Isn’t it My Body, Mama?

isn't it my body mama (original)

I pick the last row in the back of the bus and manage to stick myself in the corner. The blue seats are splashed with streaks of yellow. My seat seems to have more streaks than the rest. As soon as I’m settled in it, I put my earphones in and the slow beat of Majida Al-Roumi’s Kalimat [words] starts to prepare me for the night I am dreading. My black dress, faint nude lipstick, and the Arabic coffee I hold in my hand – blonde and bitter in a carefully chosen clear mug make me feel as though I can handle going dancing with my classmates.  I look beyond the windowsill at the pale blue sky. I hear my mother’s voice, disapproving, in my head. “You need more pink in your look,” she says, her voice adamant like the crease between her eyebrows. So I pick up a paintbrush and add shades of rose to the boyish blue that the sky prefers.

Just as I am starting to like my own company – which happens less and less often these days – a young man in a suit takes the seat beside me. He asks me what I’m listening to. I tell him it’s the voice of a woman telling a story about a man who whispers charming words into her ear as they dance. He takes her from beneath her arms and plants her in a cloud, carrying her as though she were light as a feather. He gives her the sun and the summer whilst telling her that she is his masterpiece, a treasure, and the most beautiful painting he has laid his eyes on. His words make her forget the dance floor and all the steps. His words overthrow her history and make a woman of her. He builds her a castle made of fantasies, but she goes back to her table alone, with nothing but words.

The man in the suit remarks that I must love this song. With a faint smile, I tell him that I hate it. He asks me why. The song is about words, I think to myself, but I say nothing. Picking up the conversation again, he asks me where I’m from. He smiles smugly, as though patting himself on the back for assuming I am a foreigner. I tell him, “I’m Saudi.” Although his feet remain firmly on the ground, he takes me from beneath my arms, just like Majida. Instead of planting me in a cloud, he swirls and twirls me, raising me up high, my identity seeming light as a feather; he locks me in a stereotype. I stay with the pink sky. He tells me how I probably feel free here in Canada. He comments on how strange it must feel to be able to leave the house without a man by my side, how lucky I am to be in a country where I am allowed to think for myself. He rains words, such words, on me. I melt the pink into a more muddled lavender shade; I am painting the damn sky and he insists on painting my life. How utterly boring.

I stand up and try to pass, but he refuses to move his legs. He ignores me and continues his dance. He spins me and whirls the words on his tongue, this time in another direction. He tells me that I am the most beautiful painting he has laid his eyes on, worth boundless stars. He builds me a castle out of his own fantasies, but his castle is merely the bus that I am trying to escape. He tells me that the men in my country are savages for locking up such enticing women. He overthrows my history with his words. His words don’t make me a woman. They make me a treasure. A symbol of worth. A thing.

I tell him I am not interested in this conversation, and I ask him to please move his legs. He says sway with me, I say no. He says it wasn’t a question, I say it should have been. He says I didn’t know Arab women were feisty, I tell him to fuck off. He says no, and I say it wasn’t a question. Move your legs now. He says he’ll allow me to pass if I answer one question: would I go back to Saudi? I tell him I’m not playing his game. I don’t want him to know that the answer is no. Now move. He smiles and remains stiff as his bigotry. Another man standing by the door interferes and tells him to move. Before a man could be more respected than my own demands I hop onto my blue seat, the one with just a few more yellow streaks than the rest, and I jump onto the seat in front of me, making my way to the door just as it opens.

I am thankful for getting off the bus early; I need the scorching cold wind to help settle my soul. I stick my body to the edge of the sidewalk and sink my shoulders inward. I jail my arms close to my torso and take small but quick steps, as though I’ll be noticed if I move too slowly. As though my Arab womanhood would be captured if my existence lingered for too long in a single space. My body has learned to move on, to escape, and to be as unnoticeable as possible – to minimize its presence and to shrink its essence. To morph into the walls, or fill the cracks of a sidewalk. A shiver runs down my spine. I would run but I haven’t run in five years, since the day my grandmother celebrated me starving myself by assuring me that men would be running after me. A week later, my white classmate stole a cigarette from my fingers and stepped on it while asking me why I treat my body like that. Until that day, I hadn’t realized that I treated my body.

I arrive at the bar with a shaken body but a confident soul. Or perhaps it was the opposite. Will I ever know? I walk past infinite booths and pick a table in the dark corner, and sit. I look around the bar. College students drink in herds, women go to the washroom in teams like they’re born with a tacit understanding that no woman should go anywhere alone, and country music demands every ear’s attention. My classmates swarm around me, but my mind is focused on calculations of how long it will take for me to be done with this and be out of this place. One classmate comments on my preoccupation: “It looks like you’re in the midst of an existential crisis.” My body is, I reply.

He asks me to dance.

“I can’t dance to this,” I declare without apology.

“Oh, should we ask for another song?”

I smile and ever so nonchalantly assure him that it’s okay. What else could I say to him? I can’t dance to this because I can’t make my body do things, my friend? I can’t dance to this because my body doesn’t seem to be mine, my friend? Because men around me have claimed ownership over it, even when I don’t know them, even when they are men I meet on a bus on my way to… dance. Dancing tells stories, my friend, but when people keep trying to steal your story, what story do you dance?

“Are you sure you don’t want to dance?”

I wish I was capable, I think, but I say “yes, I’m sure.” Just then, another classmate leans in and warns the audience that maybe I just don’t know how to dance, that maybe they don’t teach girls how to dance in Saudi. The words fill my ears with silence. I bring myself to my feet and stride toward the dance floor. I begin to move my body – or it moves me. We swing our hips in loud jerky movements, it’s almost ugly. Country music fills the air, but my ears do not seem to hear it. My body is responding to the beat of the words replaying themselves in my head, words about castles and paintings, feisty and enticing women that I don’t know.

My eyes closed, I am dancing with my mother. And my sister. And my friends. I am back home with them. The room vibrates with our movements, ceilings shatter and the world softens. Everything disappears but our laughter, loud and obnoxious. Our steps on the ground intense enough to shatter the castle the man in the suit built. We rebuild another one. Hand in hand, we repaint the sky rose. We are not the stars and the stars are not us, they are the words that were rained on us. Our dance is so intense, it shatters the stars.

My body cries to mama. What have they done to me, Mama? They take me, they seize me, they mold me into figurines the shape of a pearl, of a treasure, of a flower with booming colors and pure petals, of a chocolate treat waiting to be opened by a deserving man, of a gun blazing in the face of a religion, of an Arab Rapunzel throwing down her hijab from the tower of the oppressed, craving the sight of a white shadow to save her. But all I ever wanted to be was a woman, Mama. So why won’t they let me be, Mama? When will they stop writing my story like a romantic dance, Mama? When will they stop fighting over my body and give it back to me, Mama? Isn’t it my body, Mama?

Just as Mama is about to fill her lungs with a helpless sigh, a vibration stings my pocket and I stop. Mama stops, Majida stops, all the women stop. They know. Of course they know:  It’s time to go back home. I reach for my phone and see a missed call from my dad. A text follows: “Wainek?” [where are you?]. Words, words, words.

I go back to my table, like Majida, with nothing but words.

An Invitation to Move

The class began in a circle. The teacher was explaining something about the body, but I wasn’t really paying attention to what she was saying. I was carefully eyeing the other students in the room, trying to get an idea of what to expect from the next sixty minutes. As I looked around at each of them, I grew more confused. The drastic differences in body shape, size, and age of the others in the room only added to the mystery. There was a twenty-something-year-old woman, a woman who looked to be in her seventies, and a funny looking middle-aged man wearing a headband.

The class began with slow music. The teacher demonstrated movements simple enough for me to follow. As the class went on, the music sped up, and the movements did, too. I no longer felt like I could follow – I had no idea what I was supposed to do with my feet or which direction I was supposed to go in! I was overwhelmed and convinced that I was doing it all wrong. Everyone else in the room seemed comfortable, flinging their bodies back and forth in sync with the beat. When the class was over, I looked up to find the instructor walking towards me.

“Congratulations on completing your first Nia class, you did great!” the teacher said with a smile. I politely thanked her and started gathering my things to head home; I had no idea at that moment that Nia would alter the course of my life. Nia is a whole body fitness practice. What guides the practice is the sensation of pleasure derived through movement, and the goal of Nia is to find health through movement. The practice is inspired from nine movement modalities coming from the fields of dance, healing, and martial arts. Nia teaches that sensations are our body’s way of communicating to us – of letting us know what nourishes it and what causes it pain.

I began attending Nia classes regularly; I would drop my kids off to their preschool in the suburbs of Houston, and then I’d head straight to class. What kept drawing me to the classes was the strong sense of relief that I found through the practice – not to mention the sense of freedom and joy as well. Movement began to serve as an outlet for me to express my emotions, to be silly, and to connect with others in a loving and inclusive community. When I learned that my family and I would be moving back to Saudi Arabia, I decided that I wanted to take Nia back to the Kingdom with me; I completed the first levels of teacher training and earned my white and blue belts.

I was glad to learn more about the practice that was changing my relationship to my body. Nia helped me feel comfortable in my own skin. It taught me not to shy away from expression, and it helped me let go of feeling shame in relation to my body. It also re-taught me how to play! I have been teaching Nia in Dhahran for over five years now, and I absolutely love sharing Nia with others, especially in the Saudi community. My goal is to contribute to the creation of a vibrant moving community here in Saudi Arabia.

Teaching Nia gave me the confidence to be who I am and to share what I know with others. It gave me an inner personal power that I’d never felt before: a strong sense of confidence and purpose. I knew I was good at something, and I felt obliged to share it with the members of my community. I asked a friend of mine, who is a psychologist, for advice on ways to share Nia with a more diverse selection of community members. She suggested that I volunteer at the hospital she worked for. I began regularly going to the psychiatry department and participating in the patient outreach program. I introduced a twenty-minute movement class to help the patients move and get out of their minds. I began each class by saying, “My name is Manal, and today we will be moving, not exercising. There is no right or wrong way to do this. This is simply a chance to explore the way your body moves!”

I had the pleasure of witnessing the positive effects of Nia on many of the patients and staff members at the hospital. Even if the effect was temporary, it was real. I encouraged them to get in touch with their bodies, to imagine where they wanted to be and what they wanted to do, and to be creative with how they used their bodies. Most of all, I encouraged them to play! And we played a lot. My experiences teaching Nia and facilitating movement sessions at the hospital helped me realized how much we suffer when we don’t move. We suffer when we don’t laugh, don’t dance, or don’t play; we disconnect from our bodies and limit ourselves to the confining space of our mind. It’s like having a huge house and only using one room.

The body mind connection has become more and more evident in recent years. Most therapists and mental health professionals are aware that we can’t fully heal using our minds alone – we need our bodies, too. Modern society has restricted our movement and our ability to express ourselves through our bodies. We’ve become accustomed to sitting down for hours, staring at screens for copious amounts of time, and dreading forms of movement. This phenomenon is not limited to Saudi or to the Arab world – it’s worldwide. As humans, we are not meant to be sedentary – whether that happens through sitting at a desk, driving, or watching TV for hours each day.

When I speak about movement, many immediately translate that to mean exercising, or to going to the gym. I have nothing against those practices, but I certainly don’t see them as the only ways to move. 
Similar to movement, dance has been squeezed into a tiny rigid box by society; it is either seen as a formal and strict art, like ballet, or as a flirtatious and seductive show that is labeled as forbidden in our society. To truly understand what movement and dance mean, we should look at a two-year-old child. At that age, the constrictions of society and cultural norms have not yet been formed; a child moves spontaneously to different sounds, and expresses his or her emotions fully without inhibition.

We learn from that child that it is our natural right to move and to dance. We can’t reach our full potential if we don’t move. Movement helps us connect the dots, express our emotions, and find ourselves.

So here is my invitation to you. I invite you to move:

I invite you to get up and move, get up and dance.
Don’t let someone define music and dance for you.
Make your own definition.
Let your breath be your guide, let your heartbeat be your music.
Turn on your favorite song or dance in silence, no matter what you choose, just get up and move.
If you don’t know where to begin, ask your wrist how it moves.
Connect to your ankle and ask for guidance.
It doesn’t matter how you move, just get up move.
It doesn’t matter how you dance, just get up and dance.
Move your anger, move your fears, no matter what is the emotion just get up and move.
If you can’t get up and move, just be still and witness yourself move.
Witness your blood dancing around, your breath moving in and out.
It doesn’t matter how you move, just witness yourself move.
Witness with awe and wonder, how we are all designed to dance and move.
Nothing alive in this world is still, it is through movement we find ourselves.
And after you have danced and moved, come to stillness of mind and be grateful for this body that moves.

Meeting Reem

Layal piece artwork

I shift my position for about the seventh time in the last hour while the tiny screen before me alerts me of the time remaining on the trip: five more hours. I cannot help but feel suffocated while staring at the neat array of uncomfortable navy blue seats to my right. Being seated in one place for a long period of time is not one of my strong suits. I try to momentarily erase the discomfort from my mind by taking out my book from the pocket in front of me. All I manage to accomplish is to reread the title a bazillion times: The Alchemist. I cannot find the energy to read a single page, despite the fact that I’m dying to find out what happens next to the shepherd boy on his journey. I could only imagine. Soon enough, I wander into the vast realm of thoughts overwhelming my mind. I begin thinking about my own dreams – my own aspirations. Nothing can pacify my discomfort other than my growing excitement for what I am moving towards: total and utter freedom. Alright, so maybe it is not total freedom, but in comparison to my last nine years spent living in Jeddah, the coming four on a continent 11,006 km away appear to be the perfect getaway for me.

I peek behind my chair to check on my mother, who by now is already highlighting lines in some academic journal. I find it interesting how something as boring as dentistry can be so intriguing to her. I often wonder how I ended up being so different from her – not in character or looks, but rather in interests and passions. We may share the same smile, olive skin, and hazel eyes, but our interests are as far away from one another as two separate planets. She enjoys reading about sealants, and I enjoy reading about anything but. She has an undying passion for public health, while I am drawn to the many questions of the humanities and social sciences. I move my gaze to the next seat over to get a glimpse of my father – who is snoring in a deep and peaceful sleep, despite the circumstances. That man can literally sleep anywhere. Why couldn’t he pass down those genes to me?

Suddenly an airhostess wearing a nametag reading “Lane” interrupts my train of thought. “Tea or Coffee?” she asks monotonously. It is a rather simple question, but I find myself struggling to make up my mind. Shall I order coffee instead of tea to appear sophisticated and posh, or shall I opt for the latter to appear more mellow and easygoing. Lane, unaware of my unraveling thoughts, stares at my facial expression, likely one of confusion, and repeats in a bored manner, once more: “Tea or coffee ma’am?” Immediately, I feel heat rush to my cheeks as I realize how stupid and dumbfounded I must look. “Um, one cofftea please?”, I manage to croak rather shyly. “We do not have any cofftea ma’am. It’s either coffee or tea.” “Oh, yes of course. In that case, may I please have some water?” Lane proceeds to roll her eyes and hands me a water bottle. I have the feeling that we will become the best of friends on this endless flight.

As I begin twisting the cap of my water bottle off, I cannot help but feel a pinch of fear creep up my spine. If I cannot even choose between something as simple as tea or coffee, how am I supposed to choose something as important as my major? How am I possibly going to choose the right friends? How the hell am I going to pay my rent? How will I narrow down all the classes I wish to take to a number that is more practical and realistic? I begin rubbing my forehead in attempt to soothe the crease I already know has appeared between my eyebrows. I begin fidgeting with the tiny grey remote that controls the screen in front of me and immediately feel frustrated because the TV isnt turning on. I don’t want to watch a stupid movie anyways, but I am looking for anything to distract me from my fear – my fear of new beginnings.

I start banging the remote with my hand, in an effort to make it work, until I hear soft chuckling from a distance that makes me freeze in my wild state. A woman seated two rows in front of me has returned from the bathroom just in time to witness my little breakdown. I feel angry that she is laughing while I am on the verge of tears. As she walks closer, I notice the playful smile on her lips, her arched eyebrows, her chocolate brown eyes, and her caramel colored skin. Something about her feel so sincere – and that’s not something I come across often. “Need help?” she asks with a smile. I shift my gaze from her face to the grey remote and then back to her. She looks at me expectantly, and I respond, “I don’t even know how this works.” She smiles and approaches me and points at the screen in front of me and says: “it’s a touch screen, you just have to press the ‘On’ button.” I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.

Suddenly I burst out in laughter, and soon enough the stranger that has just pointed out my stupidity joins in. She extends a perfectly manicured hand out in front of mine, smiles, and introduces herself as Reem. I return the gesture and introduce myself. I motion for her to sit down next to me – the seat to my right has been left empty since take off. Surprisingly, she accepts my invitation and I suddenly begin to get nervous. What do I do now? I’m not really a conversationalist – I’m more reserved and quiet. It turns out that I don’t need to worry. Reem quickly ignites conversation with just one question: “what movie were you wanting to watch?” Soon enough, we are discussing award winning movies – and of course the hunky actors who star in them. We jump from Ryan Gosling to Chris Evans and back to Gosling.

I take an instant liking towards this woman who I have just met. Never have I ever tried starting a conversation with a random stranger before, especially about real things – deep things. I would never have assumed that this woman – who looks so put together – had suffered so much strife and heartbreak. Reem had just filed for divorce from her husband of two years, having finally realized her self worth. I cannot help but shiver while listening to her accounts of being physically abused and not being able to do anything about it. I can sense the pool of water forming in my eyes as she continues explaining how helpless and weak she felt. Apparently she didn’t know the man very well prior to their engagement. He was simply the son of a prestigious businessman and seemed like the perfect candidate for a husband in her parents’ eyes. Long story short, their families met and the rushed the wedding, and soon enough Reem found herself stuck in a merciless situation.

She chooses to skip the vulgar details of her husband’s brutality and jump to the part of her story in which she finally sought refuge and chose to fight him in court. Everyone knows how difficult winning a divorce case can be for a Saudi woman, but Reem succeeded despite the odds. I pause to admire the way Reem’s facial expressions rise and drop with each word she utters – she truly was bringing life to her story. Who would have guessed that this stranger seated next to me was such a strong woman, a woman who would become one of my close friends in the long run? As she continues telling her story of moving on and choosing what was best for her, I cannot help but feel inspired. In comparison to Reem’s experiences, my struggles and worries seem minuscule. I suddenly realize that I should not fear new beginnings – I should embrace them. I want to experience every inch of this new part of my life that I am embarking upon.

Metaphorical and physical movements alike can be scary, but movement is also invigorating. With every new experience and journey, I am peeling back a new layer of myself that I didn’t know existed before. I feel like I have been holding myself back from forming new relationships with others because of my timid nature, but I want to change that. I want to step out of my comfort zone to meet the many Reems this world has to offer. I find it funny how I came across this phenomenal woman in the middle of the air, thirty-six thousand and something feet above Greece. I glance at the screen in front of me discreetly and am stunned to find that four hours have passed since Reem and I first started speaking.

I am an hour closer to my final destination for the next four years, and I can’t help but feel a tinge of excitement course through my veins. I start to imagine all the people I will meet – all the touching conversations I will have. My thoughts are interrupted by the captain’s abrupt announcement: “Attention all passengers, we are set to arrive in San Francisco in about twenty minutes. Please buckle your seatbelts to ensure your safety for the remainder of the trip.” I struggle to contain my emotions for the next twenty minutes. Finally, I begin to feel the tremors of the plane’s shaky landing. I close my eyes as the wheels touch the ground and shortly feelings of relief and readiness follow. I am ready to embrace all the new that is to come.

الأوقات الصعبة

‎تلك الأوقات الصعبة تجعلنا أقوى .
‎من أنا..؟
‎أعتقد أن هذا السؤال لم يخلو من عقل أي شخص متساءل؟
‎نعم من انت ؟
‎ما هدفك بهذه الحياه ؟ آه هذه الحياة لطالما وصفناها بجميع الصفات السيئه ..
‎(حياتي بائسة , حياتي ممله , حياتي بشعة , حياتي ليست طبيعيه .. الخ )
‎حتى أننا فكرنا كثيرا كيف يكون الموت ..
‎فكرنا بجمال الموت ..
‎أليس الموت هو ذاك الصديق الذي كرهناه وخفنا منه ؟
‎أليس الموت هو ذاك الصديق الذي انتشرت مقولات بأنه شخص سئ ؟
‎وعندما غدرت بنا الحياه اعتذرنا لذاك الصديق
‎(اسفون جدا لاننا خفنا منك .لاننا كرهناك )
‎ستقولون لي ما هذه السلبية المظلمة ؟

‎لست انا وحدي يا رفاق .فجميعنا عندما نكره انفسنا ونقسى معها , نجلس بجانب مظلم من الحياة ..ونبدأ بالاعتقاد بأن لا أحد سيمد يد العون وبأننا وحيدون جدا ,فلا صديق يحمل همومنا , ولا غريب نشتكي له فيسمع لنا ..
‎لا اخفي لكم بأنني مررت بتلك الحالة, أثارتني تلك الأيام جلست مرارا وتكرارا مع نفسي وحيده ..
‎حتى تزينت لي الوحدة وأصبحت لي صديقه ..
‎بدايتي مع الوحدة بعد تخرجي من الثانويه العامه , عندما بدأت الجامعة بفتح أبوابها لتبدأ رحلة المغامرة وكشف الذات والتعرف عليها , لفرص انتقال روتين الحياة , وتعلم واكتساب المعرفة ..
‎عند رؤيتي لصديقاتي وبكاء بعضهن في عدم قبولهن ودخولهم بحالة من الانهيار والصراع النفسي ..
‎لم أكن مهتمة بذلك العرض المغري الذي وفرته لي الجامعه …
‎فقررت عدم الالتفات له,قررت أن انفرد مع نفسي محطمة الآمال والأهداف , اجعل من المنزل مقرا لي ومن غرفتي عالما خاص بيّ.. بعيده عن اصوات تزعجني ووجوه لا ارغب برؤيتها ..
‎لقد كانت اتعس لحظات حياتي ..
‎لا أعلم من أنا . ولا أعلم ماذا أريد من الحياة..؟
‎كل ما يدور برأسي أسئلة لا أجوبة لها ,متى سأكمل دراستي ؟..متى سأكون نفسي .. متى سأغير حياتي ..؟
‎أنام طوال اليوم وأبقى ليلا مستيقظة بعد نوم الجميع ..خائفة من تلك الأسئلة أن تعود مجددا لي ..
‎أقول لنفسي دائما (هذه مرحلة مؤقتة وسوف تزول بالتأكيد)
‎مرت أسابيع .. وشهور.. حتى وصلت لمدة سنة .
‎ , تركت جميع الاصدقاء وبقيت أنا وحدي أصارع ذاك الاكتئاب, بكيت وحدي, وتألمت وحدي,
‎أنظر إلى حياتي, انظر إلى ما أنتجته, أنظر الى احلامي
‎مازلت هنا .. واقفه بنصف الطريق, الجميع يتقدم أمامي .. الجميع يسقط وينهض من جديد ..
‎إلا أنا ,
‎وبعد مرور سنة على تلك الحالة قررت تغير حياتي ..
‎قررت ان اقف من جديد ..
‎قررت ان اثق بنفسي ..
‎وأن اتخطئ جميع مخاوفي ..
‎قررت الذهاب للجامعه كأول خطوة لي ..
‎لا أخفي لكم كم من المرات فشلت بقبولي فيها ولكني لم استسلم عملت جاهدة حتى تم قبولي .. بحمد الله
‎وايضا قررت تعلم شي جديد ومختلف
‎أردت اكتشاف الحياة العملية .. ذهبت لتقديم بعدة شركات تم قبولي بأحدهم وبدأت اعمل فيها
‎والان اقوم بدراسة اللغه الانجليزيه ومستقبلا اريد تعلم الفرنسية ..
……
‎لم أصدق بأنني في يوم من الأيام سأكون مفعمة بالطاقة وداخلي مبتهج, لم اعتقد ابدا ان ذلك القرار سيغيرني ..
‎جميعنا نركز على مشاكلنا, ولا نركز على إيجاد حلول لها,
‎جميعنا لدينا أهداف ولكن لا نعمل على تحقيقها
‎وجميعنا ندفن قوتنا .. لأننا نحاط بأشخاص يحبطوننا .
‎لا نريد تعلم شئ جديد ..ولا نريد حياة مغامرة ..
‎ولا نريد اتخاذ القرارات بلحضتها . ولا نرى المستقبل بعيون متفائلة .
‎جميعنا نرتكب أخطاء في الحياة ..
‎ونرتكب أخطاء بحق أنفسنا ..
‎ولكن لن نستسلم ..
‎لدينا مشاكل ولكن نستطيع التغلب عليها
‎يمكننا دائما القيام بأفضل ما لدينا
‎يمكننا دائما تحقيق أهدافنا ..
‎ويمكننا اتخاذ قرارات بأنفسنا
‎القرار بيدك أنت ..
‎هل تريد النهوض ومحاربة الحياة ..؟
‎أو هل تريد عيش حياة بلا لذة ولا طعم ..؟
‎حقيقة وجودك بهذه الحياة .. انت من تقررة عليك انت تقوم بجهد أكبر لاكتشافه ..
‎عليك خوض المغامرة لاكتشاف نفسك ..
‎حاول مرة اولى وثانيه وثالثه حتى تنجح ..ستضربك الحياة مرارا وتكرارا, ولكن لا يهم.
‎المهم : هو مدى تحملك لهذه الضربات ..
‎قد يدوم هذا الألم ايام وشهور وسنين .. ولكن سيختفي ويحل محله أمر جميل ..
‎تذكر!! تلك الأوقات الصعبة ستجعلك أقوى ..

Sheryl Crow, My Saudi Icon

When I was 16, my Saudi father and I spoke for the first time. In his heavily-accented English, he told me that Saudi Arabia was my second home, despite the fact that I had never been there. Thus began the opening up of my second world – a part of my identity that was both foreign to me, and yet strangely familiar.

The movement from one identity to two was an indescribably enriching and confusing experience. I had always been a Midwesterner from the United States. I have my mother’s last name – she is the one who raised me – and I did not know Arabic. I didn’t even know very many people of Middle Eastern descent, and here I was being told that I belonged, in a way, to this distant country called Saudi Arabia. I had heard about Saudi Arabia growing up, of course – my mother made sure to tell me what she knew about my father and that side of my family.  I had images in my mind from the maps she had shown me; basically, Saudi Arabia was one giant desert, and I had relatives there.  When I did a History Day project on the Hajj in 7th grade, this inspired many more conversations with my mother, and my brain gathered as many stories as possible from my mother about what she knew about my father and his family.  I knew that I had blood ties to people in Saudi Arabia, but with that first phone call with my father, everything seemed to change dramatically.

The first time we spoke, I did not know what to say.  There were too many questions and it was impossible to know where to begin.  So, I mainly listened.  My father told me about his life, his time spent in the U.S. during which he had married my mother, and he kept apologizing for his bad English (it was not bad, actually).  We had many very complicated feelings, justifiably, during that conversation, and the phone call left me both elated and angry.  I do not recall the specifics of what all we talked about, but the vivid memory of my emotions will never fade.

On one call with my father later on, “Soak Up the Sun” by Sheryl Crow was playing in the background; I told him I could hear it, and he said, “yes, yes,” and said he enjoyed the music of Sheryl Crow, especially that song.  This American hit, from that point on, would remind me of him, and consequently, Saudi Arabia.  That has never changed; I occasionally put on that song to relive the positive aspects of those initial conversations.

From the age of sixteen on, I rapidly became acquainted with my Saudi family – my many aunts, uncles, cousins, and my two siblings who share the same father. I met quite a few of them on more than one occasion, and I am now very close to some of these people. My sister and I began seeing each other at least once a year; I can barely imagine or remember a time without her in my life. I received flowers and family photos by mail, regular phone calls from cousins, and spent hundreds of hours over the course of the next sixteen years (I am now thirty-two) hearing anecdotes, learning various Arabic words and phrases, and gaining a truly deep understanding of this fascinating culture.

As with any cross-cultural exchange, there are some “Lost in Translation” moments that go along with it.  A first cousin of mine, who saw a photo of me eating ice cream, wrote in an MSN instant message to me, “you need a date.”  I wrote back.  “I don’t want a boyfriend right now,” I responded.  We wrote back and forth for the next few minutes, with him telling me that having a boyfriend had nothing to do with it, and then eventually, with me finally understanding that he had meant to write, “you need a diet.”  I told him it was rude to talk about someone’s weight like that.  He sent back several emojis to convey that what I had pointed out was hilarious, and that telling someone eating ice cream that a diet was necessary was just a normal joke.  Basically, he went on to tell me to chill out and to be less of an uptight American.

Because of the context in which I grew up, which was literally and figuratively very far removed from a Saudi Arabian identity, my new identity and my familiar one almost always stayed separate from one another.  Over the years, as I grew accustomed to my father’s side of the family, their specific brand of humor, and the boisterous nature that was unfamiliar to me within my mother’s side of the family, the ways in which I spoke with my Saudi family differed drastically from my dynamic with my mother’s side of the family, the one I had always been around and been raised by.  I would tell my mother’s family vaguely about my Saudi family when asked, and vice versa; however, beyond that, there really was zero overlap between my two lives – until recently.

Inevitably came the next movement – from that complete separation of two identities to this gradual hybrid of one. Slowly, the two sides of my family are becoming acquainted with one another.  My mother and sister immediately bonded when they met (and I bonded with her mother), but beyond that, there was no overlap until even more recently.  Now, I have had a Saudi cousin of mine meet one of my cousins on my mother’s side. There are connections that have formed on social media between my mom’s side and my father’s side of the family, conversations that now take place when I’m not even there. The two parts of myself seem to have found a way to connect.

My father has since died, but that did not put a wedge whatsoever between my connection with my Saudi side, or the connections that have been made between both of my families. The cultural understanding between them has grown, and I celebrate both of my cultural identities for what they are.  Life is complex, which is not a bad thing.  I will continue to listen to Sheryl Crow’s “Soak Up the Sun” when the mood strikes me, and I will embrace my unusual perspective on it.  I am an Arab-American woman, and this is my story.

Different Species

A Different Species by Nada Purlo

Saudi women have a complicated relationship with men, to say the least. Primarily, we’re taught to respect our fathers, to trust them and the leadership of our patriarchs without question. On the other hand, as we grow older and develop into young women, we’re simultaneously taught to mistrust any “other” men as wolves. The term “other men” constitutes any man who isn’t a part of my direct family – any man who isn’t my brother, father, uncle, or grandfather.

These “other” men are painted in an absolutely evil light; we’re taught to see them as animals, driven by dark and primal instincts. We’re taught that they’re only out to get us “prey.” Of course, the lines between “other” and non-other

men blur, particularly as we grow older and marry what was once an “other” man, but becomes the man we owe ultimate fidelity and respect to for the remainder of our lives. We owe him obedience to the extent of never even refusing him sex; it’s common knowledge here that when a woman refuses her husband what he wants, the angels spend the hours of the night cursing her. The solidity of the sources behind this belief is a whole other matter, of course.

I remember overhearing my aunt giving marital advice to my other aunt when I was about twelve years old. One would think they were plotting a battle to take over the country from the complexity of their discussion. She had a fight with her husband over the purchase of a luxury bag; harsh words were exchanged and she left the house for her mother’s house in a huff of anger. Now, she wanted him to come to the house, begging for her to come back and asking her forgiveness. And she wanted an expensive gift – the same Chanel bag he had refused to buy her in the first place. The idea that her fashion selection was over his budget, or that he wanted to save for their future didn’t cross her mind. The idea that expensive luxuries should maybe be saved for special occasions, or that she could earn her own money and buy it herself, or even the idea of reaching a compromise weren’t any of the suggestions brought up by her sister, who was comforting her. They weren’t speaking about her husband as though he were her partner that she was simply having a misunderstanding with; they were speaking about him as though he was the enemy. And he was the prize at the same time.

“Wait a few days, he will come eventually. When he does, turn him away so he knows he will have to work for your forgiveness!”
“Yes! I agree”, chimed in the estranged wife.
“Then, when he comes again, make sure you look good. Put something pretty on, but not too pretty – he mustn’t think you are trying. And perfume, you must smell nice and tempting. Don’t rush to hug him though, act sad, like he has betrayed you and you can barely look at him. How dare he think you aren’t worth it!”
And on went the conversation. “If he says this, then you say that, and if he does that then you do this!” Even to my twelve-year-old ears, it sounded petty, exhausting, and ridiculous. I knew that a marriage shouldn’t work that way. Unfortunately, sometimes it does – especially when you’re raised in a culture that sees men as being the ones “in control.” When you are raised to believe you don’t have much power in a relationship, you will probably resort to plotting and manipulation as well, simply as a means for survival.

I remember that those two aunts had an insatiable appetite for those cheesy romantic novels translated into Arabic. The ones with the rugged, dark and handsome hero and the rebellious, but innocent and misunderstood heroine and that always ended with a steamy love scene and a happily ever after. The ones that ended with sudden perfect understanding, even though he’d kidnapped and “ravished” her. Maybe that was another factor that influenced their understanding of men, and maybe that’s why they approached disagreements with such drama. I must confess I indulged in some of those kinds of reads myself, but I affectionately refer to them as “junk food of the mind.” They’re easy reads that provide some escapism from reality with the assurance of a happy ending and no surprises. Like chick-flicks. But I digress…back to my experiences with men.

I grew up during the late 80’s and 90’s, in almost perfect segregation. This means that the only examples of the male species I interacted with after I turned ten were my younger brother, my father, and my uncles on the rare occasions that they visited from the distant cities where they lived. My Grandfather had long since passed away, and the maternal side of my family lived across the globe. I suppose I also interacted with our driver(s) over the years, too. Men were virtually an alien species; I would only see them on TV, or in the street from a distance. They were never really known as human beings.

I remember there was this one “boy” – an older teenager – that used to stalk me from his car when I was about fourteen. He would be waiting outside my home when the driver took us to school in the morning, and he’d follow us there and would be waiting for me when we got picked up to go back home. At one point, it got so bad that he followed our car for and hour and a half to the airport. That’s when my mom found out about him and told my dad, who had him picked up by the police and “slapped around a bit” so that he’d cease and desist his stalking. In hindsight I’m not sure how I feel about the way things played out. A bit appalled, I guess. But at the time I simply thought he was getting what he deserved. That he was a creepy weirdo (which he probably was), and that I was glad he was gone. I also remember being a bit curious; didn’t he have school? A job? Family? Friends? A life? Who has the time to sit in their car, day in and day out, for weeks, maybe even months, and wait for a girl so that he could shadow her from a distance? Maybe all the scary stories and warnings had failed in achieving their goal with me, but I felt a mixture of pity, mild disgust, and genuine curiosity towards that weirdo. Not fear.

I’m lucky that when I was seventeen, my family moved to the more liberal city of Jeddah. The new friends I made there included their brothers, cousins and male friends. These men became my friends as well. And over time, I slowly became a bit more comfortable around them. After I graduated from college, I started meeting many men as clients and colleagues. Some were marked “sleazy,” others “cool” in my book. But I quickly learned that it’s not so hard to tell one from the other, and to set the tone of a professional relationship either way.

Later on, I chose to pursue my masters in London, and while there, I made more male friends, except that none of the men in my classes were Arab. By then I was pretty comfortable setting the boundaries to my various friendships with men, so I found it fun to see if these non-Arab men were any different from the ones back home by testing those boundaries. Don’t get me wrong, there were still jerks out there who didn’t know how to take no for an answer, but maybe because people that attend university are already more educated than many, those men would accept the boundaries that I set and respect them. Maybe it was because I was an alien creature to them as well, being Saudi and all.

But I still viewed them as strange creatures that may or may not have been wired differently. My conversations with other women of various nationalities confirmed that. While they didn’t hold the same views that I was exposed to growing up, there was still some confusion, frustration, and mystery involved in their relationships with men. Sometimes abuse as well. I remember a German girl, a friend of my classmate’s, who was telling me about how she discovered that her Austrian boyfriend of two years was actually much older than he originally told her he was, and that he’d also lied about his name. When confronted about this, he became angry and so aggressive that she had to call the police. I remember thinking I couldn’t understand how she could have been so oblivious to his real nature and identity for so long. Maybe she didn’t understand him well enough to see the signs – and I’m sure there were small signs, at least. Though this is an extreme example, women and men struggle to understand each other all over the globe. Perhaps that’s why self-help and relationship books sell so well world-wide.

I sometimes have moments of complete clarity and realize that men aren’t any different from us, that they were only raised and socialized differently (no matter the specific culture we live in). Deep down inside, we’re all children that simply want to be understood and loved. And like women, men have also grown up to wear masks and perform their rigid gender roles. Unfortunately, we’re all subjected to the limitations of these masks, and they often make us act and behave (and possibly even think) as though we were actually a different species.

Al Awlad by Samiah Khashoggi

( من يوم ما قالوا غلام انشد ضهري وقام و رقَّدوني في المقام وقالوا أرقدي يا أم الغلام، و من يوم ما قالوا بنيَّة انهدَّت الحيطة عليّا وأكَّلوني البيض بقشره وبدال السمن مَيَّه)
(من يوم ما قالوا غلام قُلت يا ليلة ضلام أربِّيه وأربربه وتجي تاخده بنت الحرام، و من يوم ما قالوا بنيَّة قلت الحبيبة جيَّة تكنِّسلي و تفرِّشلي وتملِّيلي الشريبة ميَّه)

على هذه الترانيم كانت أمِّي و نساء جيلها تُهَدهِدُنِي أنا وإخوتي وبقية المواليد، عندما كبرت قليلًا و تأمَّلتُ في هذه الكلمات انتابني شعورٌ أنَّ الرغبة القديمة بوأد الإناث تسللت كأفعى رقطاء بصمتٍ مطبق و بثَّت سمومها في عقول الأجيال واحدًا بعد آخر !
كنت أعبِّر عن غضبي من هذه التفرقة العنصرية بأن أزمجر:( ليش يعني ؟ إشمعنى يفرحوا لمّا يجي ولد ؟ ولمّا تجي بنت أهم شي تكنِّس وتفرِّش ؟ وكمان لمَّا تتجوَّز الولد تصير بنت حرام، مو هيَّا بنت زيَّكم؟)

كانت أمِّي تنظر إليَّ وكأنني مصابة بمسٍ من جنون و تنبِّئني نظراتها المتوجِّسة بالسؤال الغير منطوق ( لماذا لا يعمل عقل هذه الفتاة كبقية خلق الله؟) ثم تجيب: ( هي أغنية سمعناها وغنِّيناها زي ما غنُّوها، ما كان عندنا فلسفة ولكاعة ! )
فأرد عليها باستغراب:( الأسئلة وتشغيل المخ يسموه عندكم لكاعة؟)

لحسن حظِّي ُوجدتُ في عائلة تعامل الفتيات بمودة واحترام ، فقد كان أبي يعاملني أنا وأختي بلطف وحنان ويُساوي بيننا وبين الذكور في المعاملة و الأُعطِيات، فالفتاة في منزلنا لها الحق بإبداء رأيها في أمور الحياة المختلفة واتخاذ ما يخصها من قرارات، و بطبيعة الحال نشأ أشقاؤنا على ما كان عوَّدهم أبونا فكانوا لنا أصدقاء نمرح معهم ونشاورهم و نشدُ عضُدنا بهم .

في مرحلة المراهقة كنت أسمع رفيقاتي يندبن حظَّهن العاثر بسبب تحكم إخوتهن الذكور في تصرفاتهن وتأييد أمهاتهن لهذا التعسُّف. فهمُّ الأم الأكبر أن يشب ابنها رجلًا ذا هيبة و كلمة مسموعة في بيته و إذا لم يتمكن من فرض أوامره على أخواته البنات فكيف سيسيطر بعد ذلك على زوجته ويجعلها تسير طوع أمره؟

كانت الدهشة تعتريني لأنَّ واقعي مختلف من جهة، ولأنَّ دعوة التفضيل التي تنادي بها الأغاني الملعونة تُطلُ برأسها من جديد من جهةٍ أخرى فلا أجد إلَّا أن أطرح عليهنَّ الحلَّ السحري الذي يتفتَّق عنه ذهني: ( طيِّب ليش ما تقولوا لأبَّهاتكم عشان يساعدوكم؟)
تتساءل صديقاتي باستغراب: ( يساعدونا في إيش؟)
أجيب بأريحية : ( في إنَّكم تتصرفوا بحرية و تقرروا إيش تبغوا تسووا من غير تحكُّمات أخوانكم ).

تتبرع نائلة بالرد علي: ( أَبِيَّة، أحيانًا أحس إنِّك عايشة في دنيا تانية غير دنيتنا، المساواة والمثاليات اللي في القصص والأفلام اللي بتتفرجي عليها مكانها هناك وبس، لكن هنا البنت لازم تسمع كلام الولد عشان تطلع امرأة صالحة وتلقى أحد يتزوجها ! لأنه ربنا بيقول:( الرجال قوَّامون على النساء بما فضَّل الله بعضهم على بعض و بما أنفقوا)، إذا ربَّنا مفضِّلهم حنعترض على حكم الله؟؟)

أحاول جاهدةً أن أجد أي منطق في هذا الحديث و أسألها :
( يعني بالله عليكِ ربنا العادل حيخلقنا بني آدمين ويخلِّي الرجال درجة أولى ويخلِّينا نحن الستات درجة ثانية؟ أكيد في خلل في فهمك للآية!)
تنظر إليَّ نائلة شزرًا و تجيبني بتهكم:( والله الخلل واضح إنه في مخك اللي لطشته روايات الخواجات وأفلامهم، هادي عاداتنا و ديننا اللي نعرفه ، وفلسفتك دي أكبر دليل إنه النساء ناقصات عقلٍ ودين).

أحاول أن أتمالك أعصابي وأسأل بهدوء:( طيب إذا ربنا خلَّى الرجال أفضل من الستات ليش زعلانين وبتشتكوا من شي إنتوا شايفينه عدل؟)

تتوجَّه الفتيات بأعينهن المتسائلة إلى نائلة التي حسمت النقاش بقولها:( هادي مو شكاوي، أهو كلام نضيَّع بيه الوقت ، وبعدين مو كل شي الواحد يتشكَّى منه يكون مضايقه، لو دوَّرتي جوّا كل واحدة من اللي بيشتكوا تلاقيها مبسوطة إنه لها أخ وسند يزعِّلها ويتحكم فيها عشانه خايف عليها ويبغى مصلحتها، بدل ما تكون ماشية على كيفها زيَّ الغنمة الساربة).

تؤمِّن البقية على كلامها بهزهزة رؤوسهن لأعلى وأسفل ولسان حالهنَّ يقول (إنَّا وجدنا آبائنا على أمَّة وإنَّا على آثارهم مهتدون)
أمَّا أنا فأكبح زمام لساني عن الاستمرار في هذه المهاترات و في ثنايا عقلي يتردد صدى المثل القائل: ( سوس الحب منُّه و فيه).

تكبر المراهقات و يصبحن زوجات ثم أمهات و تزرع كل أنثى في أبنائها وبناتها ما تحمله من قناعات و معتقدات فثلَّةٌ منهن صورةٌ لنائلة التي ترى واجبها دعم الرجل بكل الطرق ليفرض وصايته ويُحكم قبضته على عقل الأنثى و تصرفاتها حتى لا تحيد عن الطريق القويم ويحاسبه الله على إفسادها في الأرض، و ثلَّةٌ أخرى صورةٌ لأَِبيَّة التي ترفض أن تصدِّق أنَّ الله خلقها لتكون عاملًا مساعدًا للرجل في تأدية دوره ثم يُحاسبها في الآخرة ككائن مكتمل الأهليَّّة، أمَّا السواد الأعظم فهنَّ يؤمنَّ أنَّ الحياة (بطِّيخة مقفولة) فالمحظوظة منهن ستكون (بطِّيختها حمرا) و الرجال في حياتها سيعاملونها بتقديرٍ واحترام، أمَّا قليلة الحظ ف( بطِّيختها قرعا) و سيتناسب تعامل الرجل معها طرديًا مع شدّة قرع البطيخة و ليس لها عند ذلك إلّا الصبر حتَّى يجود عليها الزمان برجلٍ ينصفها أو بآخرة تستحق فيها منازل الصابرات.

ظهرا.. ارتدت فستان صيفي بارد كلون البحر مع حذاء رقيق مناسب لفصل الصيف الحارق في ذلك الوقت من السنة، واضعة عبائتها السوداء ذات النقوش الحمراء على كتفيها. غادرت منزلها والكل نائم، لم ترد ان تزعج والديها، فهي كالعادة تحب ان تذهب لمواعيدها الروتينية من غير صحبة احد.
كما اعتقدت دائما، نعم كل شيئ على ما يرام، صحتي ممتازة، لا احتاج صحبة احد، سآعود في اقل من ساعة لآبشر والدي بان صحتي جيدة.
وصلت الى المشفى في تمام الساعة ١١:٣٠، كان المشفى شبه خالي، الا من الطاقم الصحي الذي لا يمل ولا يكل من خدمة الجميع.
اتخذت مقعدا في زاوية الصالة، اخرجت كتاب عن آحدى الشخصيات التاريخية المعروفة، وبدات في قرآة السطور بنهم، بعدما يقارب العشر دقائق، قامت الممرضة بندائها لعمل الفحوصات اللازمة من قياس ضغط الدم، الوزن و حرارة الجسم. كانت مبتسمة كعادتها، متاكدة بان كل شي على ما يرام. ضغط الدم كان مرتفعا على غير العادة!! وزنها في ازدياد!!

لثاني من رمضان عام ٢٠١٢، الساعة ١١ا
ضحكت ومازحت الممرضة قائلة (رمضان الكل راح يزيد وزنه).
بعدها انتقلت الى غرفة استشاري امراض الكلى، سلمت على طبيبها مبتسمة، و بعد كل الاسئلة الروتينية عن الحال، العمل و رمضان. سالها طبيبها (كيف صحتك، حاسة كل شي تمام)
اجابت (الحمدلله كل شي تمام، احس شوية دوخة)

سالها الطبيب (الدوخة تعطلك عن عملك؟)اجابت بعد مهلة من التفكير ( احيانا!! خير دكتور في شي؟ التحاليل فيهم شي؟)
الطبيب ( انشالله كل شي خير يا بنتي، بس انا ابغاكي تتنومي عندنا، عشان نعمل لك فحوصات ثانية)
سآلت (خير يادكتور! الفحوصات و التحاليل الي عملتها ما كانت كفاية؟)
اجاب ( شوفي يابنتي، كليتك و لله الحمد وظائفها كانت مقبولة في خلال الثلاثة السنين الماضية، طبعا انتظامك على العلاجات و الحمية الغذائية ساعد في تقليل الضرر على كليتك، و زي ما انتي عارفة ان وظائف الكلى عندك ضعيفة، ،ضعفت مع الوقت. ما اعرف اش اقولك بس الكليتين عندك في طريقها للضمور، ما نعرف كم راح تاخذ الا ان تتوقف عن العمل نهائيا، عشان كذا الافضل تتنومي عندنا لعمل الفحوصات اللازمة عشان نتاكد)
انتهى موعدها، خرجت من غرفة الاستشاري مصدومة!! سآعود غدا للتنويم!
هل انا فعلا على ما يرام!! ام كنت (اتظاهر) انني على مايرام!!
ذهبت الي زاوية في منطوية في المشفى، جلست على كرسي وحيد في ذلك المكان المعزول، آمالت برآسها للاسفل، نظرت الى قدميها!!!! عندها ادركت ان الطبيب على حق!
قدماها كانت متورمة و متضخمة!! نعم هيا رآت ذلك من قبل، ولكن هيا دائما كذلك، تكابر و تتصنع (انها بخير)
نعم يجب ان تعترف (انا مصابة بالفشل الكلوي)
في ذلك اليوم لم تتوقف دموعها المنهمرة لحظة، بكت وكانها تودع الحياة، بكت على كل الاحلام المنتظرة التي لم وربما لن تحققها. بكت لانها ادركت ان ما اصابها لم يكن ليخطئها و ما آخطئها لم يكن ليصيبها.بعدها بدآت مرحلة جديدة من حياتها كمريضة فشل كلوي!
العشرون من رمضان عام ٢٠١٢، الساعة ٩ مساء.. فتحت عينيها على صوت والدتها الحنون.. (يلا جات الممرضة، خلينا ننزل تحت). ساعدتها والدتها في النهوض من السرير و الجلوس على الكرسي المتحرك. دفعتها الممرضة خارج الغرفة، رافقتها والدتها وهيا مبتسمة، محاولة اخفاء دموعها الحزينة. اخذت الممرضة تتحدث معها عن الطقس و الاجواء و المرضى. هيا لم تصغي ابدا، كانت شاردة، بائسة.
بعدها سمعت صوت امها يناديها (وصلنا حبيبتي، هاتي يدك). نظرت حولها، وجدت نفسها امام كرسي كبير، و بجانب الكرسي جهاز كبير غريب الشكل. كان الجهاز متصل بالعديد من الانابيب و المحاليل.
عندها ادركت ان هذا الجهاز ما هو الا (كليتها الجديدة!!) نعم هذا الجهاز هوا الذي سيقوم بوظيفة الكليتين من تعقيم و تنظيف الدم!!
آليس ابن ادم ضعيف! عندما يفقد كليتين، لاتزن الواحدة منهما اكثر من ١٦٠ جرام، يعوضها بجهاز ضخم كهذا!! سبحانك ربي ما اعظمك!
جلست على الكرسي، بدات الممرضة (بتشبيك) الاسلاك في جسدها الهزيل، و كآنها جهاز آلي، لا تختلف عن الجهاز المجاور لها. اغلقت عينيها.
بدآ الجهاز بالدوران، كم هو مؤلم شعور الدم، وهو يسحب من جسدك ليدخل ذلك الجهاز الضخم، ويعود الى جسدك محملا بكل تلك المحاليل و المكملات!
بعد مرور ثلاث ساعات، انتهت اول جلسه لها في (غسيل الكلى)
كانت منهمكة، حزينة، باكية..
عند صعودها الغرفة، وجدت باقة ورد بيضاء ناصعة عند مدخل غرفتها،لم تآبه لها و لم تعرها اهتماما!
ذهبت الى سريرها استلقت عليه، بمساعدة من والدتها و الممرضة، اغمضت عينيها، ارادت ان تهرب من هذه الدنيا، وان تسافر بخيالها بعيدا عن واقعها.
سمعت همسا حنونا كعادتها (عجبك الورد؟)
فتحت عينيها (مروان، كيفك؟ مرة عجبني شكرا).. قالتها بصوت حزين باكي
اغلقت عينيها و بدآت عينيها تنهمر، دموع حسرة، دموع الم..
استمرت على هذا الحال في ما يقارب الشهرين، غسيل الكلى، مرتان في الاسبوع لمدة ثلاث ساعات..
هيا اعتادت، بل وجدت نفسها انسانة جديدة، هي لم تملك خيارات اخرى (لازم استمتع بوقتي مهما كان)
اخذت تقضي وقتها في قرآة الكتب، مشاهدة الافلام، تعرفت على اشخاص عانوا من نفس مرضها، هم اكبر سنا، و لكن مالمشكلة، فنحن نتشارك ذات الالم ذات المكان..
ولكن هل هناك مستقبل؟ المستقبل شبه مستحيل!! نعم ذلك ما اقنعت نفسها به !!
و لكن هل هناك مستحيل؟!
نعم تحقق المستحيل.. فالقرار الذي اتخذه اخاها، هو الذي غير مجرى حياته و حياتها.. نعم، هو قرر ان يطبق قول الله تعالى (وَمَنْ أَحْيَاهَا فَكَأَنَّمَا أَحْيَا النَّاسَ جَمِيعاً)
نعم هو احيا تلك الروح الباكية.. احياها بقطعة من جسده.. وكآنه يسلمها مفتاح السعادة من جديد. فقد اتخذ قرار التبرع باحدى كليتيه لها!
ما اصعب القرار و قتها، هي ارادت ان تعيش و ان تعود لحياة طبيعية.. ولكن آخي مازال صغيرا، في مقتبل العمر، آمامه مستقبل وحياة!! هو يستحق ان يعيش بجسد كامل!
ولكن كم هو عنيد، هو قرر و آصر، لم يترك مجالا للنقاش او التراجع ..
هي، كانت خائفة مضطربة.. و لكن اجتماعها بالآطباء المختصين ومناقشة العملية و آثارها على المريض و المتبرع ، هو ما جعلها توافق على تضحية اخاها..
علميا، يستطيع الشخص البالغ ان يعيش بكلية واحدة، دون الاضرار بصحته الجسدية، حتى على المدى البعيد.. تاريخيا، الكثير من الجنود في الحروب العالمية السابقة، من فقد كلية واحدة، و قد اثبتت المتابعات الصحية المستمرة لهؤلاء الجنود ان نشاط الكلية الواحدة كان طبيعيا جدا مقارنة بشخص ذو كليتين سليمتين..
في يوم السبت الموافق ٢٥ سبتمبر من العام ٢٠١٢ .. تمت عملية زراعة الكلية بنجاح
فترة النقاهة لها استمرت ٣ اشهر من العلاج المكثف و الوقاية
اما هو فبعد شهر من النقاهة عاد لممارسة حياته الطبيعية بشكل كامل ولكن بعضو جسدي ناقص..
هيا عادت لها الحياة تدريجيا.. تحول ذلك الوجه الذابل الحزين.. الى وجه متورد بحب الحياة..
بدآت احلامها تتهافت من جديد.. عادت لممارسة حياتها الطبيعية وكآن شيئا لم يكن..
هذه هيا (آنا) و ذاك هو (آخي)..
تلك القصة التي اخفيتها عن الجميع ما يقارب الاربع سنوات .. احببت انا ابوح بها لاول مرة ٠٠
ولآعترف للجميع ان الحياة لا يوجد بها مستحيل ما دام هناك امل.. آمل في الله لا ينقطع ابدا..
وامل في عائلة تدعم و تصبر وتشجع حتى النهاية ..
امل في وجود اخ حنون و محب.. ضحى بقطعة من جسده .. معبرا عن حبه و امتنانه لعائلته اولا .. و لاخته ثانيا..
هنا ادركت انا الحياة غالية.. واغلى مافيها وجودي وسط عائلتي ..
اغلى ما فيها وجود آخي.. ذلك القلب الحنون .. الذي لم يمل او يكل و هو يمسح دمعتي ليل نهار ..
ان يكون لك آخ.. تلك هيا سعادة الدنيا.. و طعم الحياة..
فالاخ هو الاب الصديق الرفيق و الحبيب.. مهما كتبت وحكيت و سردت، فلن اوفيه حقه ابدا..
الآخ هو السند الذي تلجآي اليه وقت الشدة، هو الكتف الذي تسندي رآسك عليه..
هو ثاني حب في حياة كل فتاة بعد حب الاب.. هو اول صديق لها…
آخي و حبيبي و صديقي.. يا من منحتني حياة جديدة بعد الله.. يامن رسمت فرحة على وجهي.. يا من ابكاك ما ابكاني و اسعدك ما اسعدني..
حبيبي (مروان) شكرا من قلبي..

The Gardner

The Gardner by Iman Al Dabbagh

Although I’ve put an extra sweater on, I’m still soaking from that walk to the supermarket. London seems to be eternally cold and wet in April. As I walk towards our kitchen, a familiar melody journeys down the hall to greet me. I set the bag of groceries on the wooden floor, finding Baba at the stove, immersed in a soothing Rahbani tune as an array of simmering pots whistle before him. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and navy blue sweatpants – comfortable and ready to engross himself in the green chicken curry he’s making for dinner. The intoxicating smell wafts towards me, and I feel warmer already.

There are a select number of things my father enjoys, none of them being typically “macho.”

He loves reading, walking in parks, exploring museums, watching movies, having very good meals, going to the theater, and taking road trips to various country sides. He’s come to love the things that didn’t exist where we grew up. Few of his activities are typically “Arab” – except for reading and writing, of course. Baba is a devoted fan of literature, classical Arabic poetry being the most cherished, and this is a trait he passed on to me.

The only time baba and I speak in Arabic is when engaging in the complexity of Arabic poetry. It would always happen unexpectedly. While some pieces were recited at predictable times, like before going to bed, the enchanting words of Antarah or Umr’u Al Qays were always orated in the most curious of moments. The qualities of ancient rhyme seemed to suit baba’s company most especially when he had fallen ill. Perhaps lending himself to the melancholic quality of these ancient words, he’d read to me then explain the poetic meanings – the environmental and social metaphors wrapped within words, the adjectives that hinted as to what the poet was feeling at that particular moment, and the larger messages about love, loss, or pride. Through this ritual, my father taught me to love the art of language, and to believe in the power of communication, of connection – particularly in our moments of weakness or drought – as it were. Once upon a time, the Arabs of the Peninsula were masters of it.

That land is in my heart… How pleasant its meadows….

بروحي تلك األرض ما أطيب الربا

This verse is perfect. I believe that every Arab will find it relatable. That pleasant meadow which seems to be lost, could it be Palestine, Syria, Iraq? How many Arabs feel estranged today? Does my father feel it?

I’m not sure when or how we came to lose this power of communication, what the ancients called “magic”, but I do believe that we have. Our loss of this ability to connect is what caused me so much struggle as I grew up. I was born in Dhahran and lived there for 17 years before moving away to pursue my higher education, and I now work full-time in the field of culture. At the age of 14, I remember sitting at the usual Friday lunch when a family member aggressively blurted something out, accusing all Jewish people of belonging in hell. I opened my mouth to try and respond by saying, “you mean the Zionists?”, but as I looked for my father’s approval and saw that he had caught my train of thought, I quickly decided not to say anything. He was shaking his head subtly as if to say, “stay quiet,” so I did.

I am the first grandchild on both sides of my family, one side being quite different from the other. As a result of this, I was made to hear countless contradicting tales as I grew up. The only connection between both sides of my family’s stories is that both were immersed in patriarchal thought. Feminine perspectives seemed to be worn out, or simply muted. I remember hearing things like, “don’t gossip like a woman, there’s a special place in Jahannam for that,” or “our daughters don’t play football.” These anecdotes formed a very large chapter of my formative years.

As though we were created for distance, and that it is sin for us to be with each other again…

كأنا خلقنا للنوى وكأنما حرام علينا أن نجتمع

I snap out of my thoughts, and find myself at the kitchen table, looking out of our flat’s window as baba continues to stir at the stove. From here, we’re able to see our building’s inner courtyard. We’re surrounded by eight stories and perfectly white frames. My mother often likes to peer out from the window and peek at what other people may be doing in their homes. This curiosity perhaps comes from our past. When we lived in Saudi, we had little idea of who our neighbors were; we only knew what cars they had parked outside.

But from the 7th floor of Berkley Court, a simple turn of the head revealed a myriad of living rooms, terraces, and kitchens – some littered with children’s toys, others with pianos and house plants. Every window frame giving insight into the dweller’s character, creating a cinematic sense of community, of knowing one another by living in proximity – by glimpsing our differences and similarities from a distance, connecting from a distance. This completely conflicts with the Arab sensibility that demands public and private life remain distinct from one another. Sometimes I wonder if the “land” As-Summa refers to is a place that only exists in memory. I wonder if what lives in memory is even real anymore.

And how pleasurable its summer and spring stays…

وما أحسن المصطاف والمتربع

Though I deeply appreciate this Meccan poet, I do not know of the moments of “spring” he is referring to. All I remember about being outdoors on a Saudi April day is coming out of school in the starching heat, only to be met by a flock of boys in cars, driving out of their way to pass by our female section of the segregated school when classes were over. They looked like dogs in heat, panting and sweating under the sun, flailing their arms out of windows to get our attention. Occasionally a schoolmistress would stand outside as we exited the school and bark at us, “cover your faces!”

Despite that I did not experience tangible moments of “pleasurable spring” in the land I call home, I did experience many moments of mental awakening. Whilst they often came to me in agony or in sickness, these moments were inspired by the words of the great Arab minds who came before me, through the voice of my father. The merit of these words was made known to me through his guidance, in the same way it had been revealed to him through his own fathers’ voice. I was trained to find refuge in verse, in the sound and meaning of metaphor and simile. Sometimes I feel as though my ancestors handed me a survival toolkit by teaching me to love the art of connection, of words in rhythm; they’d shown me a hidden meadow: a place of solace no matter what surrounded me.

I remember the days of Al-Hima and bend over in sorrow, fearing my heart will break.

واذكـــــــر أيــــام الحمى ثم انثني على كبدي من خشـــية ان تصدعا

I remember when Baba explained what al-hima means. It comes from the word himaya, which carries a meaning of protection and preservation. My grandfather taught him this – he too, was a poet, and a member of the Saudi Bureau for the protection of the environment. Al-hima, are the green lands in the middle of deserts; they were – and remain, to an extent – to be considered sacred grounds. These were the grounds upon which early Arabs dwelled in freedom of thought and expression, on which the greatest of ancient poems were mused and narrated. I like to think of these grounds as a state of mind too – capable of carrying us through time and space. Perhaps they’re capable of carrying – and empowering – an Arab woman on her journey towards other grounds.

Lo, the nights of Al-Hima will never come back again, so let your eyes to tears

وليست عشيات الحمى برواجع إليك ولكن خلي عينيك تدمع

I don’t know what baba is thinking most of the time, but his mind must be somewhere beautiful at this moment; I watch, as he stirs the steaming mixture in the pot and hums along to As-Summa Al-Qushairi’s words as Fairuz carols. I muse to myself later on in the evening: here we are, sitting down together for our curry dinner in the capital of the world and looking out our window at the neighbors, each with their own stories and notions of home. In this moment, despite all that’s surrounding us, the Arabic language remains what moves me the most, my endangered meadow, my home, full of mysteries and riddles. With each chapter of Spring, I long to discover what else can grow.

موشحة الصمة القشيري

Al-Summa Al-Qushairi’s Ode

متى يعرف الإنسان إسمه؟ وهل لاسمه علاقة بشخصه؟ الإسم هو أشهر عنوان لشخص الإنسان رغم أنه الشي الذي لم يستشار فيه ولم يشارك في اختياره. وكغيري من الناس عرفت منذ مولدي أن إسمي “نجاة”من مخاطبة أهلي به أما معناه فعرفته عندما تعلمت القراءة في المراحل الأولى من عمري عندما كان أبي رحمة الله عليه يضع أمامي عناوين الصحف لأقرأها تدريبا لي على القراءة.

بدأت ألاحظ ان إسمي يتصدر الصفحات في معظم الأيام، مثلا اشتعال حريق في مبنى ونجاة ساكنيه، غرق سفينة صيد تجارية ونجاة طاقمها، انقلاب سيارة ونجاة سائقها بأعجوبة. يا إلهي! فإسمي مصاحب للكوارث والنكبات والمصائب … لا لا انه الأمل والفرح والبشرى إنه النجاة لمن أراد الله تعالى له ذلك وحمدت الله لاختيار والدي هذا الإسم لي.

لإسمي علاقة بحادثة وقعت لي منذ زمن بعيد ولكني أتذكرها الآن وكأنها حدثت البارحة. أنا أعشق البحر وأحب الصيد بالسنارة ولا أعرف السباحة ولكني اقطع المسافات التي تصل فوق خصري مشيا مستندة على عصا غليظة أضغط بها على الارض حتى أحافظ على توازني فلا أسقط من حركة الأمواج (حاولت تعلم السباحة ولكني أخاف من الماء عندما يغمر وجهي).

لدينا إستراحة على البحر وفيها كوبري بطول سبعين مترا تقريبا داخل البحر ينتهي بجلسة كبيرة خشبية نصطاد منها ونستمتع بها بشمس الصباح ونتسامر عليها ليلا تحت ضوء القمر في لياليه البيضاء. أتيت ليلا مع زوجي وأطفالي الثلاثة، أصغرهم رضيع في شهره الأول لقضاء إجازتنا الأسبوعيةبعد غياب لأكثر من ثلاثة أشهر. لم يكن في المكان غيرنا والإضاءة فيه تعتمد على المولّد الكهربائي.

وبكل الشوق للبحر وأمواجه حملت رضيعي في يدي ملفوفا في لفافته الصغيرة وقطعة العجينة والسنارة ومشيت إلى الجلسة الخشبية في آخر الكوبري وتركت طفلي ذو الست سنوات وطفلتي ذات الثلاث سنوات يلعبان حول المكان وأبوهما يراقبهما ويشرف على إنهاء طبخ عشائنا الشعبي، سليق بالدجاج.

أخذت جانبا أرى منه زوجي وطفلي من بعيد وابتعدت قليلا عن الحافة مقدار ثلاثين سنتيمترا ووضعت رضيعي في حجرى، رأسه عند يدي اليمنى، والسعادة تغمر قلبي بعودة حياتي وأسرتي لما أعتدنا عليه، ورميت سنارتي وأنا أتنفس نسيم البحر العليل الذي حمل إلي معه صوت الأغاني التي نحبها تنطلق من المسجل الذي يعمل بالبطارية الجافة لتزيل الوحشة من المكان…

بعد أقل من نصف ساعة رأيت إبني وإبنتي يمشيان على الكوبري في طريقهما إلي مما أقلقني وقطع علي استجمامي القصير. طلبت منهما العودة لأبيهما وأخبرتهما بأنني سأعود إليهم بعد قليل ومعي شي من الأسماك الصغيرة. سمع إبني كلامي وعاد أدراجه أما إبنتي فأصرت أن تجلس بجواري وتشاهد ما اصطاده… جلست عن يساري وطلبت منها أن تبتعد عن الحافة وطبعا تبدلت حالة الإستجمام بالقلق وأنا اطلب منها العودة للخلف وهي تتقدم للأمام وأنا بين مراقبتي لها وبين خيط السنارة أسحبه وأرميه ومراقبة رضيعي في حجري وهو يستغرق في سبات عميق.

الجو جميل فقد انتهى الصيف ودخل فصل الخريف بجدة الجميلة، والمنظر البديع للقمر في لياليه البيضاء يرسل أشعته الفضية على صفحة الماء. فجأة تنكفئ إبنتي على صفح الماء في سرعة لا مثيل لها وبنفس السرعة أمسكت بتنورتها الفضفاضة بيدي اليسرى منحنية انحناء شديدا على الرضيع في حجري، أرى إبنتي ذات الثلاثة أعوام تتأرجح في الهواء فوق سطح الماء، أحاول رفعها وسحبها بيدي اليسرى ويدي اليمنى فوق رضيعي، أصرخ بأعلى صوتي وأنادي على زوجي ولكن ضجيج الموتور والمسجل يحجب صوتي وصرخاتي .. أخاطب ربي.. ربي لا تعطيني واحدا وتأخذ الثاني..إلهي.. ثقل جسمي على رضيعي يقلقني، قريبا ستفلت طفلتي من يدي، ربي أعني،ربي ارحم ضعفي، دقات قلبي تزداد عنفا وخوفا وهلعا. أدخلت يدي اليمنىتحت جسم رضيعي في محاولة لسحبه إلى سطح الجلسة لأستعين بيدي اليمنى في رفع إبنتي، ولكن ثقل جسدي عليه يوشك أن يفصل رأسه عن جسده لو زدت من قوة السحب ورفع جسدي عنه يعني سقوط إبنتي في الماء العميق الذي يقارب المتر والنصف.

وفي هذه اللحظة الحرجة تنفلت ابنتي من قبضتي الضعيفة على غير إرادة مني وهو ما كنت أخشاه، هنا رميت رضيعي جانباً لا أعرف كيف وعيناي على الماء وخرجت ابنتي من الماء واقفة وكأن شخصاً يرفعها وعيناها مفتوحتان بقوة و فمها مفتوحاً وشعرها الأسود ينسدل على جبينها رأيتها للحظة ثم سقطت الى القاع، أمسكت بحافة الكوبري وأنزلت رجلي بالماء بدون أن تلمس قدماي الأرض خوفا من أن أدهسها وأنا أصرخ من الفزع والخوف من الماء وما فيه، رفعها الماء للمرة الثانية وكانت قريبة مني أستطيع إمساكها ولكنها سقطت سريعا الى داخل الماء، وضعت قدماي على الأرض هذه المرة ويداي مفتوحتان انتظرها، ربي أين ابنتي حبيبتي، أين أنت يا روح عمري، لحظات رهيبة أحسست أنها دهرا رفعها الماء للمرة الثالثة وأمسكت بها وأنا لا اصدق أني أمسكتها ورفعتها الى الأعلى وقلبتها فخرج الماء من فمها وأنفها وأعدتهاوحضنتها فلفت ساقيها حول رقبتي ويديها حول رأسي فاستدرت لأمسك بحافة الكوبري لأجلسها عليه ثم أتسلق بعدها ولكنها تصرخ وترفض بشدة أن تتركني، أعيد الصراخ والنداء على زوجي ليساعدني ولكن لا مجيب. بدأت أمشي في البحر متجهة إلى الشاطئ والظلام الدامس يحيط بالماء، أدعس على صخور مؤلمة و أعشاب لزجة ترعبني وأحاول مرارا أن أضعها على الكوبري و أصعد أنا أيضاً و ارتاح من معاناتي و لكنها تصرخ بهستيريا متمسكة برقبتي حتى بلغنا الشاطئ.. هنا رآنا زوجي و ابتسم يظن أننا نلهو مع بعض وأنا أقول له ساعدني أحضر الولد من الكوبري حتى استوعب ما نحن فيه وركض إلى الرضيع الذي لا أدري كيف وضعته هل كسرت رقبته ام هو سليماً..
الحمدلله عاد سليماً وابنتي عندما شعرت بالأمن والأمان بكت واشتكتني لوالدها “ماما رمتني في البحر”،  أشرح لها حبيبتي أنت امتحنتيني وما سمعت كلامي أنا أمسكتك وأنا اخرجتك من البحر فتكرر قولها لا أنت التي رميتيني..
حينها سألتها انت ليه قربتي من الحافة أنا قلت لك خليك بعيدة قالت.. كنت اتفرج على صورة القمر في البحر بعدين دخل تحت الكوبري!!

وعنوان هذه الحادثة دون في ذاكرتي بالخط العريض..”نجاة نجاة وطفلة نجاة.”

سُجِلتْ العلامةُ التجارية في بيروت بمستشفى الجامعة الأمريكية، حين خرجت الممرضةُ من حجرة الولادة تُبشِرُ والدي وخالي بأن الوالدة والمولودة في صحة طيبة. فصرخ الرجلان فرحاً، وسألا عن جنس المولود للتأكد، فأجابت بصوتٍ
منخفض وبأسفٍ بالغ:
– جاتكم بنت.

طرب والدي وخالي وأطلقوا الزغاريد في رواق المستشفى الضخم. شكَّت الممرضةُ بأن الرجلان لم يسمعا جيدا ما قالت،
فكررت:

– أنا شو قلت؟! أنا قلت بنت مو صبي.!

أطلقوا على هذه البنت الصغيرة ريم، أصل الاسم بالهمزة “رِئم”، وخفف لسهولة النداء. يسمون به الأنثى – وهو اسمٌ مذكرٌ- تحبباً بالمعنى، وقد يغيرون من نطقه فيقولون: ريمي، ريمة، ريما. ويُعَدُّ اسم “ريم” من أكثر أسماء الإناث تسميةً في الوطن العربي، خاصةً في بلاد الشام.

“ياريم وادي ثقيف، لطيف جسمك لطيـــف، ماشفت أنا لك وصيف، بالناس شكلك غريب” أغنيةٌ اشتُهرت جداً في الحجاز أثناء طفولتي، فكان معظم الناس بمجرد أن يسألوني عن اسمي فأخبرهم “ريم” يدندنون مباشرة بكلمات الأغنية. كانوا يظنون أن هذا إطراء وأن هذه الدندنة ستسعدني، لكن الحقيقة كانت غير ذلك. كان أخي -الذي يكبرني بخمس سنوات ويمارسُ كافة أنواع القهر المعنوي والضغط النفسي عليَّ- كان يغني الأغنية حتى إذا وصل لمقطع “في الناس شكلك غريب” مصمص بشفتيه وتأوه، ونظر إلي بشفقةٍ وأضاف تعليقات معناها بأني غريبة وغير معهودة بين الناس. كنت أقف أمام المرآة كثيراً وأنا في عمر الخمس سنوات أتأمل لماذا شكلي غريب؟

ثم ابتُليتُ بابن عمٍ لي وأنا في السابعةَ من عمري كلما نظر لي قال: كيف حالك يا حليمة؟! فأجيب بالنفي رافضةً فأنا ريمة ولستُ حليمة. فيؤكد لي إن حليمة هي مرضعة الرسول عليه الصلاة والسلام وهي من أشرف النساء، ثم يُسهب في سرد قصتها. ولا أفهم ما علاقتي بحليمة ما دام اسمي هو ريمة وليس حليمة.
وابنُ عمٍ آخر كنت كلما أقدمت على فعل أو قول، علَّق قائلا:
“رجعت ريمة لعادتها القديمة”
وبالتالي أصبحت كل أفعالي عاداتٌ قديمة بمجرد اقترافها.

ثم وقعتُ في الحبِ لأول مرة وأنا في الثانية عشر من عمري، وكان بيني وبين ابن جيراننا مكالمة هاتفية واحدة أسمعني فيها أبياتاً من الشعر قال فيها:
” ريمُ ” على القاع بين البانِ والعلمِ
أحل سفك دمي في الأشهرَ الحُرمِ
رامى القضاءُ بعيني جُؤذَرًا سرًا
يا ساكن القاعِ، أدركْ سَاكِنَ الأَجمِ
لمَّا رنَا حدَّثتني النفس قائلة
ياويح جسمك بالسهم المصيب رُمي
فوالله ما أدركْتُ أنه شعرٌ في الغزل وإنما ظننتها أبياتٍ في وصفِ الصَّيْد، وقطعتُ العلاقةَ بعدما اكتشفتُ أنه يتحدث لغةً لا أفهمها.

كانت المعضلة الرئيسية بيني وبين اسمي أن معنى الاسم هو “الغزال أو الظبي الأبيض” المهم حيوان رشيق في شكله وحجمه، وأنا أشكو طول عمري من أني ممتلئة القد، ملفوفة الجسد، فبالتالي إما أن لا يكون لي من اسمي نصيب، أو أن حالي يؤكد نظرية البعض بأن الإنسان يكون نقيض اسمه، فياسمين رائحتها سيئة، واعتدال متطرفة، ووديع عنيف وهكذا.

أنا الآن على مشارف الخمسين ومازال اسمي “ريم” لم أغيرْه أو أستبدلْه، لأني حينما كنت في العشرين قمتُ بمسحٍ شاملٍ على كل من أعرف من الريمات، فاكتشفتُ أنهن شخصيات فعالة لهن حضورٌ قوي وجذاب، عميقات التفكير بشكلٍ واضحٍ رغم تسرعهن أحياناً في إتخاذ القرارات، ويظهر التعجل الظاهر على سلوكهن بشكلٍ عام، تبحثن عن المثالية والتميز، تحببن المرح ويمكن الإعتماد عليهن عند الحاجة. بعد معرفتي نتيجة الاستقراء أحببتُ اسمي، تعلقتُ بإسمي من غيري، واحتفظتُ بالاسم وسجلتُه كعلامةٍ تدل على ذاتي.

Arabic Tongues and English Ears

When men ask me where I am from, I make them guess. It gives me pleasure to watch their eyebrows furrow, their lips twitch as they search for clues on my face as though it were a map. I find it exciting – watching them fluster and hesitate to share their thoughts with me. I like that they’re scared of being wrong. I like the way they look at me before they answer, squinting in what can only be described as a dangerously pensive manner. They hope their guess won’t insult me, thus putting an end to what is just the beginning of our conversation…

Let me be the curly haired Brazilian in the room tonight. Imagine me at Carnival. Let me sway my Colombian hips to the beat, show you the ways they don’t lie. Let me purr in your ear the way you think a Persian woman does when she’s pleased. Give me some vino, and let me be la signorina bellissima stasera. I’ll tell you about summers in Sicily, then curse at you in a language you can’t understand. I trust that these are the types of fetishizing thoughts – of “exotic” fantasies – running through the minds of the men as they try to place me. There’s just so much sex appeal in the Other.

I am a curly haired brunette with dark eyes and a skin tone ambiguously between fair and olive. My figure is curvy, my eyelashes are thick, and my English is flawless. This works, of course, to my advantage in this game, leaving a lot of room for guessing. I don’t mind the guessing, though. I enjoy it. Perhaps it’s because I’m a writer. Because I let the guesses open doors to all the lives I could be living, all the characters I’ve yet to meet. Or because I crave the stories and poems that are the very potential of this banter – sometimes the best stories are birthed in anonymity. Perhaps it’s because as long as we’re playing the guessing game, we’re keeping the conversation superficial enough for me to be myself. Unfortunately, it’s always a matter of minutes before the game is over. And it’s always the same question that brings it to an end: “What’s your name?”

The moment I utter the Arabic letters of my strange name, all that I was before this moment disappears. I become not what I am, but what you think an Arab woman should be – what she is. Assumption fills the head of my conversation partner faster than air escapes a punctured balloon; I am Ali Baba, Jasmine-Oil-Princess, and sexually repressed, physically oppressed helpless-woman-soul all at once. What comes next is always the same.

They hear “Ahd,” and they ask where I’m from. They hear Saudi Arabia, and their head starts to spin; I watch it happen every time. I’m not doing or saying or wearing what women from Saudi Arabia do or say or wear. How can this be? They become uncomfortable when things don’t fit conveniently into the foundations their grandfathers laid out for them as little boys. And so, like good grandsons and upstanding cultural citizens, they push on with questions. They probe, they invade my personal space, and they interrupt what could have been a half-decent conversation in order to resolve their pressing issue re how I exist as I do (outside the margins etched into their minds regarding me and my “type”).

The questions come in all kinds of forms – whether I “have to” constantly go behind my family’s back, whether my parents would “approve” of my outfit, how I feel about “having to” marry a Saudi man, or about “having to” go back to the country. Lately, the questions even make their way towards ISIS and “how I feel” about terrorism. Notice how heavily laden with assumption each of these questions is. Feel with me, for a moment, that weight. Feel it shoved in your face as you’re pushed under the interrogation spotlight, yet again, by another aggressive and “genuinely curious” stranger. Feel with me, for just a moment, the weight of my body and the letters of my name outside the Middle East.

I often think of how much easier it would be if I didn’t have to deal with so many assumptions all the time, how much less exhausted I would feel. My name binds me to a language considered that of killers. Words like “Allah” and “Jihad,” misused and misunderstood only to be plastered across screens and headlines, resting violently in people’s pockets and living rooms — making homes in their minds. The Arabic language has been accused by the western world of committing a gross crime. And in adhering to this biased and inaccurate narrative, we deny all the beauty and strength that the language has to offer – all that it’s given in the past. We forget the music of Um Kalthoom, Fairuz, and Abdelhaleem. We forget the writings of Gibran and Darwish. We forget the waves of succulent words – of poetic tenses and meanings that simply cannot be translated into any other tongue. The poetry living within the Arabic language is undeniable. And poets (generally speaking) don’t kill people; they kill fantasies.

Each image described in a poem, each sound expressed within its lines forms an offering. The offering is that of an original experience – an experience that changes every time the poem is read, no matter if read by the same reader. Each line of a poem carries in it a small death – a contained end. And the reader subtly experiences all of these ends, feels them as he or she continues to move through a poem. The larger end, of course, being that of the collective offering – that of the poem itself. Poetry is rooted in reality – in accepting change, complexity, and most importantly: endings. Fantasy, on the other hand, is rooted in the unlimited, the unending, and the unreal. It can only live, isolated in our imaginations.

My Arabic name, when spoken to these men, immediately erases the fantasy of me. I love it for that. I also love its meaning in the language: Ahd means promise, or covenant. My name represents the way I want to live my life. I want to live with dignity, with truth, and with love. I promise myself to live in the ways that please me firstly and fore mostly – not in ways that please Arab or Western societies, and certainly not in ways that please men.

My name is Arabic and I am Arab, yes. Though this is far from all I am. My Arabness is a part of me, like the parts of my body. It’s connected to me, though it is in no way my entirety. The fact that men choose to see me as a mere part of who I am will always remain their loss. To view me solely as the Other, or as a female body, is to view me falsely. My being cannot be confined to specific categories, and to attempt to do so would be to refute the natural phenomenon that is growth – that is consistent change. Humans are beings that are ever changing, as both history and personal experience show us. From the formation of nation states to broken relationships and transformed passions and careers, we’ve never stayed the same. To be human and alive is to move – to change, contradict, and proceed. To die is to be placed in a static category, marked permanently: deceased.

كنّا بمصر، في الاسكندرية تحديدا، على الغداء في ببيت عمتي فاطمة
في صيف أولى ثانوي
وانا انتظر المُلوخية والأرز وحضور بقية أفراد العائلة الأكبر مني سنًا الى المائدة،
جائتني خالة أماني وهي سلفة عمتي وإنسانة كلها حب وحنان وسألتني: “لجين، انت عارفة أسمك معناه إيه؟”
أجبتها: “معناه الفضة”
سألتني: “وإيه كمان؟”
احترت فقلت: “بحثت عن معناه وأنا في المتوسط ولم اجد الإجابة بالمكتبة”
فابتسمت وقالت: “لا عليك ، اسمك جميل جدا، له اكثر من معنى، أريدك أن تصغي جيدا:
اللجين هي الفضة الصافية النقية. من نقاءها تظل في حالة سائلة ولا تتجمد.
كل المجوهرات الفضية التي ترينها يضاف لها شوائب لكي تتجمد وتصقل.
انت لجين، نقية، صافية، لينة.”
هذا المعنى الاول…

“إذا ما تطيعني طاعة عمياء حأرميك في ملجأ الأيتام وأغير اسمك لزعبول المنكحاوي عشان أهل أمك ما يلاقوك وينقذوك”
صرخها بوجهي في إحدى نوبات غضبه. لن انساها لأني تمنيت في تلك اللحظة فعلا الذهاب إلى الملجأ…الهروب.

اسمي لُجين
بضم اللام
وليس بإضافة الواو
هكذا تنطق وتكتب بالعربية الفصحى

طفولتي عشتها في أمريكا
لغتي الأولى الانجليزية
عدنا عندما انتهى والدي من دراسته العليا
وأنا في التاسعة من عمري
كنت ارى أبناء عمومتي كل صيف
بالنسبة لهم كنت كائن غريب
لا يتحدث مثلهم
خارج عن المألوف
فكانت طريقة تعاملهم معي هي
التنمر
يهزأون بنطقي الصحيح للإنجليزية
ونطقي الخاطيء للعربية
يغنون أغنية “لُجَّين يا لُجَّين هيا إلى العمل”
على وزن وقافية “بشار يا بشار هيا إلى العمل”
يكررونها باستهزاء حتى انفجر باكية
حينها ينعتونني بالحساسة
أو المتكبرة لأنني لا أملك حسهم الفكاهي

في إحدى نوباته الأخرى، قال لي: “كأنني أسميتك روان: فأنت متعالية، صعبة ووعرة”
آلمني ذلك كثيرا.
فأنا كنت لا أرى ذلك حينما انظر الى المرآة…
كنت أرى طفلة تحارب منذ لحظة تكوينها على الأمان،
تصارع الكل كي تُفهم، كي تَفهم

كبرت
ووجدت راحتي بين الأحرف.
قرائتها
كتابتها

الأحرف لا تتنمر
الكتب لا تطلق احكاما على قارئها

الكتابة تخفف الضيق الخانق
تؤنس الوحدة القاتلة
تنصت لكل وجع
لكل تأوه
ترسخ كل فرحة
تجسدها
تخلدها

الكتابة والقراءة
كانتا مرفأ الأمان
حين باتت كل الأماكن غير آمنة

تزوجت صديق روحي
أنجبت ابنتان
في كل واحدة كانت تسميتها سهلة
آمنت أن الله معي ولن يضيعني

ليلى هي الاولى
أسميتها ليلى لجدتها-حماتي احلى خلق الله
في كل مرة أقابلها فيها تدخل السرور على قلبي
ذكرتني بأهل أمي
طيبة القلب
حلوة العشرة
قوية الشخصية
ذكية وتحب القراءة
وجميلة قلبا وقالبا

أحببتها
فأردت ان اسمي ابنتي الاولى نسبة لها.
وايضاً اعجبني معنى الاسم فهو: نشوة الخمر
من هواياتي النظر الى الأشياء برومنسية
فنشوة الخمر بالنسبة لي هي قمة التلذذ
وليس الخمر بحد ذاته
ففسّرت معنى ليلى إلى: قمة التلذذ

ليلى تجسد اسمها فيها
فهي قمة التلذذ فعلا
تغوص في كل شيء بكل مشاعرها
تحب الفنون والرقص واللعب والمغامرات
مرحة وتعشق تعلم كل ما هو جديد
نظرتها للحياة
لكل لحظة بأنها فرصة للسعادة والاستكشاف
علمتني أن اتريث
أن استمتع
أن أكون

ابنتي الثانية هي لينة
سُمِّيت لأمي لينة -أجمل نساء الكون في عيني
طيبة القلب
أجود مخلوقات الله
كريمة بنفسها ومالها
نبض أسرتنا
لينة هي: اسم علم مؤنث مُعَرَّب،
ورد لفظه في القرآن: ﴿مَا قَطَعْتُمْ مِنْ لِينَةٍ أَوْ تَرَكْتُمُوهَا قَائِمَةً عَلَى أُصُولِهَا﴾ [الحشر: من الآية5].
وهي: النخلة، النخلة الكريمة.
هي النور في الإغريقية
هي النقاء بالهولندية
هي القوة في اللاتينية
وهي اللين في الامريكية
فاسم لينتي يضم كل صفات القائد الشجاع
فهي لينة أحيانا وقوية حينا آخر
هي النقاء والنور الذي يشق الطريق للعالم
هي المستقلة الشامخة
هي المعطاءة الكريمة

لينة ابنتي كريمة بحبها الفياض
في أي لحظة اجدها في حضني
بدون مقدمات
تملأ يومي بحب ليس له قيود
حين تنام
تلف ذراعيها حول عنقي
وتختبىء في أحضاني
انام ونغمة أنفاسها في أذني
حبها اطلق السراح لحبي
لصبغ كل لحظاتي بالحب

لا زلت اسمع نغمة صوت خالتي أماني وهي تشرح المعنى الثاني لاسمي في ذلك اليوم:
“اللجين هو انعكاس الشمس على سطح الماء، فأنت يا لجين مرآة الشمس…”

قررت في تلك اللحظة بأنني لن أكون ضحية
بأنني سأجد حلولا لأكسر الحلقة المفرغة التي أجبرت عليها
لأنني مللت من كثرة الاختباء
من الخوف
من تصغير نفسي لحجم ترضاه بيئتي
من كتم مشاعري

أنا مرآة الشمس
أنا الفضة النقية
أنا النقاء الجاري

انا أم ليلى وليِنة
أنا زوجة أحمد
أنا لجين أولًا وآخرًا

فلن أرضى لأحد أن يحجب تلك المعاني
ولا أن يعكر نقائها…فهي أحرف تحمل قصتي.

Where We’re Going

It’s my first week in Vienna, and I’m enjoying exploring all that the city has to offer. The late August air is warm to the skin, and the sun rises early and sets late. I’m spending my fourth afternoon in the city at the little outdoor café at the end of our street. I order a café latte, and I think about where I want to go later this evening. I notice you staring at me from two tables over. I try to ignore it.

You stare for a while (you always do), and so I politely smile, intending to embarrass you into looking away. You misunderstand my smile. It wasn’t an invitation, though now it’s too late and you’re coming over. You’re dressed in jeans and a black polo shirt this time. You have light brown hair with grey flecks in it. You try to break the ice with some insignificant comment about the weather. I smile again, my lips pressed tighter together this time. You keep talking, oblivious to my discomfort and disinterest. Moments later, you ask my name, and then finally, you ask the question you’ve been wanting to ask from the moment you saw me: “So, where are you from?” Except that you’re not actually curious about where I’m from, but rather why I look the way I do.

The above-described scenario has become a regular one. It’s never exactly been an unfamiliar occurrence, but since moving to Vienna, it happens practically every day. I get it: I don’t look like most people around me here. My hair is a little (a lot) curlier, and my skin is a little (a lot) darker. In Dhahran, I didn’t look like most people around me either. Or in Atlanta, or Casablanca, or New York.

In the Arab world, we have a saying: ism 3ala musama. Translated, it basically means that you become the meaning of your name. My name is Hajar. Translation: Emigrate. I prefer to use the word “journey” when describing the meaning of my name. And if you asked me to put my life into one word, I would have no word to choose but my name. My life has been one long journey – from one country and culture to the next. My migration – my hijra – has come to lie at the core of who I am.

What’s most interesting about my journey is that it hasn’t been linear. On paper, it may seem that way: a migration from the east to the west. But in reality, it’s been messy. There’s been a lot of moving back and forth, and a lot more emotional drain than could ever be illustrated on paper. My journey began in Mecca, where I was born. My Saudi Arabian father and Moroccan mother were living in London at the time, but they decided it would be best if their second child was born in the place her paternal grandparents called home. Not long after my birth, my non-linear journey began.

After those few first months in Mecca, we spent the next few months in Casablanca – the place my set of maternal grandparents called home. Soon after, we went to Dhahran, Saudi Arabia for a few years, and then to Houston, Texas for a few more. After that, it was back to Dhahran, and then to New York, and then back to Dhahran. At this point I had graduated high school and moved to Atlanta, Georgia. Since then, I’ve graduated again and am now here, in Vienna, where my family has most recently settled.

During the times I lived in Saudi, my siblings and I attended international schools. As a result of this, we found ourselves speaking more English than Arabic. We also found ourselves forming multicultural and multinational friendships. I used to have Karkadeh with my Sudanese best friend and her family on Thursday night, and then I’d have Biryani at my Indian friend’s house on Friday. My friends practiced different religions than I did, and they understood the world differently.

My cousins, who lived in Mecca, attended Saudi schools. My siblings and I used to be very close to them as kids. We spent practically every big holiday in Mecca with them and the rest of my dad’s family. I remember one specific visit, however, more than the rest. I was fourteen at the time, and I was having an intense argument with my eldest cousin, Abdulmuhsin. I don’t even remember what the argument was about, but I can’t forget the words he spat at me in a fit of exasperated rage:

“You know you’re a kafira, right?! That’s why all you do is speak English and hang out with foreign people!”

This comment changed the way I viewed Saudi. I always knew I was different, though I never realized that part of my society viewed my difference in this way. That my lifestyle, to them, translated into my being the ultimate enemy in Saudi speak – to my being someone destined for Hell and undeserving of God’s mercy. I still can’t understand how we allow our fears to misguide us – and our children – as such, how we throw around such sharp words that none of us actually understand.

Let’s fast-forward four years to my freshman year of college at Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia. Though I’d lived in the states before, this was my first time doing it alone – and with a hijab on my head. After our first round of midterms, my friend and I went to the mall to reward ourselves with Frappuccinos and Mani-Pedis. As we laughed and walked through the mall, I was interrupted by another one of those familiar, yet unwelcome conversations. Beginning, of course, with “So, where are you from?”

“I’m from Saudi Arabia,” I calmly explained to the tall black man dressed in a blue button down and dress pants. He stood beside a kiosk selling CD’s, and he loudly exclaimed, “Wow! Saudi Arabia!” I smiled and nodded my head awkwardly – we were standing in the middle of the mall; it wasn’t exactly the most practical place to hold a cultural conversation. He ignored my obvious discomfort and went on:

“You know it’s a shame what they do to you girls over there. I mean, just look at you! You got a pretty face; it’s a shame you gotta cover the rest of it up. It’s a shame you gotta cover any of it up. What’s under all that, anyway?” he said, a hint of condescension in his voice. He looked me up and down, the faintest hint of a smile remaining on his lips. I looked him straight in the eyes, then turned and walked away without saying another word to him.

Encounters like this one made it clear to me pretty early in my life that we live in a world where everything is divided into “us” and “them.” This is true for both the East and the West. Fortunately (or unfortunately) for me, the further I went on my journey, the more the line dividing the two sides became blurred. This made it a little more difficult to navigate who I was, and to establish my proper sense of identity. I spent my adolescence consistently questioning who was right and who was wrong in this long-standing rift between East and West. Which side was I to take? It wasn’t until I realized that I didn’t have to pick a side that I began to feel at peace with who I was.

It is easy to live life consumed by one way of thinking – by the cultural norms dictated by our parents, our families, and the religions we’re raised with. It’s natural to pick a comfortable viewpoint of the world and to live by it – to stick to it. But true growth comes from challenging that original viewpoint. From living within the friction, between the lines. Living in as many different places as I have has helped me come to understand this. It’s given me the tools to understand multiple perspectives, but more importantly by consistently challenge my own.

I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, or where my hijra will take me. I don’t know what I’ll say the next time someone asks where I’m from, or how I’ll feel about it. Lately, I think the answer lies in changing the question; in asking people about their journeys, instead of where they are from. In looking at the plurality and complexity of our existence and embracing it for once, without trying to simplify or limit who were are. Despite all that I don’t know about the future – my final destination or my means of travel – I know that I’m grateful to have come this far on my journey. And I know I’m ready for the rest of it.

Sword Bearing Woman

The story, as it has been told to me, begins at St John’s Mercy Hospital in St Louis, Missouri. “Time of delivery: 7:00 am,” announced the male obstetrician gynecologist. “Congratulations Mrs. Batterjee, it’s a girl! I understand she is your second?” The doctor turned away and ripped off his delivery room gown and gloves without waiting for an answer from my exhausted mother. She lay there on the birthing bed, thinking of her husband and feeling sorry that he had missed the delivery. My father was extremely busy starting his new business at the time, and she had gone into labor a couple of weeks earlier than expected. Perhaps the reason for the early delivery was the stressful trip she had had to make from Saudi Arabia to the U.S. at thirty-two weeks pregnant. She had to make the long trip alone, with her two year-old daughter in tow. This was what my parents arranged for, thinking – as we tend to do – that things would work out as planned.

Of course, things rarely work out as we plan. Either of my parents can tell you that they never planned to marry someone from the other side of the world. My parents fell in love when my father, who is a Saudi from Jeddah, traveled to pursue an education in the United States. He met my mother, an American from St. Louis Missouri, at university, and they were inseparable from that moment on. They married within two years, and had their first daughter soon after. Almost four years later, they moved back to Saudi Arabia together.

When my mother found out she was pregnant with me, she knew she wanted to deliver in America, where she would have the support of her mother and sisters, just as she had with her first baby. Since my father was busy launching his new business at the time, they agreed that my mother would travel first, taking with her my older sister, and then my father would catch up a few weeks later. Their plan seemed foolproof, but I came early and my father missed the delivery.

Back in the hospital, a sweet voice came cheerfully into the room. “Good morning!” the cherubic nurse sang, carefully carrying the little bundle in her arms. “Here she eeees! Isn’t she just precious?” the sweet midwestern voice went on. My grandmother smiled as the nurse approached, eager to meet her newest grandchild.

“Sooo?” gleefully prompted the nurse while looking at my mother, “What’s her name?”

My mom glanced at my grandmother before quietly responding, “Modia.”

Touched, my grandmother smiled at my mom as she gently took me from the nurse and held me close. She whispered softly in my ear, “You are precious! You are so special.” This was my first encounter with Grandma’s soft voice and powdery sweetness, tainted with the faint smell of cigarette smoke.

Grandma was orphaned as a child. Her and her older sister had lived with their parents in Kentucky until they were about three and five years old, when both of their parents died suddenly just a few months apart; first, their father, Frank, and not long after, their mother Modia, a descendent of William Cunningham of Scotland. They were too young to really remember their parents, or to remember how they each died. Mom named me after her late grandmother, Modia Jewels Cunningham, to help her mother mend this old wound, the wound of a child losing her parents. I remember her explaining to me: “I named you Modia to help me bond with my mother and to make her feel special”.

Modia is the name for a chain of four Islets of the Echinades Islands in the Ionian Sea off of Greece. The four Islets of Modia are Soros, Apasa, Girovaris, and Modi. Modia is an uncommon English name and it is most definitely not an Arabic name. Modia is also the name of a rich matron mentioned in the poems of the book, The satires of Decimus Junius Juvenalis, by Juvenal, a Roman poet active in the late 1st century.

No one could have known at this moment that Modia would not be the only name I would bear. It was months later, back in Saudi Arabia, when my father went to legally register my birth that I was given another name.

“What’s the baby’s first name?” the Saudi government official uninterestedly blurted at my father with a heavy Bedouin accent. It was hot, and the queue was long. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke; so many new fathers waited patiently to complete their family’s documents at the Ministerial Agency for Civil Affairs. This is where my predicament with my name first began.

“We named her Modia” my father responded with a quivering smile.

“A girl? Ha! Name’s no good! Choose another one!” he scoffed – a typical reaction for a Saudi government official in those days. The sweaty, smoke smelling man held my soon to be birth certificate and waited with a Bic pen in hand to write down the new name.

“But her mother chose the name” my father countered. He froze, not knowing what else to say.

“I said choose another name! It’s no good – it’s not Arabic, it’s not allowed. Choose another one,” he paused to draw heavy smoke from his Rothman cigarette with his left hand. “Are you Hijazi?” he asked as he blew the smoke out of his lungs and unintentionally into my fathers face.

“Yes, why?” My father began to get uncomfortable; that question could stir up a political argument, and he didn’t know what other name to choose. He was afraid anything else would upset my mother, and yet the authority was imposing his power.

The man looked at him impatiently, “you’re taking too long, I have hundreds of people in line,” he began to scrawl and said, “name her Moudhi, it sounds similar to the name her mother chose.” He handed the completed certificate to my father.

Sword names given to girls are very rare; Moudhi is possibly the only one. The name describes the shimmering light that reflects when a sharp sword is drawn from its scabbard. Moudhi is a Bedouin name, mostly given to tribal princesses a long time ago. In modern day Arabia the name Moudhi is rarely given to girls anymore. Moudhi became the name I was to be known by in Saudi society. Today, even my father calls me Moudhi.

My last name, Batterjee, is a well known merchant name in Hijaz with an unknown origin. Many Indian people I meet, however, tell me it’s a typical Indian name. In Arabic, the root word of Batterjee, batter, means amputation. And the entire name, Batterjee, means he who amputates. Amputation is commonly used to punish thieves and criminals in Saudi Arabia. An incriminated thief is not sentenced to prison, but instead has his right hand amputated after Friday prayer. Similarly, but more severely depending on the crime, criminals of murder, rape, and treason are beheaded.

The sword has historically been used as a tool to execute such punishments, to separate honor from shame, guilt from innocence. Swords are used to divide, to split, separate, and create boundaries. In countries like Saudi Arabia, the sword is etched on the flag, incorporated into the country’s insignia and given much cultural significance, as well as physically implemented by the law to execute authorized punishments.

Nobody else I know has my birth name Modia, besides my great grandmother, though countless Arab women from previous generations have the name Moudhi. Today, I bare two similar but different names from the past – strong names from opposite worlds. Were I to translate my name literally, it would state: a sharp, shimmering sword / separates honor from shame. This, surprisingly, symbolizes my life’s journey quite well. I have always lived a duality needing to defend who I am – someone caught in an endless battle between East and West, living with an American mother in a nation riddled with Middle Eastern post 9/11 extremism. I grew up carrying the burden of justifying my parents’ bicultural marriage to others. Today, I carry the burden of justifying my own choices as someone living between two worlds. Nonetheless, I have always carried these burdens in the same way: choosing to pursue honor in the place of shame.

Justifying “Rozana”

My name is Rozana Al-Banawi.
Rozana is me, the oldest child.
Khala Rosanna Montejano is my ex-step-mom.
She spells hers with an “eS” and double “eN”s.
She’s Mexican-American, that’s why.
I spell it with a “Zed” and an “eN.”
She married my father when I was 5 years old,
making it impossible for them to name me
after her.
My mother’s name is Reem.

Reem wanted to name me Dima. In fact,
I was Dima – for four days. Some say a week.

شقيقتي الوحيدة إسمها فاطمة…ايوة أنا سموني رزانا وسموها فاطمة.
فاطمة هي الشقراء، البيضاء….وانا السمراء
اختي من ابوية إسمها عائشة…وعائشة هي الأمريكية!
(ولا هي شقراء ولا هي رزانا)
طفشونا الناس…لا ما نبغ نبدل اسامي!

جدو علي الي خلاهم يغيروا إسمي
…أحس كان ممكن اكون ديما

بس هو جدو عاش في ألمانيا وكان يحب الأسماء الأجنبية
كان يروح إجازات في إيطاليا…يحبوا رُزانا في إيطاليا
وأسبانيا والفلبين والبرازيل
فأهلي كمان صاروا يحبوا رُزانا

The spelling in Arabic is

Ra ر – Zen ز – Alif ا – Noon ن – Alif ا

‘Dhamma’ on the Zen!
Like: Ruba, Rula, Rutana.
They’re all: Ra & ‘Dhamma’
To this day, my father insists it’s the right spelling.
It’s spelled the same way in my passport.

أبلة أسماء كمال هي إلي عرفت تجيب معنى إسمي بالعربي
إما صندوق المجوهرات الثمينة
أو
نوع من انواع السحب المتدرجة

I learned from Abla Asmaa Kamal the meanings of my name in Arabic:
Either a box of valuable jewellery,
or the serene, gradual layer of clouds.

I love my name’s meaning in Urdu:
it means everyday.

هنا، أنا أي إسم ما عدى إسمي
رَزان – رُوزان – رَزانة
مرة في الكوفيرة نادوا سوزان وما رديت
وراح علية الموعد!
حتي حماية ناداني رووزان لمدة ١٢ سنة
فرحت من قلبي لمن سمعته يقول رُزانا

In the West, I make bookings under Rose Hafiz.
“I’d like to make a reservation for four ‪at 6 o’clock‬ under the name of Rose Hafiz”
Hafiz is a popular Sufi name nowadays in the west – they love it.
Hafiz is my husband’s & children’s last name, which I haven’t taken officially,
but still use when I’m abroad.

In Saudi, I make bookings with Rozana Al-Banawi.
“Al” connotes impact; it’s a great conversation starter:

“البنوي…فين ترجعوا؟”

Rozana, on the other hand, doesn’t resonate here.
I’ve learned to let it go when they paraphrase:
Razan Al-Banawi!

Dahlia Baeshen was the one who came up with RozaBee.
It’s a play on: Rozana AND Banawi (wi = wee)
Roza Bee is the name of my coaching practice.
It works with the paradoxical relationship between
the “being” the rose and the “doing” of the bee.
It accentuates the essence of who I am.
The cutest little billyboy calls me:

“أَنتي روزا بييييييييييييي”

Roza, Rozie, Ruzza – all the nicknames I’ve been given in the past.

My favourite one is Ruzza, Arabic for a single piece of rice.

The Month of Eating

Fourteen hours and fifteen minutes after I’d taken my last sip of water, I found myself sitting upright on the plush velvet sofa in our newly decorated living room, a sea of pillows in various shades of grey engulfing me. I propped one of the pillows behind my back to help me sit upright – I have a “very bad habit of slouching,” as my mother likes to frequently remind me. Yet another hunger pang hit me as my eyes fell on the bountiful arrangement of food and drink on the table before me: sugary dates, qishta, fresh fruit, and nuts. An array of neatly lined up juices promised all kinds of flavors – kiwi, mango, pomegranate, and guava. Last but certainly not least, laban, water, and two gleaming silver thermoses of Arabic coffee fought for space at the end of the overflowing table.

I took a glance around the living room to distract myself from the nauseating hunger that comes only in the very last moments of a day of fasting. I noticed that most of our guests – all dressed in colorful and elegant thobes – had closed their eyes and were mumbling to themselves, uttering last minute prayers. Their hands were cupped to their faces, their ears eagerly awaiting the sound of the athan, just like school children waiting for the bell. I placed my own hands into my lap, allowing my gaze to follow the intricate web of lines running along my palms. I took this moment of silence – something extremely rare in our household given the existence of my “sweet” five-year-old brother, our two lovebirds, and the constant clanking and crashing of dishes in the kitchen – to pray. I asked God for good health, peace, and happiness.

As I was praying, scents of saffron and cardamom wafted towards me, teasing my neglected stomach. Someone had opened the thermos holding the qahwa, and its intoxicating smell now filled the entire room. I could almost feel the coffee on my tongue, its lingering taste in my mouth before I’d even broken my fast. Once again, I took a brief look around the room, focusing first on the grandfather clock on the wall opposite me, and then on the way my mother, dressed in her favorite maroon thobe, was fidgeting with the coffee cups, making sure they were properly positioned on the silver tray, then pushing the tray towards the center of the table so that all the guests could reach it.

My focus was interrupted by the sudden call to prayer in Mecca, which I heard 61.8 miles away through the flat screen T.V in the corner of the room. Eager hands soon reached for glasses of laban and dipped neatly divided dates into fresh cream – the athan in Jeddah sounds seconds after the one in Mecca ends. The first thing I wanted to do was pour myself a cup of coffee, but my mother’s disapproving look reached me from the other side of the living room (she has a tendency of reading my thoughts before I’m able to act upon them), and I remembered that I was supposed to offer cups of coffee to our guests before serving myself. With a sigh, I popped a date (heavily loaded with gishta) into my mouth to break my fast, and then I got to work tending to the guests.

Luckily many of them were already quite busy, downing bottles of water with shocking speed and helping themselves to the juices and dates on the table. After serving a couple of relatives, I poured myself some coffee. I watched as the steaming caramel-colored liquid gracefully leapt from its temporary home, the silver thermos, and into my tiny white coffee cup. The first sip brought a sense of relief. The second reminded me that Arabic coffee is rather deceitful – sweet at first, but sure to leave a bitter aftertaste in ones mouth.

Instead of waiting for my mothers’ unspoken signal, a piercing glance that was only noticeable by her own flesh and blood, I got up and began rearranging the living room for maghrib prayer. I walked to the sequined chest in the corner of the room, careful not to trip over my long green thobe, and I pulled out several prayer rugs and sharasif salah for the ladies. I began to lay the prayer rugs out on the marble floor, each rug a different color and pattern than the last. Soon, the floor of our living room was almost completely hidden under the rainbow of prayer rugs.

My uncles’ deep voice filled the room as he recited the call to prayer. It’s amazing how delicate a man’s voice can sound when reciting Islamic prayer. How something so rough can become so soothing, like velvet. Mothers halfheartedly scorned their young children for refusing to get up and pray, choosing to play on their iPads instead. Fathers and other guests hastily filled the gaps in the row of rugs, ready to commence prayer. Once my own father took his place as the Imam in the front of the room, all was quiet. Feelings of peace and breaths of gratitude seemed to float around the room.

After prayer, the noise and haste returned. Guests claimed their seats at the dining room table, shuffling around to sit beside one another and moving all the kids to one side of the table. As this happened, exclamations over the feast before us could be heard. Cries of “mashallah!” and “Esh hada ya Dania?!” filled the room. They thanked my mother as they took in the array of dishes before them. The dining room table was taking on a larger load than it ever had. There were nearly fifteen different dishes arranged on it. My stomach ached more than ever at the mouth-watering sights and smells that took over the room. Stuffed grape leaves, seasoned lamb chops, cheese and meat sambusak, pasta with béchamel sauce, lentil soup, salads, and a massive platter of kabsa were some of the dishes before us.

Conversation filled the room as adults clumsily reached over one another, passing plates filled with food. They talked politics and real estate while children pushed the food on their plates around, giggling at silly faces they made at one another. One by one, guests reached their maximum capacity, and said a prayer of thanks and blessings to our family as they excused themselves from the table and headed towards the bathroom to wash their hands before returning to the living room. In the living room, things were quiet. Everyone sat down comfortably, and we turned to face the television, unable to move or talk from all the food. The guests looked at the desert laid out on the table like it was the plague, and yet none of them refused me when I handed them plates of kunafa filled with cheese and cups of tea. As I served desert, my mother fidgeted with the T.V. remote, flipping the channel to MBC 1 so that we could all tune in to the latest episode of Selfie.

I started to doze off early in the episode, my food coma overpowering me. I couldn’t help but love the month of Ramadan in that moment, despite the consistent cycle of waking up and sleeping too late, or the unintended weight gain (a direct result of eating like Vikings every night for thirty consecutive days). As I was drifting off to sleep, I wondered how much a single month could affect one’s mindset and top priorities. Perhaps Ramadan was actually just a prolonged version of New Years, of resolutions that never really lasted the whole year. Abstention from food and water from sunrise to sunset for a whole month can be seen as an opportunity for one to transform into a better, more disciplined, more religious, more sympathetic, and more tolerant human being. It can also be seen as an opportunity to celebrate – to gather with family and friends. An opportunity to eat, and eat again.

Salon of Approval

I sat there, in a familiar stranger’s house, shielded by my mother, who was far more social than I was. This was her environment, her comfort zone. I looked around the overly embellished salon, taking in the fusion of modern and archaic ornaments, noting the distinguished smell of Oud and the hint of Chanel Nº5 that floated in the air. I felt out of place, and with each passing moment, I felt my throat grow tighter, my palms sweatier. On the rare occasion that someone asked me about my age, name, or school, I inherently replied in a voice different from my own.

It was always the same scenario; it just took place in different locations, with slight variations to the characters present. My being there was no more than a formality. It saddened me to know that I wasn’t there as an individual, but as an addition – as someone who would one day be a legitimate member of this society. Not today.

I listened to the way they spoke. They were always talking about destinations – losing a few pounds, getting a higher professional position, or perhaps trips to Paris, London, or Istanbul. They talked fearlessly about what they wanted and I couldn’t help but listen. I stared at them in awe, though my stares were disregarded. I wanted to one day be so confident that no one’s stares would faze me.

A woman rose. I was unsure who she was at first but after a minute, I realized she was the hostess. She walked with a certain grace in her perfectly fitting monochrome dress and red-soled heels – an outfit I was sure from observing my mother had taken her very long to select. The refined woman carried the gold dallah – which surprisingly went well with her large gold earrings – in one hand, and a stack of fanajeen in the other as she circled the room, offering her guests Arabic coffee. She approached my mother, and I prayed that she wouldn’t interact with me, afraid that my bashfulness would be interpreted as rude or unfit for a setting like this.

Uninterestedly, she asked one of the most frequent questions there was: “How is school?” Typically I would have smiled ever so slightly and with the voice that wasn’t mine, responded by saying that it was fine. But something was different this time – I was determined to make an impression. “I graduate in 1,350 days!” I announced, hearing my actual voice enthusiastically relay the message aloud. I wasn’t sure whether I meant my comment as a joke, or as a mere observation. Either way, it stood out, and it wasn’t shy at all.

There was a brief moment of confusion at first; glances exchanged between the hostess and my mother, then, an approving laughter from the women. My mother looked at me and affectionately put her hand on my shoulder. The hostess looked at me with a humble smile, and gestured to me asking if I wanted coffee. She held out her hand to me, offering me the small cup of coffee, though we both knew she was offering me more than the traditional beverage. My mother seemed surprised when I reached out and took the small cup from the woman’s hand. Her eyebrows crippled with confusion and delight. I held the fenjan, white and decorated with a stylish trim of golden geometric shapes, in my hand as a prized possession – my token of acceptance. My eyes beamed with pride and confidence.

I came into the salon waiting for the moment I’d get to leave. I left looking forward to the next gathering, to the next time I’d get to be this version of myself – this elegant, coffee-drinking young woman, a woman who spoke with her real voice and was heard.

Hospitality in a Finjan

The smell of cardamom takes me back to some of my favorite memories of family gatherings in the holy month of Ramadan: everyone sitting around the iftar table, eagerly awaiting athan el maghrib to taste the luscious dates arranged before them, and to pour fresh coffee for themselves and their loved ones to sip and enjoy.

I grew up in a home that was always full of people, and always open for more guests. My father valued hospitality very much, and he explained to me at a young age that by inviting guests to your home, you show a willingness to share, and, more importantly, a desire to appreciate and befriend others – to love and embrace community. Not only did he highly encourage such generosity, but he also reprimanded his children for any action that showed the slightest form of inhospitality towards our guests.

I was nineteen when my father’s cousins dialed to say they wanted to come over for lunch for a change of scenery. Being the responsible and independent young woman I was at the time (I attended university abroad at the time, and was used to making decisions on my own) I made the only choice that seemed reasonable: I told them that I would call them right back after checking with my parents to see if they were prepared to have guests over for lunch. Oh, were my parents furious when I told them what had happened.

“If anyone ever wants to come over, you say ahlan wa sahlan; albeit beitakom! That’s all you say! You think they’re coming over for food?! Or to see a new place and new faces? They want to come see their family!” My mother went on about how I’d utterly embarrassed them, and how she’d taught me better than this. My father made me call our cousins back and apologize. I had to tell them why my first answer was totally out of place and rude, that I’d been abroad for a while and had thus forgotten how to respond in a cordial manner.

Things are different today. Saudi hospitality no longer revolves around simplicity, or around honoring guests and cultivating friendships. Nowadays, it’s about being the best. Hospitality has transformed into an unhealthy competition amongst the Saudi elite – an aggressive sport of one-upmanship in the form of lavish displays of table settings, exquisitely presented food, and pictures of these exclusive dinners and events plastered all over Instagram as a means of flaunting status. We no longer care about the time a host spends cooking for us anymore, but rather about who is catering.

When considering hospitality and friendship, I often think of the hadith, “Let the believer in Allah and the Day of Judgment either speak good or keep silent. Let the believer in Allah and the Day of Judgment honor his neighbor. Let the believer in Allah and the Day of Judgment honor his guest.” Arabic coffee and dates used to be all you needed to welcome a guest to your home, and cooking for guests was a heartfelt bonus. Hospitality was once about spending time together and making conversation. It was about meeting your friends’ children and bonding with new neighbors.

Though the state of Saudi hospitality today saddens me, I try to teach my own children part of what my father taught me. Because times are different now, I can’t teach them exactly what he taught me and expect them to actually apply it in their lives. I strive, however, to teach them to find a balance between what hospitality is truly about, and what they witness going on around them. Most importantly, I want them to learn to be generous with their time, their words, and their emotions. I want them to remember that the point of socialization is not to compete, but to enjoy one another, to help and be there for each other.

Coffee in Air

“Yes, please” I hear myself respond. The Asian flight attendant held the dallah in her left hand, as is customary to serve Arabic coffee. She poured the boiling hot liquid into a white thimble-sized coffee cup known as a fenjan, which she then handed to me with her right hand. I was impressed with her perfection of the ancient Arab tradition.

Saudi Arabian traditions can be confusing and stressful, because the slightest thing can offend someone. Serving a guest Arabic coffee must be done with the right hand – it’s the ultimate expression of hospitality. This can be a challenge for right-handed persons, such as myself, because the coffee has to be poured fresh out of the dallah into the fenjan with the left hand and served to the guest with the right hand. The delicate act of pouring the hot coffee into the small coffee cup is a skill that takes practice and getting used to. Saudis always want to ensure that they present themselves in the best possible manner, even if they are indifferent towards their particular guest.

My favorite place to have Arabic coffee is on Saudia Airlines flights. As soon as I get a whiff of the boiled cardamom and lightly roasted green coffee beans, my senses are awakened. As I carefully sip the steaming drink, aware of the caffeine entering my bloodstream and aware of the fact that I am on an airplane, the thrill of traveling hits me. My favorites flights are outbound – exiting my country.

Traveling is an essential part of the Saudi lifestyle. Perhaps this practice is remnant of the Arab Peninsula’s ancient past – of the trade routes and covenant journeys by winter and summer mentioned in the Holy Quran. For thousands of years, these routes extended throughout the Middle East, starting from India to Bahrain, all the way around the south of the Arabian Peninsula, and up the Red Sea, eventually finding themselves in Souk Okaz of Makkah. Personally I love to travel – to fly away in hopes of rest and relaxation from customs and suffocating social obligations.

I take every opportunity I can to hop onto a plane and visit a far away land. It is common knowledge that Saudi society is conservative by tradition, and some might even claim that it is oppressive. I don’t support the “oppressive” perspective, but I do find relief when I travel. The relief is a feeling of freedom, a freedom from judgmental attitudes and minds, from unforgiving social norms. Traveling provides us the opportunity to be ourselves. We are able to spend our days as we wish, enjoying ourselves from within the comfort of an anonymous community.

The first thing I do when I arrive at my travel destination is take a walk. I relish in the experience of seeing faces, and watching people move around in the clothes they chose to wear this morning. Colors are vibrant and human expression is exciting. The fact that I can see people jogging, talking, laughing, rushing to work, or even sitting on a bench revives my soul with purpose and poise.

I sip my Arabic coffee and feel totally content in my seat. The pressure of the cabin changes as the aircraft ascends into the skies, enhancing the feeling of the anticipated freedom in my chest. I look forward to my trip and I think of all the different things I want to do. I look forward to being myself.