So Close…

This morning, as I was beginning to think of what would be relevant to the new year’s wishes I’d like to send out, I was reminded of previous such essays that were often mired with an end-of-year tragedy. There was the Lockerbie plane crash, the earthquake in Bam, the Tsunami, to name just a few tragedies that took place in the very last week of the year. I am sure that if I were to sift through the annals of recent history, there would, sadly, be similar disasters taking place throughout the year, but the last week has different implications. Perhaps because January 1 is in sight, we’re just so close to a new beginning that it feels like we’re holding our breath for this very last stretch… we’re psyching ourselves into a positive disposition, a hopeful fresh start, we’re pushing that barometer as high as we can so that the new year, the new page, the new path can keep us afloat for the 365 days to follow.

So here we were, December 27, and I was silently thinking, with perked ears, that though we were recovering from personal tragedies, this last Monday to Friday was running relatively smoothly with no major turbulence on a global scale. Seemed as if nature and the warmongers had taken a break, and we might be able to usher in the new year with smoothed sheets, a clean slate.

Well… almost. Until news of Benazir Bhutto’s assassination spread. Goodness gracious...
I am not about to compare this incident with others mentioned here in terms of the enormity of casualties, or any other comparisons, for that matter. Frankly, that’s not my point, I’m not keeping count (that would be too depressing). I will, however, compare it to others as a destabilizing force. And in our current day and age, this not only affects friends currently in Pakistan - and I don't want to think of what's going through their minds - but the domino effect on the widespread geo-political web in the region.

Sigh… we were so close… guess we’re going to have to work a little harder to keep that page clean and bright and light…

رحيل

الأولى في ثلاثيناتها والثانية سـبعينيّة
تباين أجيال وتجارب
تسـاوت الأمس برحيلهما

هل اكتفيتما فجأةً من هذه الحياة؟
هل تسـاوت أمامكما الأيام، فانتقيتما هذا كعيدكما الجديد؟
هل وجدتما في آخر أنفاسكما ما يغنيكما عنّا؟

خدّرتنا الصدمة
فنحتار من حقيقة أصواتكما في مسمعنا
نتعامل بحزننا بكتابات، بدموع
بصمت عميق يخفي عنا ضجيج النهار
نغرق بحوارات مسـتمرة معكما
نعتذر، نودّع
نلَملِمكما في قصص لم تُختم
بأخبار لم تُسـمع
بسـلام أخير لم يُرفع
نحضنكما فينا
كي يعيش في غيابكما
ما أهديتمانا في حياتكما

بطلات كنتما في الحياة
وملائكة تبقيا في الممات

وداعاً أيتها الجميلات

Wordplay

Inspired by the dead time provided by a grueling traffic jam…

تعلو قهقهة الرفقة من قرنة المقهى
كشـال حريريّ يحفّ على حدة الحوار
كثيراً كتبنا كي نتفادى الكلام
فيبقى بيننا بريق بسـمات البنات

Sleep

There are documents to read and papers to write,
but all I want to do is sleep.
There are options to consider and decisions to take,
There are phone calls to make and emails to write,
There are presents to buy, and groceries to replenish,
There are clothes to put away and rooms to clean,
but all I want to do right now is sleeeeeep...

So I call an end to my day, finally crawl into bed... and lie wide awake!
Tell me - where's the justice in that??

And so we wait...

The crowds huddle before the high gates. It’s not too cold yet, and they’re willing to stay out there all day; they want to be sure there’s no delay in receiving the news.
“Yes, we know we had promised that a decision would be announced today, but we decided instead to postpone it another week.”
Someone splashes their drink angrily on the ground, a muffled groan rises in another corner, smaller groups quickly huddle to share their analyses of what this could mean.
What do we do now? Can we still put forth our plans for this week, or should we buck the risk and wait as well? Shall we close the schools? Stay out of the city? Delay that bank transfer? Hire the needed staff? Buy our Christmas presents?
It’s just one week, let’s just wait and see. The group disperses grudgingly, contemplating how to sell this decision to the others.
And so we wait.

The scene repeats itself the following week. The crowd is smaller now, and some chat with the security guards to feel out if they know anything. Anxiety is slightly quelled by the reassurance that a decision will certainly be announced today, and separate plans have been made to respond to the finite possibilities. With doors shut tight, the message is relayed through a pitiable clerk.
“Yes, we know we had promised that a decision would be announced today, but we decided instead to postpone it another week.”
Again?!!
But we’ve already closed the schools once, we’ve cancelled our travel plans, we made promises, negotiated deals that allowed for the first delay – what do we do now? The clocks tick louder towards the end of the year and the rest of the world is moving on – why are we standing still?

We have less patience for logical analysis, we have less room for rational thought. This time, we feel hurt and rejected. They have done this to us so many times before. Are our little lives so inconsequential to you that you should disrespect them so? We weren’t fooled into thinking that you actually cared about us, but why do you feel you can insult us like this?
As much as we try, our reactions will be equally irrational. One by one, we will make our plans without you. We will follow others abroad, or shrink into geographic shells, sulking, cutting ourselves off. We will live there like jilted lovers, licking our wounds and healing ourselves by going on with our lives without you.
A country without people, and a people reacting almost childishly to something as grand and visionary as the fate of their country; sunk in their passivity that they are oblivious to their role in affecting a change in path. Perhaps in time they will recognise this and slowly pull themselves into their own country’s canvas. Perhaps in time, those in power will realize that they are standing high on precarious stilts and would be better served to find other ways to build their course to that height. Perhaps in time…

And so we wait…

On the brink of…

These last few days, or perhaps I should say weeks or even months, some conversations around me have revolved around how we are ‘on the brink of war’. Others, though fewer, will argue that we are ‘on the brink of a new start’, with a new presidency, that is. Yet others, more balanced in their optimism-pessimism, will state that we are merely ‘on the brink of new negotiations’.

In the meantime, we feel, in turns, that we are on the brink of insanity…
You see, being on the brink of anything implies that you are somehow currently suspended at a pivotal point. The image that always comes to my mind is of a physical ‘brink’; you’ve already hiked your way up a particular path, somewhat long and winding, too far to turn back, and you find yourself at some sort of cliff. You can only see what lies at the other end if you walk a little closer and look over the edge, but taking those few steps usually means you’ve made your decision to keep going.

We, as a people, though clearly on the brink of something, seem paralysed in our spot, hesitating to approach that ‘cliff’. And I would argue that remaining at that spot, with all the continuous decision analysis that it entails (Do we approach? Do we deal with the losses and walk back? Are there other points/cliffs we should walk towards?) will eventually make us – you guessed it – insane.

So while we sit here, on the brink of one thing or another, I contemplate the types of brinks we could be at instead: on the brink of greatness, on the brink of revolutionary change … heck, I’d settle for on the brink of utter boredom right now. It may be folly, but I’m sick of being in limbo, and my foot’s making that move towards these brinks – want to join?

Marathon Day

The Beirut Marathon took place today, and I’m proud to say that I took part in it (the 10K run, that is) with the aches and blisters to prove it. To think I almost didn’t make it (word to the wise: don’t stay up late eating and drinking the night before), and to think I would have missed out on one of the very few city events we’ve had here in a while. A sense of community took over the town for a few hours on a Sunday morning, where the ‘us’ and the ‘them’ referred to the runners and the street-side cheerers. Nothing more – not politics or religion or regions or anything. That was very refreshing…

I am happy to describe our participation as less humiliating this time around as we actually managed to cross the finish line in just under 2 hours, a marked improvement on our last couple of attempts. For that, I mainly have to thank N, my 14-year-old ‘running’ buddy who was determined to break his last record (2hrs 10 mins) and arrive faster than our other competing friends.

I had never quite thought of the marathon as a competition – my goal was mainly to let my walking shoes just carry me over the finish line. The achievement was in the completion. Not the same for N, who would have welcomed a lane for visually impaired runners so that he could have actually run the marathon and arrived even quicker. Until that day, he got stuck with me. A challenge for both of us as N is now taller than me and could easily pull me ahead in his stride. At a couple of junctures (around the 7km mark and again after the 8th) that was actually our tactic – a little clear stretch would present itself in front of us and I would ask him to help me along. There were also a couple of other places where I was very grateful that Thurayya and Loulwa were also running with us, and could take over while I stopped by the side of the road for a breath. So you see, this young man had the energy of the three of us combined! If we hadn’t been so pleased that he pushed us to break the 2 hour mark, we may have been a little tougher on ourselves for being so out of shape.

But today, we will happily fall asleep with a medal hung on our bedposts – it doesn’t mark our time, but we’ll make sure everybody knows it!

Comedy Break

I've been traveling recently - and there will be much to write about that - and in my 'planes, trains and automobiles' trek to not so distant European cities, there was at least this main observation that I simply had to share.

If you can't read it clearly, it says:

"Do not open inboard fan cowl unit... blah blah... See instructions insides outboard door"

...

See instructions!!!??

There is just so much death…

Yes, yes, I know – someone will blurt out in true look-on-the-bright-side manner that death usually accompanies life, so there’s equally just as much life around. Let me side-step that totally and say “I don’t care about that right now, right this minute, I’m talking about death”. And truly, there is just so much of it around.

A few years ago, a friend who had moved back to Lebanon was weighing out her options about staying or returning to Canada. As we sat there listing the pros and cons, both professional and personal, I felt it was my duty to share with her my biggest discovery about being back here: death surrounds you. This was not a morbid discovery, and did not, at that time, relate in any way to conflicts or bombs (which has made the job of coping with death that much harder).
Quite simply, within our extended families and social networks, you will find yourself making that awkward phone call and digging out that somber black outfit more often than you think or like. In many instances, you will not even know the person who has just passed, and you go not truly in mourning but to comfort those he or she left behind, whom you do know and care about.

Having been one of those persons before, you find yourself in a Pavlovian reaction to their pain. I don’t subscribe to the endless search for reasons because, well, quite plainly, what’s the point? The pain I describe is quite different, and mainly has to do with dealing with an overwhelming absence. The emptiness left behind sucks you in – it’s not a passive gap or blank; there actually is a force that draws you in, as if physically excising with it the organs and thoughts in which you held that person. And that pain is indescribable, perhaps more so because we never expect it. After all, we are not pre-disposed to form a relationship with a conscious proviso that one party will disappear one day – and thank heavens for that! Thank heavens for that…

I always paint myself into a corner when I write about such topics. This time, I think I’ll stay there till the paint dries…

Nesting…

During a rather abysmal attempt at a carefree, spontaneous weekend out of the city (there have been many of these failed experiences, but that’s a topic for another installment), I found myself doing something I hadn’t done in a very long time – frantically cleaning up the apartment.

I’m not quite sure what caused it… There were very different plans for this long weekend. I was supposed to go up to a mountain retreat to do some overdue writing. The first crink in that plan came on the first day when I found that I simply couldn’t get out of bed. I wasn’t sick, there were no undue symptoms of anything, so I’m guessing it was a physiological strike against the exhausting rhythm of the previous two weeks. Either way, day 1 went to what I can now admit was badly needed rest. I’m actually still a little dazed about day 2 as well… I know that I did get up reasonably early, and drove myself up for a mountain barbecue. That didn’t take up all day, but I’m unclear about how the rest of the day was spent. I do know, however, that two thirds of the weekend had passed and I still hadn’t done any writing.

Which brings us to day 3 – frantic cleaning day. Waking up a couple of hours after my alarm clock(s) had gone off, I surrendered plainly to the failure of any attempt to write. I walked into my living room to find the chaos that had gone unnoticed during my 2-day daze, and weeks of spending little time at home. This scene coupled with the underlying guilt of not having been productive led to what can only be described as my nesting frenzy. Like a woolen sweater that unravels when you pull that loose thread, I was suddenly coasting through the house inch by inch, clearing up and throwing stuff in my wake. Newspapers were dumped, articles (that had been apparently waiting to be read or marked for a couple of years) were filed, DVD’s were put away, books were stacked… But it went on beyond just cleaning – I was cooking whatever I had in the freezer (and as too much was defrosted, I suddenly found myself creating concoctions with minimal, unreplenished seasoning to be consumed over the week), burning incense that I had long forgotten, hanging up trinkets that had been lying aside for aaaages, clearing pots for fresh planting… I tell you, it was insane! It was as if I wanted to galvanize and maintain each corner of the house.

And though I am the last one to deny my own insanity, I think the clear link to instinct is just too obvious here. Aside from the possible effects of changing seasons and an innate sense of putting things right before winter drives us indoors, I don’t truly think my senses are that attuned to the seasons. Quite simply, after losing control of my body, and my time within the span of two days, I suppose I was being instinctively propelled to reclaim my space.

At least my nest is now in order.

Futile Negotiations

By that, I am not referring to multi-party peace negotiations (which I sincerely hope aren’t futile) or multi-national business negotiations (which rarely are). Nor negotiations with a 2-year-old pulling a temper tantrum (where we can truly lose all control) or negotiations with tempting dessert dishes (where we have more control than we’d like to realize).

Not at all – I am referring to truly futile negotiations where we absolutely know no deal can be brokered, but continue to try anyway. For example, speaking to the skies while washing your car and attempting to reach an agreement that it doesn’t rain that same day… in the heart of rain season. Or carefully brushing your hair and attempting to convince the gray hairs that they would be uniquely special if they don’t invite more company. But my all-time favourite is one that I fall prey to practically every morning: negotiating with my alarm clock and snooze button to slow down time; wouldn’t that be nice?

Get my point – now that's futile!

Ode to Carrie Bradshaw’s Ode to the Perfect French Fry

There are days when there just isn’t anything to write about. This is not one of those days, but I’m not ready to write about what’s going on in my head, so I thought I would borrow from one of Carrie’s ploys to fill up her column.

For you ‘Sex & the City’ fans, you already know the episode I’m talking about; desperate for material, Carrie writes about her search for the perfect French fry in order to meet her column deadline. It’s not the plot of the episode, so we never really get any hints as to what she writes. But considering the nature of her column, this is what I think is some approximation (albeit a PG one) of what she may have written.

Finding the perfect French fry is like looking for the perfect man. For one thing, it’s very individual; some girls like their fries from the mass-produced, perfectly-cut frozen variety, some like them fried to a crispy crunch with a little skin, some like them so soft that they practically melt in your mouth. As for me, I like them home-cut so that you can almost sense the shape of the original potato, a bump here or there, a real and unique shape. You could almost say that what I like is the imperfection (and yes, you psychoanalysts can read into that what you like…). As for the cooking, I’m quite particular there too – the edges have to be crunchy, and the stem cooked such that there is something to actually chew without the taste of the potato being overwhelming.

As much as the criteria are individually defined, there are some elements that are common when searching for this so-called perfect fry:
1st – the fries have to be your main dish. Order them along with something else and you could miss THE fry.
2nd – location is unpredictable. You may stumble upon it in a new restaurant, or in the 120th plate at your favourite dive. Could be the fry, or could be just how you’re feeling that day… it doesn’t matter.
3rd – and here’s the final rub: however you define your perfect French fry, the only way to find out if it really is ‘perfect’ is by trying it out.

Just like men.

Commemorations and Anniversaries

September 11 brought with it a series of commemorations. In the same week, Beirut hosted a few activities in remembrance of the Sabra and Shatila massacre. A few days after that, it was time to commemorate the assassination of a president, and on and on … It suddenly felt that we only gathered to support each other in solemn occasions, to share grief or pain, to keep a sad slice of history alive in honour of those who perished.

I’ve decided that what we should be doing is recognizing and celebrating anniversaries of positive life effects, of events that saved lives and promoted humanity. Events that changed our world and our lives for the better, forever. Here are some real and imaginary events that come to mind, and for each, I call for a global day of tribute and celebration (if some of these already exist, they’re clearly not global enough, so let’s push them forward, people!):

- Discovering penicillin
- Eradicating polio
- Conquering childhood malnutrition
- Finding a sustainable solution to homelessness
- Giving women and youth the right to vote
- Shutting down the last manufacturer of weapons, arms and mines
- Celebrating the treatment of the last polluted water source
- Eliminating the word ‘discrimination’ from the dictionaries, because it no longer means anything
- Returning to the point where we see “number of people dead” as a crime and a tragedy, regardless of who, how, where, how many and why.
- …

Every time I come back to the list, I add something else on. I’ll leave it here for now, but feel free to add a few of your own…

Car Bombs and such…

Another car bomb went off in our fair city yesterday, claiming the life of an MP, 7 unfortunate souls who were nearby, and injured 25 others. In a tiny country that prides itself on its intimate support networks, I was paradoxically grateful that I did not know any of the victims, and suddenly wondered, morbidly, how long my luck would last.

It was another car bomb in our city. After two months of relative calm, this triggered the old mechanisms in all of us… I was at a seaside café when we heard the news. People leaving quietly and abruptly should have given it away, but our reflexes were rusty. After getting an update from my companion’s mother, we made the necessary calls to reassure family that we were alright, and to check on friends who live or might have been in the area, put away our cell phones and continued our conversation. My mother pleaded with me to go home, not realizing the safety I felt in staying still. Jumana texted from abroad, and when I replied that we were by the sea, returned with “Lebanon is a strange place”.

I suppose it is.

But here is what I continue to learn – that survival has many forms, one of which is standing perfectly still and not flinching; that a drop of hope carries people a long, long way; and that sometimes, when the problem is that much bigger than you, keeping it in the background can be an effective tactic.
Just a thought…

Airport Experiences

Having lived as an expatriate for most of my life, I became familiar with airports at a very early age. I should say, I became aware of farewells and departures at an early age. As children, we learn to take things in stride, and you would think that after all these years of experience, one would finally be accustomed to the process. Well, you would be wrong.

Returning from my recent vacation at my parents’, a funny old feeling revisited me. You probably know the one – when you willingly get on a plane knowing full well you want to reach your destination, but wondering why you have to leave in order to do so. As I waited for my ride at the airport, I wondered how I could feel so sad to leave a life that made me so unhappy and unfulfilled when I was in it. I believe this is the typical pondering of a typical ‘immigrant’.

We boast a centuries-long history of migration – both voluntary and forced – and yet we have still not cracked this code. Is it life that became so complicated, or are we no longer able to reconcile our dreams with a single place? Did our predecessors open the door to the world of opportunities, or pre-dispose us to the choice such that the completeness of our individual worlds was no longer possible without complications?

Considering we have been doing this for years and years, we have naturally found ways to acclimatize, so I don’t dwell on this much. It just comes to mind when I’m at airports…

The living is easy-er with naps

Have you ever noticed how, in our mid-thirties, the highest form of luxury becomes being able to take a nap in the middle of the day? Even more interesting as, if I recall, we resisted nap-time with a vengeance as pre-schoolers, and resisted any form of non-motion as young adults. I’m not lamenting my age, by any stretch. Quite the contrary, I’m relishing the fact that I now don’t resist the urge to lay back wherever I am during the day, and shutting the world off for a blessed 15 – 20 minutes.

If you haven’t tried this recently, I highly recommend it. It is now a must on my list of holiday criteria … and I’m thinking of sneaking a sofa into the office too.

Please leave a message…

I love these out-of-office automated replies. It gives the impression to whoever has just contacted you that you were considerate enough to rub your vacation into their face, complete with how long you’ll be away while they’re still working. My main complaint is my automated message never seems to work!

I am finally on vacation. A number of tell-tale signs indicated that it was time to take a break (let’s just say that I fell just a few inches shy of breaking things), and though finding a seat on a plane proved to be a challenge, I was packed and off in a few days. “Packed” not only referred to necessary and not-so-necessary items of clothing, but also to a number of books, articles, etc. that I thought I would attend to now that I had free time. Big mistake. The one thing worse than bringing work with you on your vacation is being overrun with guilt for not doing said work. After two days of trekking around with a backpack full of papers and books, instead of swimsuits and shorts, I received a metaphorical slap in the face from a friend who simply insisted “DETACH”. Interesting how the simplest messages forcefully expressed are so effective… If you need me, I’ll be at the mall or evaporating on the beach. Still carrying those articles around, but not really caring if I get to them or not. Guess attitude really is everything.

And we're off...

I've been trying or wanting to set up a blog for some time. Ironically, it was my father's recent insistence that pushed me to finally appear here. I suspect he wanted me to find an alternative outlet for my ideas and opinions than his earshot.

Whatever the case, I am now finally here. I must confess at the start that my reasons are totally self-serving - my own form of self therapy and self discipline - and in such a spirit, I have chosen to make myself somewhat anonymous here. If you already know me, it won't be too difficult to read through my pseudonym. If we have never met, then I hope whatever posts you find here will be interesting enough without my identity mattering at all. I tried to think of a name that could reflect the almost voyeuristic tendencies of the blog, but couldn't come up with anything zingy. Instead, I borrowed my great-grandmother's name, whose wise stories and observations have wafted through my childhood, and called myself Jaleela...