For the records

Being agnostic doesn’t make me any less of a Muslim than Woody Allen being atheist would make him less of a Jew. The fact is the way I am is the way I am. Where and to whom I was born is my reality. The way I was brought up, programmed, defined, etc... is the way it is. I cannot change it and I have no interest in doing so. Reading Anne Coulter or Michelle Malkin attacking Muslims offends me regardless of my beliefs. I would never stop criticizing Arabs and Muslims, but it’s really upsetting to face racist attacks. For some reasons it feels better if I say the same things myself; I say it with concerned bitterness, but to hear it loaded with hatred… ouch it hurts….

يناظرني خلسةً

يناظرني خلسةً ويغضّ الطرف
وأنا أدخل المطعم بكل ثقة محمّلة بحقائبي الثلاث التي تكاد تقصف ظهري ولكني أكابر وأمشي بفخر

يناظرني خلسةً ويغضّ الطرف
وأنا أكاد أتعثر بحافة المدخل, أتفاداها بخفة مصطنعة وأرفع نظري لأتأكد أن أحداً لم ير خيبتي وأكمل

يناظرني خلسةً ويغضّ الطرف
ثم يتابع كلامه مع زميله خلف البار. يتوقف, ينظر إلي ثم يكمل

عيناه أضاعت تركيزها وإذا بها تدور بفلك المكان. يلتقطها, يناظرني خلسةً ويغضّ الطرف

المكان خالٍ إلا من عاشقين استغلا ورشة مترو دبي للجوء إلى هذا الطعم المهجور

يناظرني خلسةً
وأنا أمشي بثقل وخفة بشعري المرفوع إلى الأعلى وقميصي الرسمي وحقيبة حاسوبي تصرخ: أنا امراءة عاملة

يناظرني خلسةً ويغضّ الطرف
وتنورتي تلامس الركبة وتطير مع كل خطوة ورنّة خلخالي أطرشت فرموناته فانطلقت ودوّت وأفعمت المكان

يناظرني خلسةً وزميله يسألني ماذا أريد للعشاء وأنا أمازحه علناً وأشد أوتاره خفيةً

يناظرني خلسةً وأنا أجلس قرب النافذة لأطال كتبي وأوراقي وأسترسل بالقراءة


يناظرني من وراء البار وأنا بفطرة أنثى اعتادت اللصلصة من خلف خمار أناظره بانعكاسات الزجاج

Still in the fort

Today is your birthday my love, happy birthday. Don’t ask me how I remembered it, I don’t know. All I know is that you’re always here with me, in the back of my mind and between my chin and chest; I wear you like an indispensable charm. I don’t believe in angels, but should I do so, you would be my guarding angel; my chosen one. No, not an angel, I don’t want you to guard me - although only the thought of you does protect me - you would be my god, my Greek-style god; a god that I discovered out of the blue and started worshiping ever since; a god that I took all the trouble in the world to build his temple from my own skin and ornament it with my own hair; a god that I keep burning my blood at his altar hoping that one day he will answer my prayers and look at me; my own god….

Would I ever see you again? Would my days at the fort have a happy ending like Rapunzel? Would we live happily ever after? Would I ever be released from my two kids and dying husband curse? I don’t think so, and I don’t think I even want to…

I never understood birthdays or what they symbolize. Why do we celebrate them? What’s there to be happy about? We are one year closer to our death, or should we celebrate death? Why is it my day? Every day, when I’m not in a grumpy mood is my day…. not very often but still. I think anniversaries are made to mark our failure and not to celebrate… whatever

I took Louloua to the mall yesterday to shop for her birthday bash. Nabil kept his word and we’re throwing her an amazing (hopefully) party. She’s crazy about Hanna Montana so we agreed on the theme. No hiccups like last year. Remember when she locked herself for two days in her room because I refused the “pimps and whores” theme?! For god’s sake she was 15! I’m open-minded that’s right, but my brain still did not fall out! We don’t fight as much anymore, I guess she’s growing up and getting much better at choosing her battles…

Anyway my love, I have to go. Rami is knocking on my door, I’m sure it’s money he needs, nowadays I only hear from him if he needs money… happy birthday again…