The departure... The arrival

On that night my friend Iman and her three children came to say goodbye to me, my father played with the children and Iman and my mother talked about things. I don’t remember what.

Three-year-old Raghad was not playing, even though her older brother and sister were having a great time, being tickled by my father and climbing on his shoulders. 

Raghad looked at me and said (angrily), “Auntie, don’t you love us?”

I said, “Sure sweetie, I love you very, very much.”

She said, “So how come you’re leaving us?  What is in Canada?”

I said, “There is a better job and education for me sweetie.”

She said, “Why can’t you get that here?”

I said, “Because it’s different there.” 

I told her some stuff about the future that she didn’t understand, and neither did I.  

I noticed that my mother disappeared. When she came back, she had red eyes. She’d been doing that every fifteen minutes.  I held myself together perfectly.  That night I didn’t sleep at all, I’m sure my father and my mother didn’t either.

Next day we were at the airport. I can’t remember how, but I found myself at the airport with my father, my mother, my uncle, his wife and one of my cousins.  All I remember was the very heavy coat that I was wearing; I called it “the sheep.”  I was wearing my sheep and feeling that I was about to die from heat.  I couldn’t fit my sheep in either of my huge suitcases, they were full.  I filled them up with things I couldn’t leave behind..

It was a very long trip, to the unknown.  I couldn’t sleep at all.  All I remember was the longest sunset in my life — it was almost three hours long.  This made me feel happy and optimistic.  I remembered a conversation I once had with my mother; which was more beautiful, sunrise or sunset.  My mother preferred sunrise because it represents a start.  Well, sunset is a start too, a start of a new night and a preparation for another sunrise.  I was thinking that both are beautiful, they just have a different taste of beauty and one can’t exist without the other.

I arrived at Toronto's airport. My plane to Ottawa was late, so I had to stay awake.  I was exhausted; I'd been up for more than thirty hours.  I found sixteen cents on one of the chairs; I thought this was a sign of good luck. The immigration people gave me some welcoming brochures at the airport, and a paper that many people in the Arab world would die or kill for — my permanent residency paper.  

Mary, my relative’s friend, was supposed to wait for me in Ottawa.  My plane arrived at 2 a.m.— several hours late.  I’d never seen Mary, only spoken with her on the phone; all I knew was that she was supposed to wear a green coat.  I had my sheep on, and was dragging two huge suitcases while holding my Oud   in my hand.  There was no one waiting for me.  People who were there for other people took them and left.  I didn’t see any green coats, or any green things at all. The only green things were my suitcases..

I stood there, not knowing what to do. Suddenly a guy came up to me and asked, “Are you Arab?”  

I said — surprised, “Yes, how did you know?”  (I was still naive, I didn’t realize it was written all over my face, in my color, features, eyes, everything.)  

The guy said, “It’s obvious, you look like an Arab and you have a Oud.”  

He asked me where I was from. I told him I was from the West Bank.  He told me that he worked at the airport, and that he too was from the West Bank, from Bethlehem!  I got excited and told him that I was also from Bethlehem.  He asked me which high school I went to. We discovered that his wife was in my class. 

“Isn’t there anyone waiting for you?” he asked.  I told him about the woman with the green coat who hadn’t come.  

He decided that we should call her and take directions. He was going to drive me.  

On the phone I asked, “Did I wake you up?”  

She said, “Yes.”  

I said, “Sorry.”  

She explained (not apologized) that the plane was late. It was past her bedtime, and she had to go to bed because she had work in the morning.  I lied : “Oh, it’s okay, I understand.”  

She asked me to take a cab, so I told her that there was someone ready to drive me.  

I thought she’d say, careful or something like that, but she welcomed the idea. She gave him directions. He drove me to her place.

I never saw him again in my life.

The grain

I guess we all dont know what the future will bring to us, even if we think we do, we really are clueless in this world. 

I know that my control on people and events is very limited, maybe non existent, and no matter how much we want to think we are in control of our destinies, the truth is that we aren’t. No one can argue that we didn’t choose the time or place of our birth, we had no say about existing here, and no say about ceasing to exist. We are born and develop and degenerate and wither and die, and we can’t do anything about it. 

Humans especially in the modern civilization are getting arrogant; they like to think that they are the center of the universe and that all other creations are there to make their life easier and more convenient. Amazing what we can do for convenience, but we all stand small when someone dies or a volcano erupts. I know I tried to assimilate to that way of thinking , but external bigger forces are laughing at me and proving to me that all these figures and equations mean nothing. 

It really hit me hard even though I knew it in my heart. It’s amazing how sometime we know things but we don't believe them , the fact that I don’t know what the immediate future might bring drove me crazy. but why, who knows what is going to happen for them in 10 years, will they be dead or alive, will their loved ones exist? will their vision be there? their arms? their brain? If there is a fortune teller who would tell us step by step what will happen in our lives,  the future will become meaningless and dull.   

I had an interview last week and that went bad, and I was rejected, and that hurt me a lot. I felt that the luqma is right between my lips and then was withdrawn. Sometimes I feel that the corporate bastard geeks are shaping my future, and sometimes I feel that love and ingenuity is not appreciated, only greed is. I know that the people who actually changed the world and are remembered by history are the ones who cared and the ones who dared to be who they are really meant to be, the ones who refuse to assimilate. 

Sometimes I feel ashamed of getting caught in this cycle and for being devastated by the fact that I was rejected by what I am not convinced of, just because that's where power or convenience lies. It is like being sad for loosing an abusive marriage. Sometimes I am scared of being who I can really be because I know that involves struggle and pain, isn’t it sarcastic though that even when you want to conform you get rejected? maybe there is a lesson or a message there. Sometimes I feel that I came in the wrong time or place, but when is the right time, and where is the right place. 

I never been closer to god, I have to admit, I pray for serenity and total submission to the holy forces of the universe. I know I am not here on this universe by coincidence and without aim, and I know my existence isn’t about generating money for greedy people while wasting my aim and existence. I still  don't know exactly what to do , maybe I need to find out, or I will find out what is my path, I know I deserve nothing but the best, and the best is to realize my potential and aim, I know that's where happiness lies, maybe navigating through pain and instability and unknowingness is the way to knowingness. 

I know that my fear is mainly is about loosing my present and future but I will never loose those while I am alive, I might be in inconvenience, but I will be in my present and a moment away from the future. I know I fear loosing my freedom but I guess that can never happen unless I decide to give it up, I think the only slave is the one who decide to hand over their freedom, I think freedom is like principles; it is something in our hearts and minds, even if we were in a prison cell. 

I might be nihilophobic - (fear of nothingness). I might be scared to live outside the Borg of my Arab world or the corporate monster or some big impeding limiting structure. I am scared to live outside of the history, geography or time. I am afraid to lose myself to god and be just  another creature. 

This is a very humbling experience though, and I feel that my salvation will be when I get to that point where I am ready to lose myself to god and be totally accepting to the fact that I am part of the universal creation, not better or less. 

The universal rules apply on me and the universe provides for me just like it provides for the butterfly or the bat or the snake. The universe- god- gives them exactly what they need to survive, the right color, the right shape, the right digestive system, puts them in the right environment. You never find a polar bear or a penguin in the desert, everything is so perfectly right for their survival, and then I will realize that god will also provide for my survival and whatever I need to 'be'. Maybe I am transforming from a worm to a butterfly. Maybe this is the pain of birth. 

More Christmas ramblings

Israeli young soldiers brought up a lot of different feelings in me , especially the women. 

When i studied in Jordan i used to go back and forth in the holiday to the west bank, one of these times, i was in my 2nd year. 

I took back my books with me, and i had photos, me and the girls partying in the student hostel. i remember that the soldier who searched me was a beautiful young man - an Israeli soldier- who was exactly my age, he saw my books and he was pleasantly surprised, he was too in his second year studying computers and he had the same books, i felt that he was in pain for having to be in theses positions, he looked at the pictures and i felt the way he was looking was so engaged, like we could be very good friends. 

Later the books and pictures went to the room where ‘they’ go through every piece of paper. They gave me back my stuff after waiting for a couple of hours. They confiscated a couple of the pictures, ones we were having a birthday in one of the dorm rooms which had a map of Palestine on the wall - i felt sorry for them, they are scared of a picture on the wall in a picture, isn’t that sad? i imagine myself in their shoes, which is very hard. in the jissir i play in my mind with the idea that it could've been easily the other way around, i could be the one in the uniform, you know sometimes when i was a kid i used to wish i was on the other side, but then it wasn’t long before i realized i am so lucky that i am on this side. Imagine the amount of work they have to do to shut up their conscience and humanity, imagine the fear they feel. 

Now the female soldiers, oh my god - the amount of complexities i had around that, fear, despise, jealousy, rage, i can name so many conflicting feelings   - i cannot forget how bad they treated me (us). I think the scars from the humiliation and attempts to break our spirit are now part of my construction.  My heart goes out to the people in Palestine - I sometimes used to feel like a coward because i am not there in solidarity., but my mom says that that is not fair thinking and that I might be more helpful to the cause by being in the west. 

I never tried to think of things from their side- i was filled with hatred and resentment, i was convinced that they are just - by nature- are criminals and thieves. Recently - i decided to open up to the idea, that they are actually humans, and they have fears and issues. I think this is the only way to reconciliation. It took a lot of work to get to this point, but i think we need to get to it as a people.  The truth is that we were conquered, we lost, we lost  - they are here, they aren’t going to disappear in thin air. We aren’t going to throw them in the ocean. The only way out that i see is to reconciliate and share in a multicultural secular democratic Palestinian state, and that starts in our minds as an idea once we open ourselves - both sides - to our and their humanness. 

Recently I’ve been challenging every idea and concept I’ve been brought up to believe, ownership of land, nationalities, religions, I listen to john Lennon’s 'Imagine' and i think, yes, that is the future i want to have - or work toward for my children - I don't think it doesn’t make sense.  I don't think i am the only one who is thinking like that too. It is not easy to dare to dream that much, isn’t that funny how even we restrict our dreams because we get too attached to them. What if i was free to live in any country that i like , among any people that i like ? What if we finally admitted that us - as humans cant own the land, and that we , just like the animals and trees , belong to the land, loved , nourished and provided for by it. 

Yesterday I spent Christmas with a Canadian family of a new friend, we ate dinner together and I felt their warmth and compassion. 

They had other friends invited, this guy and his son, the man is in his seventies and the son in his thirties. Now the older guy is a Jew who went to Israel, in the fifties. 

He told me horror stories of crimes that he saw with his own eyes, he told me how he personally met Sharon when he was a young general , and how he spoke in their kibbutz, he was bragging about wiping up an entire Arab village - men, women , children , houses, everything, and bragging how he covered for it. This guy - his name is David, told me that he never in his life felt sicker, especially that all his 'comrades' in the socialist kibbutz were cheering and clapping, that is when he decided to leave and 'get the hell out of that place' ever since he's been an activist especially for the Palestinian cause. 

His son is an activist too, he fights for the trees, the environment, and the indigenous native Canadians. He actually refuses to identify as a Jew, he doesn’t believe it is a race and he doesn’t follow the Jewish religion so he refuses to identify as a Jew. 

I find this story amazing. and by the way , David said that he would want to go and testify in the case they call for witnesses in the case against Sharon in Belgium 

Later the bunch sang Christmas carols, they started with one called - little town of Bethlehem- i couldn’t hold myself, i wept hard. Imagine these Canadians singing to our little town, all the world singing for our town, yet the ghost of death is clouding its skies, despair and humiliation.    

My friend’s grandmother, who is in her eighties, was explaining her theory about the 9-11 , that she believed it is the CIA or the American government that staged that. I felt that was very refreshing that grandma is so into politics 

Many of the people in the room were also involved in one way or another into changing the reality that they didn’t like, very empowering.  Really amazing people. I am so relieved that there are people here in the west who fight for what we hold dear and precious. I totally appreciate because unlike us - they can live and die without 'having to ' do that, but they do. I find that extra amazing 

Journal of a Hymen - Page one - Rocking the boat

You are not a virgin??? I said
She laughed loudly like she always does; 'don’t tell me you are ' she replied. Her laugh is always preceding her, threatening the old cobwebs and bizarre contradictions in the minds of girls and boys all over the Arab world.
'Aren’t you scared?’ I said.
'why would I be?' her smile shining through her playful curiosity, 'it is MY body you know’.
'but we are Arabs' I said.
'aren’t you afraid that you will fall in love with a guy who won’t accept that?' I asked.
'I wont fall in love with a jerk', ' I don’t want to marry a virgin guy’, I don’t want to marry a guy who wants to marry a virgin'. 'AND I don’t understand why are you still a virgin!'
I was amazed, intrigued, confused, and yet ashamed.
'How did you feel when you lost your virginity?’
' I didn't LOOSE it'
' I got rid of it' she said, ' I felt relief, I felt liberated' 'I felt finally that I am in control over the worn out customs’.  ' I felt for the first time that I am one, my mind is one, my body is one'.  'Many 'do it' without cracking the seal, you know hundreds who do, you know it doesn’t mean anything, men also know that you know. ', 'It is not a moral obligation’, 'no one has the right to have a red seal on me or you’.
she always rocked the boat, she rocked my hymen's boat. I went to bed dreaming of the liberating feeling that I never felt. Afraid to break the seal and rock the hymen.
This is a picture from the heart of the Arab world. And she did fall in love, and she married the guy, and he is Arab and he was proud of her, of her courage , of her character, of her rebellion, and he loved her for that , he loved her for not having a hymen and still does and he loves her brain and body and depth, and the lack of  hymen - who wouldn’t.

hymen hymen on the wall
without you they say
I have no virtue at all

A very long way to go

I remember the neighbors talking to my mother allah ykhalilik ibnik, (may god protect your son) , they drink the coffee and say : finajaa7 ibnik, (hoping for the success of your son) they didn’t even say wladek (your children). I was furious. I left home while being furious. What i am doing here? This is what i asked myself there, what am i doing here, this is what i ask myself here. I know I will be one of the first to be targeted in Palestine when we get rid of the occupation. 

We have a very long way to go. 

This reminded me of a joke. One time the Russian president, the French president and our ruler die, and they are talking to god, the Russian president asks, so god, when will the Russians rules the world, god said: in 200 years, Putin cries his eyes out: ' oh, not in my lifetime' he cries. The French guy asks the same question and cries 'not in my lifetime' when he knows it will be 500 years before the French will rule the world. Now our guy comes and asks god the same question, god cries:' not in my lifetime'.

We do have a very long way to go, peeling layers and layers of oppression and dealing with them, that's why the first thing we need to do is rise above religious, class, and tribe biases

I am Nobody Bint Nobody

My mother is an anonymous fallahah (peasant)

My father is a simple man, a part of the land. 

No, you won’t know my family name.

No we don’t have relatives who are famous 

But I am the people who make the history. 

I come from the village

From the refugee camp

I am not a 'professional' - whatever that means. 

I have a PHD from life and oppression

No, I don’t know where Stanford is

No, I don’t want to be part of a community that classifies me according to my religion or my family name or how much money I make

No I am not willing to climb your ivory tower.

You come down here if you want the truth.

Come listen to the stories of the people - from the people

Feminist dreams and nightmares

I can’t recognize me anymore after I peel off those layers of oppression.

My first memory in Amman is when i was 16 year old walking in the streets of Amman with my parents; we went to Amman to get me in University. My parents decided what I will study. Their wisdom and how much money they have decides what I will be.

Raghadan 1984, We ride into the rush hour bus. My parents pushed and shoved their way inside the bus, a scared child, me, never been good at shoving, I climbed the stairs as the bus was moving, and the door is closing, my parents too deep into the bus they didn’t have access to me. And I didn’t know Amman and understandably freaked out.

I am saying this here, in this unsafe space; I feel being watched by strange men and women on a virtual space. I know I might be considered by some to be a lunatic for expressing my true feelings because my true feelings do emphasize the stereotypes imposed by yet another oppressor, but I don’t have anywhere else to say it, will I say it on the Arabic newspaper? I don’t have the guts.

I am hanging somewhere between in and out of the bus, holding the bars on the sides of the door and the tips of my toes are on the stairs. I felt a million hands touch my butt, a million fingers going into my ass, raped, humiliated, reduced, me Lubzi the great is being raped publicly by a whole nation of hungry wolves. I turned around, still hanging on the stairs of the bus, and faced my rapists, young and old they were. One thing in common between them is that smile on their faces, a smile that I can’t describe, the sickest smile I’ve ever seen.

I was furious, mad, ready and willing and have the actual power to kill someone, I had 'Gali' sports shoes on, heavy and bulk made by my other oppressor, el-yahoud. With all my fury I kicked someone's face, his smile bled. I don’t know if he was part of the gangbang, but I didn’t care.  I hysterically pulled him from his bangs and started slapping him left and right, right and left, spilling all my swear words dictionary. I was watching myself, 'where did SHE come from?’  I never saw me like that. I was proud and ashamed. 

The rapist tribe started beating up on him with me, do you think she is sharmoota? They just wanted to say that word because it turns them on, and still trying to touch me if they have the chance to. My parents in the mean time made their way through to me and calmed me down and participated in the beating/shouting etc. 

A policeman was there, 'you bastard do you think she is a sharmoota’, what is it with this word that they have to repeat it? More emotional rape. I insisted on going to the police station and file a complaint. I don’t know if he was part of the thing but I was seeing all those men as one, and you cant blame me, because he whose hand is in the water cant feel he whose hand is in the fire. 'Fuck him and all his likes, and let him pay for that smile' I was thinking. There is a big difference between watching something and living it.

Where can I write about these things?? If not here where??? If I see someone like Nawal Sa’dawi being condemned and tagged as orientalist because she expresses her opinion, then where the hell can I go?

I cant even speak to my therapist about this, it makes me feel guilty to talk to a stranger about us and enforce her already distorted views.

Nawal is radical, she does use a wide brush and exaggerates and generalizes, and that is part of our culture - the Arabic culture in the Arab world. She is not out there to fuck up our image for the good nice westerners, I am sure that didn’t come across her mind. They dig into our shit and use it against us, even if we didn’t have shit they'll make it up and use it against us. Doesn’t mean we prevent each other from talking about it.

I thought orientalist means someone who exoticizes us, who objectifies us, who portrays us as exotic belly dancers. I've seen it and tasted it and it sucks. I've seen Arab orientalists as well as whites. 

I've seen Arabs in the west who identify themselves through food and belly dancing, our brown sex appeal and 'Arabian' passion, I personally fell into that trap for a while.

I haven’t seen many people who are aware of our history. Oh, and recently, Palestine is a cool thing, many now try to carve a character by mzawadeh on the Palestine issue, let's admit it, it is becoming a cool thing. The other days I was in Berkeley , (A coolists heaven) , and I saw Palestine bumper stickers side by side with bongs and drums. The kids in Haight street are about to liberate Palestine with their bamboo bongs and home made soap bars.

There is a fundamental difference between Arab feminists in the west and Arab feminists in the east. We are very protective in the west about our image, walking on egg shells, trying so hard to clean up our image.  I've seen many of the Arabs (not just feminists, not just women) in the west cope with this by becoming coolists orientalists. Some detach from their heritage, some become anti Arabs, high achievers and/or dedicated activists. We care so much about our external image and give it priority over our real selves, our inherent inferiority ‘khawaja’ complex.

Back in the 'old country' the same complexes are there, they immigrated with us and got westernized. 

We need to start where Nawal has started, maybe she didn’t evolve.  Things don’t evolve easily in the Arab world. How can you evolve when you are jailed and accused of being a traitor and so on, you become more bitter and more radical. 

The idea of not being politically correct is OK, it is something of the west, hypersensitive consideration is not part of the Arab world, there is something called general zoq and 3eib and inappropriate, it is a different culture.

People there aren’t hyper sensitive either. They don’t get as easily offended. They do not react the way I react after spending  5  years in the west.  

I don’t react the way I did 5 years ago. I watched me become more hyper sensitive and politically correct, even though I tried to prevent it.

This is not about Nawal Sadawi, this is about my freedom of being who I really am, which is whether I like it or not, is colored by my upbringing and flavored by my culture. My culture which is different from the culture of someone who grew up in Florida or New Jersey even though we might even have the same 'blood' or the same parents.

The first person who silenced me in the west was a Canadian feminist who was fighting day and night for Palestine because I told her the truth I was living and why I made the decision to immigrate. She was the one who was an orientalist, she couldn’t see the romantic picture that she drew fall apart. I ruined the exotic picture that became something she identifies through as a fighter. She silenced me. She condemned my generalizations, my lack of documenting and scientific approach, my exaggeration.  She was very harsh with my way of expression, she told me I am full of shit, and indeed I was, not because I am full of shit as a person, but because I came from a place where people exaggerate and amplify and make up stories.  I learned later that that can be a good thing for poetry but is not a good feature on the practical level of life, especially when you are dealing with people who cant understand that and take it personally. 

That is one point and the other point is about being able to look into our societies in the Arab world and Diaspora, and be free enough to examine our dirty laundry, even if they happen to take a picture of us doing that and publish it on Newsweek. Toz, we are anyway and already dehumanized. The way to fight that is to hang on to our character and true colors, clean up our shit not because we want to look clean in front of the west, but because we are sick of swimming in it for decades. The west doesn’t have to love us, we need to love us. We need to love our culture and we need to educate the mothers of these boys on the streets of Raghadan.

Do you know why someone like Nawal Saadawi  or Ghada el-Samman or Tojan Faisal or Zleikha Abu Risheh or any woman who opens her mouth are heroes?  Do you know why? Because we are taught to walk with our eyes looking down and our voices low. Because in Amman or Damascus you are not allowed to criticize potholes, whether you are a man or a woman, because as a child you should be thankful that your parents beat the shit out of you because they love you and are making sure you are being brought up right, because as kids we used to brag about who took more beating from their parents or teachers. Because we hate ourselves for being oppressed and think God gives it to us because we do deserve it and that God loves el-yahoud and that's why they are better than us. Because we cry our eyes out when our dictator dies. so any one who speaks out in these conditions is a hero.

Because many of our women support honor killing and think that it is men's right to ‘protect their honor’ and their ‘families honor’ and their ‘sisters honor’ by killing her. Because many of our women believe they are inferior and that God said so. Because, because, because, I can go on and on forever with my becauses. Because when we peel the layers of oppression we don’t know us anymore, just like a fluffy cat getting a bath. , like peeling a cabbage. We need to get to our true core, away from the fear of our oppressors. We need to touch our real skin, see our real flesh. We need to get naked and explore each other's features in order to advance, we can’t keep on wearing western boots and cowboy hats and try to save the east  while riding on our white wild west horse. 

Coconut girl and the mirror

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  100, 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 hommous, 

I am tabbouleh.

I’m just another coconut girl.

I tell 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, 

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 brown little 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.