Monday 28 February 2011

All About Me...

Oh wait, my narcissism is nothing compared to yours...the amount of self praising shit I read online, I pale dimly in comparison.

And why not after all? Am not a bad deal. Actually am a very good deal. And for once am not writing about others, giving them my time and writing about me.

The title is kind of misleading...I never say all about me...the very important essential crucial stuff remains with me. People are always under the impression that they really know me well...but they don't. It's just an impression. I have corners in my self that no one can reach...but I have reached them. I know myself very well. I spent a lifetime getting to know myself...I think this is one of my greatest achievements and one of my best investments.

It was hard, took a lot of effort, courage, time, energy, but I like the end result - I am no stranger to myself.

I am no stranger to myself at all...I may feel like a stranger or strange to many people, but am no stranger to myself. I inhabit me, I take up the space inside of me...there is no hollowness, no emptiness, no shallowness...I've dived as far as I could and as deeply as I could...

Am sure there is more...but that I will uncover the process, in due time...

I was not raised like a spoiled girl...I learned delayed gratification, I learned to wait, I learned patience...later on I learned endurance and perseverance...these are off shoots of Patience.

Shallowness is a big turn off for me...I find in it the epitome of Pettiness...Shallowness for me is the antithesis of the Cosmos, of the Universe, of its depth and its vastness. I can't stand petty shallow people. I find them to be a waste of life. This reminds me of a book I read sometimes ago - the little man in the box. This is how I view petty people...little men and women in square boxes. And am not easily impressed either...what impresses other people easily does not impress me at all. It takes much to impress me. And non of it has to do with quantity. For me quality is primordial because quality has the power to transform...

I was always viewed as different, from a very early age, am not sure different from what or from whom...but different...

In the beginning, this perception by others bothered me, made me want to hide, today I assume it, I wear it with pride, a badge of honor.

It was nothing physical, or the way I looked, it was just the way I was...apart.

Apart is the right word ...yes apart. Apart from the crowd, apart from the group, apart from the peers...Just apart.

Maybe I was born that way, to be apart...I don't know, but it's always been there and am very fine with it. I inhabit that "apart" and am no stranger in my own territory. I know my inner house and all of its dwellings very well...hence I can know the other easily...without much analysis, or just kind of jumps to my face...within seconds.

It's not a rational knowing, it's a different kind of knowing...very hard to explain in words...maybe instinctive, intuitive, archaically limbic...and beyond...

I am not sure why am writing all of this...who cares, it is my diary after online talking about my latest hairdo, my wardrobe, my nails, my love affairs, or what I had for breakfast...

Well that kind of sums it up for no means all comprehensive or house is of many mansions.

Saturday 26 February 2011

Cleaning Dirt from Under a Carpet.

Woke up this morning with a very powerful dream. I have to write it down so I won't forget.

I dreamt I was in a huge living room, modern looking, with colorful cushioned seats, I knew no one there, a mix of people...

I wanted to find a place to sit, but there was none. Someone suggested a seat with no back, like a huge cushion and its color was white. I had to carry it so as to bring it closer to this very modern colorful looking salon, so I can be near the crowd.

As I lifted this huge white cushion, I saw an amass of dirt underneath it. Tons of dust. I thought to myself this is so weird, this place looks so modern and colorful with all these friendly babbling people, how come all this dust ?

Then I lifted the huge carpet that was covering the floor, and I saw millions of particles of dirt, like miniscule dirty grey snow flakes covering the whole surface of this modern lodgings.

And as I kept lifting the carpet, I saw more and more of the dirt gathered in heaps...

Then I remember saying to myself in the dream -- I need to clean all of that...this must be swept, cleaned right away.

I understand what this dream means to me.

The modern colorful living room where all kinds of "friendly" babbling strangers are gathered is the social media Twitter.

And beneath all the niceties, the so-called friendliness, the modern style, the bright colors, lies heaps of dust, like grey dirty snow flakes...

Flakes, flakes....Fakes, Fake.

A Purification process.

Saturday 19 February 2011


I must admit, am not too good at sugarcoating.

Iraqis are known to have other skills but this one.

I am not particularly fond of sugar you can understand how difficult it is for me to sugarcoat...

The people that are most proficient at it in the Middle East are the Iranians, the Lebanese, the Syrians,the Egyptians and to a slightly lesser degree the Palestinians. Am sure they sugarcoat in the Arab Gulf too, but then I am not a Gulf expert.

As for me, I've always been allergic to sugarcoating. There is something very pervert about it, very false, very phony and very misleading...

Granted, wearing satin gloves to deliver a truth may pay...Indians and Pakistanis are experts in that too, by the way.

As for me, spare me your satin gloves...your methods of delivering the truth is more hurtful than the truth itself.

OK, am not saying you should punch me in the face instead...all am saying is -- spare me your fake niceties, your pathetic attempts at ego management...

I have no ego when it comes to Truth. I accept it raw. IF I feel it to be true.

Monday 14 February 2011


Been promising a friend some I hate, loathe pictures. Ever since I was a kid I'd shun the camera. Whatever the occasion - birthday parties, school graduation, playtime, long as no one took a photo of me.

This started around the age of 4 or so...I hardly have photo albums, but I did collect some old pictures that were kind of forced upon me, that I stacked in a small carton box, gathering dust.

And now that I have finally acquired my smart ass phone, I have been amusing myself taking pictures...and some of them are photos of myself.

Not only that, I am also taking pictures of pictures, of my old self, the few photos I have of my old self, going back to my teenage years...

When juxtaposing all of these pictures chronologically, I can't believe what I am witnessing...

The changes in me during those past 8 years in comparison to before, have taken me aback.

Well obviously there is the natural 8 years aging process, this I can't stop, but this is not what captured my attention most...what captured my attention most is something in my eyes...something died in my eyes...and that same something that died reflects itself on my whole face...

Something broke inside of me, there is no doubt about it...

Oh God, how to make it whole again ?!

Sunday 13 February 2011

Coming in from the Cold.

What was this proverb ? If you need to know someone, walk a mile in his shoe ...or to that effect.

There's another sentence for it - to know where you're coming when you hear, I understand where s/he is coming from...

I suppose when you know or understand where someone is coming from, you can develop some compassion, or you can allow compassion (if you have it in your heart to start with) to emerge...

With people I feel to be genuine and authentic, am all ears...When I FEEL them to be GENUINE and AUTHENTIC but when that feeling is not there, am as hard as a rock.

It is quite sad in so many ways that this equation is not always reciprocal, or mutual...most people are too self focused, and they just need to be understood, cared for and accepted. And without wanting to boast too much, just giving myself some credit, I can safely say that I've listened and given way more than what I have received...

I suppose I've started off with the assumption, the hidden assumption, that nothing goes to waste, that nothing goes unaccounted for. Maybe this is what Faith is all about.

Yet I must also say that many a times I've been down and out, coming in from the cold, and there was no one there for me...many reasons for that - Iraq is a big one.

Dispersed families in different countries, no natural extended network, or basis of support, trying to fend for myself, staying strong so as not to be overwhelmed with events, keeping a cool head so I don't lose perspective and faith, also not wanting to be a burden on anyone, not wanting to impose with my issues...yet I kept my ears wide open for other people's issues even when I was the one who needed to be listened to, who needed the support the most...

At times, I'd lose it and become enraged with the lack of insight from others, with their refusal to acknowledge their over sense of self, their self centeredness, their lack of empathy, of understanding sum their lack of compassion.

And this is where my rage around Iraq comes from as well. I have met very very few people who walked a mile in an Iraqi shoe, very few who stopped and listened, very few who lend genuine ears...

We are not a kind of people who constantly whine and lament like other nations, this is our character...but I am yet to meet someone who genuinely strove to scratch below the surface, and see for themselves, where we're coming from, and what a cold place it is.

But as the Arabic proverb goes - Faqed el Sha'y la ya'tee. Meaning the one who lacks a thing - cannot give it away. Alas, this is very true.

Saturday 12 February 2011

Buried Alive - Not So.

This is no analysis, no background paper, no article you can use.

I do not want any of these posts to be reproduced. I repeat - I DO NOT WANT ANY OF THOSE POSTS TO BE REPRODUCED.

So for those pimpled assholes you have been disrespecting my request...this is addressed to you. You know who you are.

Let's get on with it now, shall we ?

Burying alive...

I do not remember addressing that subject before, only "en passant", when I spoke of the backlash hitting Iraqi women, and the resurgence of Female Genital Mutilation, unheard of before your fucking American liberation. Yet today, there are rising cases in Iraq of female genital mutilation.

I repeat the fucking words so they can sink into your thick brains - female genital mutilation. It means mutilating female genitals. It means cutting off, excising female genitals, it means a modern democratic version of burying a woman in the Jahaliyah, in the age of Ignorance. Except this time it is not pagans who worship false statues, idols and gods who do it, this time it is conducted in the 21st century under the patronage of the United States of America, under the aegis of Liberty and Freedom.

Ram this into your fucking thick brains, because this is the Truth.

I have covered nearly everything under the sun except this one. There is always a reason. Today I understand the reason. And NOW is what matters.

When I was 12 or 13, someone wrote to me in a little school notebook : turn your scars into stars.

This has stayed with me...turning my scars into stars...because what point is there for scars if they don't illuminate like stars ?

No one genitally mutilated me : not my parents, not my family, not my culture, not my religion, not my one buried me alive either....yet I am obliged to address this issue. I feel an imperative obligation to do so.

Why ? am not sure why...all I know is I need to turn my scars into stars.

I come from a culture that buried women buried little girls alive, as a form of sacrifice to a female hating God.

I am told this period is over. I am told the Prophet Muhammad rectified all of that...historically it may be true, but concretely I am still living the pre-Islamic Jahiliya.

They still bury us alive...they still excise us...

Do not take my words literally...take them symbolically.

Our men are still men from the Jahiliya and our women are still pagan worshipers...but they know it not.

The Idols are still there, except today you are a veiled woman bowing at their feet of clay.

They told us He is your center, we circumambulated around the Kaba'a and we stoned the Devil, only to see him laugh at us, in total mockery...

We did not stone him inside ourselves...we got stoned instead and we did not put up a fight..we surrendered, succumbed to the pagan god that excised us, that buried us alive...

We submitted time and time again to false words, dressing them up as monuments only to fall flat on our faces...

We longed, being the deprived ones, we longed like a Hagar, running the Safa and the Marwa...abandoned by an Abraham and yet giving birth to a nation...

Deprived, we have remained...putting up airs. Adding extra make up, tightening a veil, hugging closer a pair of jeans...but we lost the Hagar in us...we lost the Safa and the Marwa and the waters of Zamzam specially gushing for us...

We forgot the lesson, I am reminding myself now...

I turn my scars into stars
remembering parables from afar..
I turn my scars into stars to remind me who we are.
God said to me through Hagar,
Water is at your feet
there is no Defeat.
I hear your plea
I am here for a She.
No buried alive
No succumbing to a male drive
I am here for you
this is my promise to you
and today I repeat it,
gushing it, anew...

Thursday 10 February 2011

Romance & The Facebook Generation.

I am sorry to say but I have total dislike, zero respect for the Facebook generation.

Let me qualify here. Facebook generation means the internet generation...the ones who dream, make friendships and even fuck on the internet...

This is a category of people I simply can't handle...and I shall call them the Facebook generation.

Apart from my own stereotype of a group of pimpled assholes, both males and females - there is something drastically wrong with them.

- the majority are idiots

- the majority of them think wikipedia is the answer

- the majority of them come from a culture of video clips

- the majority of them believe links to stories to be the truth, in other words, there is no hard work involved, no research, no digging up, no fucking reading - you know paper and ink reading..these pimpled assholes don't read shit.

- and then there's the pics shit---send me your pic I'll send you mine kind of contract.

The whole fucking world is thus reduced to pics and links.

But that is not the worst part. The worst part is yet to come...

The worst part is the romance part. Yeah Romance, all of you wankers have logged on at one time or another wishing it would come true.

Now the romance part is the most interesting one.

It's the Facebook generation romance.

Let me translate that to you in real terms :

You meet a dude, a 20 year old something and he's the Facebook generation.

You ask him or her- who are you friends ? he'll tell I've got 250 of them on Facebook.
You ask that poor wanker - how many of them you met in real life, he goes --- duh, dunno...
You ask that poor soul who is really there for you ? and he'll give you an emoticon for an answer.

He'll, she'll say - my best friend on Facebook...

A little older and he'll say --- I love so and so, met them online..

Did you smell them, did you see them, apart from your fucking frozen pic, did you hold them, did you look into their eyes, did you see them frown, cry, hurt, smile, laugh...did you see them ?

The answer is almost always I did not, but I know..

What the fuck do you know ? You know shit all. You don't even know how your own mind fucking ticks. Let alone megabytes away.

OK granted, some miracles happen...but give it a fucking break will you ?!

I belong to an older generation and proudly so.

We worked fucking hard. We struggled, we pained, we sacrificed, we endured, we fought, we raised men and women...only to have a pimpled asshole link us to Facebook.

In Romance, we understood the game - no pain, no gain. In other words - you want true love, you fight for it...nothing comes easy, nothing comes free of charge. You want the real thing, you battle for it.

Even innocuous dance parties were testing playgrounds. A man had to try hard to ask his woman for a dance. Nothing was a given...all had to be earned..and this is how real men are made.

It was no fucking emoticon smiley poke that did had to work for it.. WORK for it. You had to do you own little jihad, your own little warfare, your struggle...because struggle molds you into a fine human being...and you know it not.

Finally, you'd the woman, the dance, the evening, whatever it was...

A long preparation for a scent, for a perfume, for a whiff of your desire. Finally, you say to yourself - it was worth it...and the pleasure, the immeasurable pleasure...a tactile pleasure, a hands on pleasure, a worthy pleasure...

How many of the Facebook generation can relate to that ?

Wednesday 9 February 2011

The Heart Shaped Balloon & The Prostitute.

Am really supposed to be in bed, but I can't shake off that image from my mind. I actually woke up with it this morning, I need to get to the bottom of it, maybe writing about it will elucidate its persistent presence before my eyes.

Two things about me, I forget dates and names. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise. Anyway this must have happened some years back, maybe 3,4 years ago. Am not too sure.

It was St.Valentine's day and I was invited to some party. I turned down the invitation, I did not feel like being in a crowd. That same evening, I decided I was going to go and celebrate St.Valentine's alone. So I headed to this place that I quite like, to have a tête à tête dinner with myself. Something I enjoy doing. I don't mind my own company. I actually quite like it.

I was not even dressed for the occasion, I remember I had some khaki army pants and a large sweater, on. I looked as if I was about to join some battlefield not a Valentine's evening dinner.
I could have not cared less. I just wanted a nice meal by myself and was not there to make an impression. Besides, I was almost certain that all the women present would be dressed for the occasion, and boringly so...I guess I wanted to make it a point to look different - maybe unconsciously so, now in retrospect.

I knew the waiters there, I was a familiar face, albeit a curious one, but familiar nonetheless.
One of them rushed to greet me, and the first thing he did was hand me a rose and a red heart shaped balloon - wishing me a Happy Valentine.

A small band was playing, I was enjoying my meal and the music...things felt right.

Suddenly a friend, more like an acquaintance, passed by and he insisted we go down to some party happening in the basement of this place - a St.Valentine's party. I was not too keen on the idea, but seeing his pleading, I agreed. I made sure to take my rose and my heart shaped balloon with me.

The place downstairs was really crowded, everyone was carrying their own heart shaped balloon, the music was blasting, we stood at the bar, since no seats were available. I held on tight to mine. The dude I was with, disappeared outside to make a phone call. I was left standing there, watching people interact - another hobby of mine.

Next to me was standing a guy, he looked like a tourist, well dressed hugging a woman from behind. She was wearing a short low cut dress, half of her tits were on the bar, heavy make up, drinking champagne, and smoking. It did not take a genius to figure out that she was a hooker. The guy spoke to her in English and she did not understand one word, all she did was rub herself against him. It looked seedy and very cheap. I thought to myself -- this is not my problem, to each his own.

But this slut kept staring at the point of making me feel really uncomfortable...I tried ignoring her, fiddled around with my rose, waiting for this guy to show up from his interminable phone call and still holding on tight to my balloon. After all, I was no competition to her, it's not like I was going to snatch her client away or anything.

The whore lit another cigarette and kept staring at me...then she held her cigarette with her two forefingers, as if holding a sharp poisoned needle and pointed it in the middle of my heart shaped balloon, pricking exploded like a bomb and I saw bits of the shredded red balloon fly into the air only to fall on the bar like dead bloodied limbs.

She smiled with the satisfaction of a vampire, then turned around and kissed her client on the mouth, leaving a trail of her lipstick on his face. She turned back and stared at me, once more...

This time I did not leave her gaze, I held it there for what looked like an eternity, a quiet ice cold stare from me to her, as if magnetizing her, immobilizing her in her place. She lost control. I could tell. She flicked her ashes next to the ashtray, her glass nearly tipped on her naked bosom, her body stiffened and she was no longer rubbing herself against him, his arms let go of her, he started fiddling with his tie, she started pulling down her dress, re-arranging the scene...and I would not let go...I kept at it, till he finally said to her - come let's leave now.

So they left...and the shredded pieces from my heart shaped balloon laid there, amidst empty lipstick stained glasses, cigarettes butts and ashes left by a prostitute - a merchant of love.

Tuesday 8 February 2011

Puerile Cunts...

Am really sorry to use that foul, disgusting, politically incorrect, gender insensitive word - cunt.


I fucking hate puerile cunts. There is no other way to describe them.

I can't handle kids in adult bodies...I can't handle puerile, juvenile boasting shits...I was born an adult.

At the age of 4, I remember looking at myself in a mirror placed in the entrance of our home and said out loud to myself - what am I doing in a body of a 4 year old ?

Am an old soul...I've been around a thousand times.

So do excuse my impatience with puerile cunts.

Saturday 5 February 2011

The Bending Bough...

The bending bough is a bough that does not yields...

Yielding and Resilience are for me one and the same.

It yields because it has an inner structure that allows it to be so. That inner structure is not genetic, is not physical, is not mental, is not moral...that inner structure is something else.

That something else is called Grace.

The sine qua non condition for Grace to be de facto bestowed, lies in the Heart.

This is when miracles happen...

Friday 4 February 2011

Flashback - Flash Back .

I know that something is not going right, seriously wrong, when I get these flashbacks.

They've been growing in intensity lately one particular image just popped out of nowhere, in full colors, in full details, with all the emotions that I felt, it was as if it was happening now. It was one instance of an image. Just one instance. So precisely and meticulously recorded in my memory, in my limbic system, in my cortex, in my neurons, in my body...

I don't know what triggered it. It's usually stress that does it.

I think I know's a combination of things, both personal and political.

The personal I shall leave to myself, am a very private person, even though I do come across as big mouthed.

As for the political - it's the mob effect in Tahrir Square, Ferdaws Square, no Tahrir Square, or is it Ferdaws Square...

When this happens to me, I need to lie low, more exposure makes me very vulnerable, one step into a Hell I can't afford to visit anymore...

Tuesday 1 February 2011

Never A Dull Moment

I woke up thinking about dullness...No, actually, I woke up laughing because this song "bahebak ya hmar" (I love you ya Donkey) was still playing in my head, with particular reference to Arab men and Hosni.M of course. This song cracks me up. I love the humor in it, the double usage of words, the hidden meanings...
I suppose this is the power of Wit, of Humor.

So what has dullness got to do with it ? I'm not exactly sure about the what - maybe it's because being in this corner of the virtual world, I find myself surrounded with excessively dull people. With a few, rare exceptions, the dullness is so thick, it can be cut with a knife. I find it particularly so on Twitter, where I happen to interact with a sizable number of people. The dullness combined with a forever sense of urgency - you'd think it's the apocalypse. I suppose politics is a very dull enterprise, conducted by a bunch of heavy muffins.

Actually these same people tell me -- you come across as so mad -- I'd rather be mad than dull, really.

As for real life, I realized that those I consider to be good friends, have one thing in common, (apart from the fact that they deserve my friendship), they have a sense of humor, they are funny...I can't befriend dull people.

I remember this one person who on the surface I found interesting and thought it would be nice to get to know her better, so we met around 5 times, and I could not bring myself to like her much. Today I realize why - she was so fucking dull, in an intense kind of way.

I suppose living in a dull country, with a dull people make something for it. I have to work extra time, extra hard to find the hidden humor, waiting to be discovered and laughed off. This is one of the reasons I like writing satirical portraits, characters, I suppose am trying to infuse them with a little humor, a little life..

As for my life, is it dull ? Chaotic - Yes. Dull - No.


Tonight I feel like tackling a nearly taboo subject "responsibility" - response-ability.

I feel it's a taboo subject, because everyone shuns responsibility....and when they don't, they do it grudgingly.

Being irresponsible is much takes no effort, none whatsoever. Easy way outs are for idiots. Because there is no easy way out. It all catches up with you in the end...

I personally never liked idiots. Stupidity and Idiocy bore me to death.

Being response-able, responsible, on the other hand, excites me...

It excites me because it demands of me to challenge myself, it demands of me to stand firm, it demands of me to push my own limits, or what I believe to be my limits..

Being responsible is gratifying...for me it is.

It extracts from me something beyond tames me and reminds me of my duties not just my whims...

I personally have a tremendous dislike towards irresponsible people. I associate irresponsibility with cowardice, with easy way outs, with spinelessness...

I suppose being responsible also means the willingness to face things and not hide from them.

Responsibility takes much courage...and much dedication.

Responsibility entails, a priori, a set of ethics, entails a sense of sacrifice of one's immediate comfort...

A going beyond the self...with Trust.