما جعلني أعيش من جديد تلك اللحظات القاسية ، ومن ثم أنفجر باكيا.

في حكايات الكتاب لا تكتفي لبني باصطحابك في رحلة التعرف على مرابع طفولتها . على أشجار فلسطين وتذوق ثمارها الشهية . على حيواناتها الأليفة وتعامل الأطفال معها . على مدرستها وزميلاتها ومعلماتها . هي أيضا تأخذك في رحلة ممتعة إلى زوايا بيت لحم وكنيسة المهد ، وإلى القدس وحواريها . مشيت معها ، وغمرني ذلك الإحساس بالمتعة الذي ملأها وهي طفلة . كما ملأ فمي ذلك الإحساس بالمرارة ، وشوق العودة للقدس الذي يقتله جدار العزل ، وتمزقه غلاظة جنود الاحتلال على حواجز المنع .

وتكبر متعة القراءة مع انتقال الكاتبة من حكايات الطفولة ، إلى حكايات البحث عن المعرفة وعن الحقيقة . رحلة البحث التي بدأت مبكرة من أيام الطفولة الأولى ، ومضت تتقدم في عمر المراهقة حتى اكتملت في سن النضوج . رحلة لن تشعر بالملل ، وإنما بالكثير من النشوة وأنت تتابعها .

إذن هو كتاب لن تشعر عزيزي القارئ بالندم على مطالعته . وعلى العكس قد تقول بعد القراءة : كنت سأخسر الكثير لو أن الحظ عاكسني ، ولم أقع على هذا الكتاب . وإلى الكاتبة بكل الحب والامتنان أقول : أشكرك أيتها الحبيبة على منحي كل هذه المتعة مع سطور كتابك . أشكرك لأنك منحتيني هذه الهدية الجميلة ، بإثباتك لصحة رؤيتي لموهبتك في ذلك الوقت المبكر من طفولتك . أشكرك لاعتزازك باستبدالي لاسمك باسم الفنانة ، الاسم الذي دأبت على مناداتك به .

عبد المجيد حمدان - أو عمو عبد

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أنا ابن قرية عارورة محافظة رام الله ومن مواليد العام 1938.تعلمت في مدرستها وأنهيت الثالث الإعدادي في العام 1955 . انتقلت إلى الهاشمية الثانوية البيرة ، وتخرجت منها العام 1957. ألتحقت بكلية العلوم جامعة الإسكندرية ، حيث تخرجت في العام 62 لأعمل بعدها معلما للرياضيات والفيزياء للصفين الحادي والثاني عشر حتى العام 74. اعتقلت وجرى فصلي من التعليم بعد يومين اثنين من اعتقالي الإداري في سجون الاحتلال الاسرائيلي والذي دام قرابة السنتين ، لأبلغ بمنعي من الاقتراب من التعليم يوم الإفراج عني . بدأت العمل في الصحافة مع صدور الطليعة ، حيث أصبحت كاتب عمود ، ثم كاتبا للمقال السياسي في أكثر من صحيفة ومجلة

الكاتب

صوت الوطن

الاتحاد

.. في السجن وفي العام 75 تم اختياري عضوا للجنة المركزية الحزب الشيوعي الأردني ،فعضوا للمركزية والمكتب السياسي للحزب الشيوعي الفلسطيني ، فحزب الشعب الفلسطيني حتى تقاعدي . في العام 97 تم تعييني مساعدا أونائبا للأمين العام ، وفي المؤتمر الثالث عضوا للأمانة العامة ، فأمين الأمانة العامة بين العامين 2000 و2003 ، حيث تقدمت بطلب التقاعد ، مع الإحتفاظ بعضوية اللجنة المركزية ، حتى أول حكومة للوحدة الوطنية ، حيث استكملت التقاعد التام .الاصدارات:صدر أول كتبي في العام 93 وهو الوعد في التوراة ، وحيث بلغت اصداراتي عشر كتب منها ثلاثة من جزئين ليكون المجموع 13 كتابا آخرها المسلمة الحرة.

• 1- الوعد في التوراة 1993
• 2- الديمقراطية الفلسطينية في الممارسة 1995
• 3- عن الديمقراطية 100 سؤال {ج1} 1995
• 4- الانتفاضة محاولة تقييم 2002
• 5- حقوق المرأة بين رداء الشريعة وشريعة القبيلة 2005
• 6- شهادات 2006
• 7-قراءة سياسية في العهدين المحمدي والراشدي/ العهد المحمدي 2006
• 8-قراءة سياسية في العهدين المحمدي والراشدي/ العهد الراشدي 2007
• 9- اطلالة على القضية {ج1} 2007
• 10- عن الديمقراطية 100 سؤال {ج2} 2008
• 11- اطلاله على القضية {ج2} 2009
• 12- دخول الى حقل المحرمات 2010
• 13- المسلمة الحرة 2011

Coconut Girl and the Mirror

This was published in Mizna sometime in the late 90s:

Once upon a time coconut girl ran into a child holding a rock..
The child’s eyes turned into a big mirror...
Coconut girl saw the mirror for the first time in her life...
A moment of self-discovery..
She didn’t like what she saw,,
She was scared..
She smashed the mirror...
100,000 pieces the mirror scattered...
Each one has the same picture: Coconut girl..
A l00, 000 coconut girls..

The child died on the cross..
Went to heaven..
A whole generation passed..
The 100,000 mirrors grew up mirror trees..
Each with 100,000 more mirrors with brown girls on them..
Mirrors speak;
I am your identity,
I am your grandmother El hajjeh, back in the old country
Look into my eyes; I’m your mirror
Erase me from your diary; you can’t erase me from your genes.
Brown on brown
She tore down grandmother’s picture
But grandmother still existed
The more she avoided looking into the child’s brown eyes..
The more she was dissolving
Living in denial is the best cure!
She turned off the history..
She preached;
I’m felicity,
I am beige now!
I’m the saint of all saints,
I study people
I’m above everyone
I’m exotic
I am hummous
I am tabbouleh!
I’m just another coconut girl who tells people what is right and what is wrong
And in the meantime I uproot me..

To be Arab and proud, what a combination!
Is it logically feasible?
It scares me when I see those pictures of my grandmothers that I burnt...
I apologize to the mirror and the children..
It’s not about you

Grandma visits me in my dream,
passes her gentle loving hand on my forehead
And forgives me.
My self-hatred is blinding my vision;
The cowboys taught me that I am brown because I am dirty,They invented Clorox!
I washed me with Clorox so that I can fit.
I don’t want to be dirty!
Grandma visits me in my dream,
Passes her gentle loving hand on my forehead..
And forgives me...

Brown bleached girl got pregnant..
She gave birth to a little brown boy who was holding a rock..
I’m a mere rusty brown link on the chain of “us’s” identity..
I happened to be a prime number..
A second generation ya grandmother..
Don’t blame me!

Brown Jesus visits me in my dream,
Passes his gentle loving hand on my forehead..
And forgives me...

Once upon a time coconut girl ran into a child holding a rock..
The child’s eyes turned into a big mirror...
Coconut girl saw the mirror for the first time in her life...
A moment of self-discovery..
She didn’t like what she saw,,
She was scared..
She smashed the mirror...
100,000 pieces the mirror scattered...
Each one has the same picture: Coconut girl..
A l00, 000 coconut girls..

The child died on the cross..
Went to heaven..
A whole generation passed..
The 100,000 mirrors grew up mirror trees..
Each with 100,000 more mirrors with brown girls on them..
Mirrors speak;
I am your identity,
I am your grandmother El hajjeh, back in the old country
Look into my eyes; I’m your mirror
Erase me from your diary; you can’t erase me from your genes.
Brown on brown
She tore down grandmother’s picture
But grandmother still existed
The more she avoided looking into the child’s brown eyes..
The more she was dissolving
Living in denial is the best cure!
She turned off the history..
She preached;
I’m felicity,
I am beige now!
I’m the saint of all saints,
I study people
I’m above everyone
I’m exotic
I am hummous
I am tabbouleh!
I’m just another coconut girl who tells people what is right and what is wrong
And in the meantime I uproot me..

To be Arab and proud, what a combination!
It logically feasible?
It scares me when I see those pictures of my grandmothers that I burnt...
I apologize to the mirror and the children..
It’s not about you

Grandma visits me in my dream,
passes her gentle loving hand on my forehead
And forgives me.
My self-hatred is blinding my vision;
The cowboys taught me that I am brown because I am dirty,They invented Clorox!
I washed me with Clorox so that I can fit.
I don’t want to be dirty!
Grandma visits me in my dream,
Passes her gentle loving hand on my forehead..
And forgives me...

Brown bleached girl got pregnant..
She gave birth to a little brown boy who was holding a rock..
I’m a mere rusty brown link on the chain of “us’s” identity..
I happened to be a prime number..
A second generation ya grandmother..
Don’t blame me!

Brown Jesus visits me in my dream,
Passes his gentle loving hand on my forehead..
And forgives me...