Showing posts with label emotional. Show all posts
Showing posts with label emotional. Show all posts

Sunday, December 6, 2009

I am addicted to حمص (Hummus)

TITLE: I am addicted to حمص

DATE: 11/14/2006 20:00:28





I am addicted to  Hummus حمص





I cant stop eating Hummus
عن جد... مش قادرة اوقف أكل حمص   ... بحبه بحبه
بموت في ربه


والله

شكرا يا رب على الحمص

Thank you God for the Hummus











 with olive oil زاكي مع زيت الزيتون


 and salt and lebon وملح ولمون


 and hot pita وكماج سخن

 



  and summak and cummin
وسماق وكمون

  and a fresh tomato وحبة بندورة



 






 and some olives مع شوية زتون






 God bless the Hummus يسعد رب الحمص





Sunday, October 4, 2009

يا محمد بويه محمد Mohammad, my precious Mohammad


ولك سال
They poured
ولك سال
and poured
لغيرك ما يسل دمعي ولك سال
for other than for you
my tears never pour
ولك سال
they poured
ولك سال

and poured
وعليك القلب ما تدري
Dont you know that
because of you

ولك سل
my heart withered
ولك سال
They poured
ولك سال
and poured

ولك سال
and poured
يا خايب
You're such a looser
يوم عن حالي
just for once
ask about how I'm doing
ولك اسأل
Ask
ولك سل
It withered
ولك سال
They poured
تركتني وما تدري شصار بي

you left me
and
you have no idea
what happened to me
يا محمد بويه محمد
Mohammad, my precious Mohammad
قتلي ليش تتعمد
Why do you intentionally kill me

يا محمد خاف من الله
Mohammad
Fear God
يا محمد مو فوق الله
يا محمد مو هذا الله
That's not the way to go, Mohammad
عيوني محمد
You are my eyes, Mohammad
قليبي محمد
You are my little heart, Mohammad

يا محمد شنهو ذنبي
Oh, Mohammad
What guilt have i committed
بين عداي وترميني
that made you throw me
among my enemies
لو تدري النار اللي بقلبي تكويني وتاذيني
If you only knew
about the fire that's in my heart
that is burning me
and hurting me
عيوني محمد
You're my eyes , Mohammad
قليبي محمد
You're my heart, Mohammad
يا محمد يا نور العين
Mohammad, you are the light of my eyes
ياللي سبيت الصوبين
you have driven everyone crazy
both sides
دجلة وفرات النهرين
the two rivers
Euphrates and Dijlah

بويا محمد
My precious Mohammad
عمي محمد
My Darling Mohammad
this part down here is part of the song but not in this version
يللي اغلى من روحي
You are the one who is more dear to me
than my own soul

ليش تزيدني تعذيب
why are you
torturing me
more and more
حبك مرهم لجروحي
your love is an ointment
for my wounds
وجروحي برضاك تطيب
and my wounds
heal
when you are ok with me

عيوني محمد
You are my eyes, Mohammad
قليبي محمد
You are my little heart , Mohammad
يا محمد بويه محمد
Mohammad, My baby Mohammad
. قتلي ليش تتعمد
Why do you deliberately kill me
يا محمد خاف من الله
Mohammad, fear God
يا محمد مو هذا الله
That's not the right way
عيوني محمد
You are my eyes, Mohammad





Tuesday, September 29, 2009

عبدالله الرويشد ... قلبي معك - من الكويت - My Heart is with you - Abdalla Rweished from Kuwait

 قلبي معك يا مشغل البال ملتاع
My heart is with you
burning
you
the one who
occupies  my mind
 يلّي تدوّر ما يزيد التياعي
you
the one who
seeks all that would
increase my heartache
 المشكلة انك فاهمٍ كل الاوضاع
 The problem is that
you understand the situation well
وما للهجر في الحب يا زين داعي
 and there is no reason
for leaving who you love
خليت قلبي يرتجف بين الاضلاع
 you made my heart shiver
inside my ribs
يصبح علي الصبح ما نمت واعي
the morning comes
and I havent slept a wink
فيك الرجا يا  مشقي الروح  ما ضاع
 hope hasnt been lost in you,
torturer of my soul
وعيّت عيوني قبل غيرك تراعي
 and my eyes refuse to
see other than you
 ياللي عيونك حلوةٍ سودٍَ ووساع
 you
the one who has
beautiful, wide black eyes
معذور لو جيت الهوا باندفاعِ
 I am not to blame
for going into your love
without hesitation
ياما نهيت القلب لا شك ما طاع
 So often I forbade my heart
it didnt obey
راضي بغرام اللي سعى في ضياعي
 satisfied with loving
the one who seeks my doom





Wednesday, September 16, 2009

My Flower to Bush, the Occupier The Story of My Shoe By MUTADHAR al-ZAIDI

My Flower to Bush, the Occupier
The Story of My Shoe

By MUTADHAR al-ZAIDI

    Mutadhar al-Zaidi, the Iraqi who threw his shoe at George Bush gave this speech on his recent release.

In the name of God, the most gracious and most merciful.

Here I am, free. But my country is still a prisoner of war.

Firstly, I give my thanks and my regards to everyone who stood beside me, whether inside my country, in the Islamic world, in the free world. There has been a lot of talk about the action and about the person who took it, and about the hero and the heroic act, and the symbol and the symbolic act.

But, simply, I answer: What compelled me to confront is the injustice that befell my people, and how the occupation wanted to humiliate my homeland by putting it under its boot.

And how it wanted to crush the skulls of (the homeland's) sons under its boots, whether sheikhs, women, children or men. And during the past few years, more than a million martyrs fell by the bullets of the occupation and the country is now filled with more than 5 million orphans, a million widows and hundreds of thousands of maimed. And many millions of homeless because of displacement inside and outside the country.

We used to be a nation in which the Arab would share with the Turkman and the Kurd and the Assyrian and the Sabean and the Yazid his daily bread. And the Shiite would pray with the Sunni in one line. And the Muslim would celebrate with the Christian the birthday of Christ, may peace be upon him. And despite the fact that we shared hunger under sanctions for more than 10 years, for more than a decade.

Our patience and our solidarity did not make us forget the oppression. Until we were invaded by the illusion of liberation that some had. (The occupation) divided one brother from another, one neighbor from another, and the son from his uncle. It turned our homes into never-ending funeral tents. And our graveyards spread into parks and roadsides. It is a plague. It is the occupation that is killing us, that is violating the houses of worship and the sanctity of our homes and that is throwing thousands daily into makeshift prisons.

I am not a hero, and I admit that. But I have a point of view and I have a stance. It humiliated me to see my country humiliated. And to see my Baghdad burned. And my people being killed. Thousands of tragic pictures remained in my head, and this weighs on me every day and pushes me toward the righteous path, the path of confrontation, the path of rejecting injustice, deceit and duplicity. It deprived me of a good night's sleep.

Dozens, no, hundreds, of images of massacres that would turn the hair of a newborn white used to bring tears to my eyes and wound me. The scandal of Abu Ghraib. The massacre of Fallujah, Najaf, Haditha, Sadr City, Basra, Diyala, Mosul, Tal Afar, and every inch of our wounded land. In the past years, I traveled through my burning land and saw with my own eyes the pain of the victims, and hear with my own ears the screams of the bereaved and the orphans. And a feeling of shame haunted me like an ugly name because I was powerless.

And as soon as I finished my professional duties in reporting the daily tragedies of the Iraqis, and while I washed away the remains of the debris of the ruined Iraqi houses, or the traces of the blood of victims that stained my clothes, I would clench my teeth and make a pledge to our victims, a pledge of vengeance.

The opportunity came, and I took it.

I took it out of loyalty to every drop of innocent blood that has been shed through the occupation or because of it, every scream of a bereaved mother, every moan of an orphan, the sorrow of a rape victim, the teardrop of an orphan.

I say to those who reproach me: Do you know how many broken homes that shoe that I threw had entered because of the occupation? How many times it had trodden over the blood of innocent victims? And how many times it had entered homes in which free Iraqi women and their sanctity had been violated? Maybe that shoe was the appropriate response when all values were violated.

When I threw the shoe in the face of the criminal, Bush, I wanted to express my rejection of his lies, his occupation of my country, my rejection of his killing my people. My rejection of his plundering the wealth of my country, and destroying its infrastructure. And casting out its sons into a diaspora.

After six years of humiliation, of indignity, of killing and violations of sanctity, and desecration of houses of worship, the killer comes, boasting, bragging about victory and democracy. He came to say goodbye to his victims and wanted flowers in response.

Put simply, that was my flower to the occupier, and to all who are in league with him, whether by spreading lies or taking action, before the occupation or after.

I wanted to defend the honor of my profession and suppressed patriotism on the day the country was violated and its high honor lost. Some say: Why didn't he ask Bush an embarrassing question at the press conference, to shame him? And now I will answer you, journalists. How can I ask Bush when we were ordered to ask no questions before the press conference began, but only to cover the event. It was prohibited for any person to question Bush.

And in regard to professionalism: The professionalism mourned by some under the auspices of the occupation should not have a voice louder than the voice of patriotism. And if patriotism were to speak out, then professionalism should be allied with it.

I take this opportunity: If I have wronged journalism without intention, because of the professional embarrassment I caused the establishment, I wish to apologize to you for any embarrassment I may have caused those establishments. All that I meant to do was express with a living conscience the feelings of a citizen who sees his homeland desecrated every day.

History mentions many stories where professionalism was also compromised at the hands of American policymakers, whether in the assassination attempt against Fidel Castro by booby-trapping a TV camera that CIA agents posing as journalists from Cuban TV were carrying, or what they did in the Iraqi war by deceiving the general public about what was happening. And there are many other examples that I won't get into here.

But what I would like to call your attention to is that these suspicious agencies -- the American intelligence and its other agencies and those that follow them -- will not spare any effort to track me down (because I am) a rebel opposed to their occupation. They will try to kill me or neutralize me, and I call the attention of those who are close to me to the traps that these agencies will set up to capture or kill me in various ways, physically, socially or professionally.

And at the time that the Iraqi prime minister came out on satellite channels to say that he didn't sleep until he had checked in on my safety, and that I had found a bed and a blanket, even as he spoke I was being tortured with the most horrific methods: electric shocks, getting hit with cables, getting hit with metal rods, and all this in the backyard of the place where the press conference was held. And the conference was still going on and I could hear the voices of the people in it. And maybe they, too, could hear my screams and moans.

In the morning, I was left in the cold of winter, tied up after they soaked me in water at dawn. And I apologize for Mr. Maliki for keeping the truth from the people. I will speak later, giving names of the people who were involved in torturing me, and some of them were high-ranking officials in the government and in the army.

I didn't do this so my name would enter history or for material gains. All I wanted was to defend my country, and that is a legitimate cause confirmed by international laws and divine rights. I wanted to defend a country, an ancient civilization that has been desecrated, and I am sure that history -- especially in America -- will state how the American occupation was able to subjugate Iraq and Iraqis, until its submission.

They will boast about the deceit and the means they used in order to gain their objective. It is not strange, not much different from what happened to the Native Americans at the hands of colonialists. Here I say to them (the occupiers) and to all who follow their steps, and all those who support them and spoke up for their cause: Never.

Because we are a people who would rather die than face humiliation.

And, lastly, I say that I am independent. I am not a member of any politicalparty, something that was said during torture -- one time that I'm far-right, another that I'm a leftist. I am independent of any political party, and my future efforts will be in civil service to my people and to any who need it, without waging any political wars, as some said that I would.
My efforts will be toward providing care for widows and orphans, and all those whose lives were damaged by the occupation. I pray for mercy upon the souls of the martyrs who fell in wounded Iraq, and for shame upon those who occupied Iraq and everyone who assisted them in their abominable acts. And I pray for peace upon those who are in their graves, and those who are oppressed with the chains of imprisonment. And peace be upon you who are patient and looking to God for release.

And to my beloved country I say: If the night of injustice is prolonged, it will not stop the rising of a sun and it will be the sun of freedom.

One last word. I say to the government: It is a trust that I carry from my fellow detainees. They said, 'Muntadhar, if you get out, tell of our plight to the omnipotent powers' -- I know that only God is omnipotent and I pray to Him -- 'remind them that there are dozens, hundreds, of victims rotting in prisons because of an informant's word.'

They have been there for years, they have not been charged or tried.

They've only been snatched up from the streets and put into these prisons. And now, in front of you, and in the presence of God, I hope they can hear me or see me. I have now made good on my promise of reminding the government and the officials and the politicians to look into what's happening inside the prisons. The injustice that's caused by the delay in the judicial system.

Thank you. And may God's peace be upon you

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Wadida

I want to tell you about Wadida.

She is was first friend ever, we grew up together, she was beautiful, with green eyes, and dark blond curly hair. Her father, Ammo Abed was my idol, he was a communist leader , a great man who sacrificed everything for Palestine.
Me and Wadida grew up together, we fought the boys together, explored the fields, climbed the trees, played and played. We went to kindergarten together.

They took our fathers in the same day, we were neighbours, and our families were very close friends, and we were together all the time, Ammo Abed and my dad were teachers in the same school, they used to go to work together everyday, come back together everyday, and me and Wadida would play together everyday.

I can hardly remember what happened, I remember that there were noises, and darkness, I was in 1st grade 6 years old or something, and so was Wadida , I remember my mother was crying. My mother and Wadida’s mom would sit together and talk about the prison, and our fathers, and listen to the radio. Lots of people whom i don’t know came to our house and my mom was repeating the story over and over again; how they came in the middle of night and took my father, they didn’t give him the chance to change his clothes, they took him in his pyjamas and slippers. They also said that it is very cold in the prison, and i would imagine Ammo Abed and baba in one cell and baba is wearing his pyjamas.

I didn’t realize it then , but it seems this affected me a lot. I started wetting my bed again, and i would dream I’m in the sea swimming then wake up so scared that my mother would give me a hard time, I always tried to accuse my brother (of wetting my bed!).

My father used to take us to the fields;  Me, my brother, Wadida and her 4-year old sister Salam. he would play with us, he made nakkakeef for us (to catch birds) and teach us about trees and rocks and plants. I missed him.

Then Wadida became sick, she had a headache all the time, they took her to Hadassah, and i didn’t see her anymore, whenever i ask , they tell me she is sick, I got impatient, i always asked when would she become well so that we can play together again.
They said she had an operation, and my mom is visiting her in Hadassah, and her mother is in Hadassah, what is this Hadassah (i thought) and me and Salam are wondering what the hell was happening, my mother's temper was really bad, I was scared to ask a lot of questions, and i didn’t know who to ask.

I would hear the neighbours talking about Wadida, ya 7aram , maskeeneh, poor girl, Allah y3een imha (may god help her mother), but i was still waiting for her to become well and come back so that we can play together again.

My father came out about six weekd later, but Ammo Abed was still in jail. They must have realised that my father is not really an activist or a communist, he is just Ammo Abed's friend.

I remember the day he came out, he was still in the pyjamas, but he had a coat on top of the pyjamas, or maybe it's just my imagination. We didn’t know they released him, they never tell you, the same way they never allowed for a trial, they just take people when they feel like it and release them when they want to, (if they want to) , and you cant ask why.
Some kids from the neighbourhood came running to our house, calling my mother, 'Abu khalil is out!!' they informed her excitedly. My mom ran out to the street , and she saw baba, and just like the old Egyptian movies, they ran towards each other, until they ended up in each other's arms, all the 7ara (neighbourhood) was watching, (they've never seen such a romantic scene in the middle of the 7ara, even between married couples. the most they've seen is newly engaged couple walking while holding hands. I was very happy, i did the running act too. i remember my father's smell that i missed.

Wadida didn’t get better, she was still in Hadassah, and they were still operating on her, and the hope for Ammo Abed to get out was getting less and less. His lawyer (Velitsia Langer) was fighting just to get him a trial (but this never happened).
My father told me Wadida is coming back from the hospital, but he told me that she will be in bed, and that I should be very nice to her because she is sick. and that she lost her hair and is wearing a wig now and i shouldn’t laugh or comment about that.

Wadida was their first child, she was her father's precious, Velitsia tried to get a permission for Ammo Abed to visit her, but the Israeli authorities refused.
My parents were always at Wadida's place, sometimes she'd wake up in the middle of the night, in pain, and ask for my father, he tells her stories, and jokes, she loved him, children always loved my baba.
Sometimes she'd ask for me, so I would go there , and she would play with me (as much as she can, laying in that bed), she would ask me to tell her stories and things about school, she always dreamt of going back to school.
My sister was 2 or something, my parents decided to have another kid after my father got out of the prison, I wasn’t thrilled.
Ever since she existed in the world, my sister, never saw Wadida out of the bed, she grew up thinking Wadida just lives there.
I gave up on the idea of playing with her again, especially that her health was getting worse, she had brain cancer, and she was dying. they told me several times she was very very sick but i never connected that to dying.
I played with Salam, her sister, and we were becoming close friends, and we used to write our dreams and wishes, I found a 'diary book' that I used to write in as a kid, I used to call it the red book, where i write everything i wish for, and draw , and play with words. In the red book, me and Salam wrote about our wish that Wadida would get better, but she didn’t , that was the beginning of our atheism.
We always thought it is not fair that God would make our child friend hurt and suffer, while the yahood are getting stronger and Ammo Abed is in jail.
Sometimes, or actually most of the times i dreamt I’d become 'superman' and kill the yahood and free Palestine. that dream was so real for me, i almost believed it. I was waiting impatiently to grow into 'superman' but i grew into just me.

Wadida's operations were getting more, and her pain was getting more, not only that she cant walk, she cant move her hands anymore, and she cries a lot. She was suffering.
I heard that the yahood finally agreed to allow Ammo Abed to see her, they brought him in a military Jeep , escorted by a dozen soldiers, he was handcuffed, he cried. I wasn’t there, of course i wasn’t there, but Auntie Im Wadida said that some of the soldiers cried.

And then one day, something happened, Wadida died. Me and Salam cried, we though we should even though we didn’t feel much, i for myself was in my imaginary world and not feeling anything, just numb. I thought crying would be the right thing to do .

I don’t remember the sequence of things, i think Ammo Abed was out at that point, because I remember the Koran in the day of Wadida's death in our house. ( i hated listening to Koran , it made me angry ). I thought they were hypocrites , no one there is religious, and God tortured Wadida, and took her away, and the yahood are still there, now they put Koran!? how hypocrite grown ups can be!

On that day, Ammo Abed didn’t say anything, I remember me sitting in his lap, he was stroking my hair.

I think i was around 9 years old when she died.

Saturday, April 4, 2009

لمتى؟

لمتى حبك بَالحشا ساكن
وانتَ تِّمنع؟
لمتى روحي فؤادي فرحمتَك
وانتَ تِّدلع؟
يا قمر يالساكن بالسِما عالي
جيت اشتكيلك همّي والكدر
جيتك اشتكيلك وانِتْ أدرى بحالي
لوعتي عذابي بحُبَّك قَدَر
يا شامخٍ حِلْمُ وهيهاتِ تنطالي
يا بعد الحشا والروح والنظر
من يومٍ عرفتك سكنت بخيالي
إنسلِّ عودي وحالي تبدَّل
يا نجمةٍ تَلمع بالسما وتلالي
منك شحوبي ووضعي تِحَوَّل
أعياني سهدي وَالشوق يا سالي
بعد وجفا وصدود و ماقدر اتِّحَمل
مستوطنٍ بالذهن يا غالي
وما هقيت ذكري على بالك خطر
كيف انساك كيف انسى اللِيالي؟
كِلْ لحظةٍ في حضورك عُمُر
قربَك حياةْ وبعدك هلاكي
يا أغلى من اغلى الناس والبِشَر
أعياني الرّجا وذلّي وابتهالي
عْلامك قليبك اقسى من حجر؟
تسخر من تِشوف حرقتي ولا تبالي
وارجا قلبي الملتاع يصطبر
أضحيت الهدف وكل الآمال
ما اصدّق العيشة بعدك تستمر

I don't understand... you don't understand

I don't understand the laws of gravity on your planet
you don't understand why i don't understand
i don't understand why you cant understand why i don't understand

time and place failed,... an error happened
I was in my dimension
happy
an error happened
I turned into particles
and was transferred
here I am in your dimension
trying to figure out how your gravity works
here you can fall , in my planet you never fall
here it hurts when you fall , there you never fall

i don't understand why you laugh when you laugh
you don't understand why i cry when i cry
and i don't understand why you don't understand
and you don't understand why i don't understand why you don't understand
what make you laugh can make me cry
what makes me cry can make you laugh
and things fall..
i cant walk here, I'm not used to walking
there we float, we get to where we want to get by looking at it
here it takes time to get there
i cant understand the concept of something talking time
you don't understand why i cant understand
i don't understand how you understand what you understand

I cant hear your voice
i try to speak
my lips move and words come out
i cant hear them
you cant hear them
i see them floating
they are blown away by your wind
they spread over the universe .. and float
they are all over the place ... but invisible

an error happened
and I'm stuck in your dimension
and you don't understand why i cant cope with it
why i cant love it
you don't understand why i cant walk,
why i am so afraid of falling
why i cant hear you
you don't believe i cant understand your gravity
i don't understand why you cant believe
you don't understand that i cant understand
i cant understand why you cant understand

Coconut Girl and the Mirror

Once upon a time coconut girl ran into a child holding a rock,
The child’s eyes turned into a big mirror
Coconut girl saw the mirror for the first time in her life.
A moment of self-discovery
She didn’t like what she saw
She was scared
she smashed the mirror
100,000 pieces the mirror scattered
Each one has the same picture: Coconut girl
A l00, 000 coconut girls

The child died on the cross
Went to heaven
A whole generation passed
The 100,000 mirrors grew up mirror trees
Each with 100,000 more mirrors with brown girls on them
Mirrors speak; I am your identity, I am your grandmother El hajjeh, back in the old country
Look into my eyes; I’m your mirror
Erase me from your diary; you can’t erase me from your genes.
Brown on brown
She tore down grandmother’s picture but grandmother still existed
The more she avoided looking into the child’s brown eyes the more she was dissolving
Living in denial is the best cure
She turned off the history
She preached; I’m felicity, I am beige now.
I’m the saint of all saints,
I study people,
I’m above everyone
I’m exotic,
I am hummous,
I am tabbouleh.
I’m just another coconut girl
I tell people what is right and what is wrong
And in the meantime I uproot me

To be Arab and proud, what a combination
Is it logically feasible?
It scares me,
I see those pictures of my grandmothers that I burnt.
I apologize to the mirror and the children
It’s not about you

Grandma visits me in my dream, passes her gentle loving hand on my forehead and forgives me.

My self-hatred is blinding my vision; the cowboys taught me that I am brown because I am dirty,
They invented Clorox. I washed me with Clorox so that I can fit.
I don’t want to be dirty.

Grandma visits me in my dream, passes her gentle loving hand on my forehead and forgives me.

Brown bleached girl got pregnant
She gave birth to a brown little boy who was holding a rock

I’m a mere rusty brown link on the chain of “us’s” identity
I happened to be a prime number
A second generation ya grandmother
Don’t blame me

Brown Jesus visits me in my dream, passes his gentle loving hand on my forehead and forgives me.

Friday, April 3, 2009

Journal of a Hymen - Part 2

Virginity in my brain
Virginity between my legs
Hymen encapsulating my thoughts
Self-resentment
Mixed with fear
Mixed with guilt
Mixed with sexual frustration
Repressed emotions
Suppressed fantasies
Condemned dreams
That fucking Hymen
I hate it but keep it
I am not retarded
I am scared
I am not a sharmouta (a slut)
I wish I were
I am a virgin
I freeze when you touch me
I become an ice pole
Every muscle spasms
I am a big spasm
Spasm virgin
I wish I were Swedish
Enjoying my sexual freedom
I hate my parents for the hymen
I hate god for the hymen
I hate me for the hymen
Hymen between my legs
Hymen strangling my mind

Sunday, March 29, 2009

Journal of a Hymen - how she rocked the boat !

You are not a virgin??? I said
.
She laughed loudly like she always does; 'don’t tell me
 you are ' she replied
.
Her laugh is always preceding her, threatening the 
old cobwebs and bizarre contradictions in the minds of girls
 and boys all over the Arab world. 

'Aren’t you scared?’ I said
'.
Why would I?' Her smile shining through her playful curiosity, 'it is MY body you know'.
'But we are Arabs' I said. 
'Aren’t you afraid that you will fall in love with a 
guy who won’t accept that?' I asked
.
'I wont fall in love with a jerk', ' I don’t want to marry a virgin guy’, I don’t want to marry a guy who wants to marry a virgin'. 'AND I don’t understand why are you still a virgin!'


I was amazed, intrigued, confused, and yet ashamed.

'How did you feel when you lost your virginity?' I asked
'I didn't LOOSE it! I got rid of it', she said, ' I felt relief, I felt liberated' 'I felt finally that I am in control over the worn out customs’. ' I felt for the first time that I am one, my mind is one, my body is one'. Many 'DO IT' without cracking the seal, you know hundreds who do, you know it doesn’t mean anything, men also know that you know. ', 'It is not a moral obligation’, 'no one has the right to have a red seal on me or you'

.

She always rocked the boat, she rocked my hymen's boat. I went to bed dreaming about this liberating feeling that I never felt. Afraid to break the seal and rock the hymen.



This is a picture from the heart of the Arab world. And she did fall in love, and she married the guy, and he is Arab and he was proud of her, of her courage , of her character, of her rebellion, and he loved her for that , he loved her for not having a hymen and still does and he loves her brain and body and depth, and the lack of hymen - who wouldn’t

?

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

Saturday, March 28, 2009

- - حد فاضي ورايق كتب هذه ال"قصيدة" (مش انا) - القـــافية النونيـــة

القـــافية النونيـــة
أيـــــا ذا القـلب لا تحـــــزن فــــــذاك الحـب Infection
فـلـن تجــــــدي عقــــــاقير ولن تشفــــــيك Injection
فـــكم من عـاقـــــل فطـــن مضى بالحــب Direction
سـتـنـــــكره وتـنـســــــــاه ولن يبـــــقى له Mention
فـلا تنــــــــظم له شعــــراً ولا تكـتــــــب له Section
ولا يحــــــــزنك من باعك فقد أخطــــأت Selection
ولا تبـــــدي له أســـــــفـاً ولا تبــــــــــدي له action
فـــــــــــــإن الحب منـزلةٌ لبعض الناس exception
فبعض الناس إن هجـروا فلا حـــــزنٌ ولا tension
وبعض الناس إن هجروا يظل ويبـقى connection
فوصــــــل الروح إقبـــالٌ وما أحـــــــــلاه reaction
بدعـوات ومن قــلــــــب لها أثــــــــــر و affection
فـــإن لم يبـــــق لي شيء فلا حــــــــب ولا Passion
فــلا أسـف عـلى دنـيــــــا لـك وعليــك conversion


Friday, March 20, 2009

For you to be you and for me to be me

Allow me to feel my pain
Allow me to connect with it
dont dismiss me
give me room to breathe
I need to let it all out
it is poisoning my system
the years of oppression and neglect are getting to me
I need a safe place
give me your unconditional love so that I can give you mine
feel my pain so that I can feel yours
my pain is a big part of who i am
I dont want to feel embarrassed of my pain
I am allowed to feel it !
You say : move on, move on...
how can I?
I will I know - one day maybe, when I am safe
when i am heard
Marginalized - do you know how painful that is ?
feer hurts!
Exposed...
I want to be exposed to you
with all my pain and brilliance
my genuis and depression
I dont want to be embarrased becasuse of my oppression
"it is not an issue" , you say. My life is way better that many others -
But you know, it is MINE, my pain is mine- I am the one who feels it.
My pain needs love
be gentle with my pain
my darkness needs the light of understanding
solidarity

dont dismiss me
can you accept me the way i am? with my beauty and baggage?
do you see my beauty at all?
I tell the ocean about my pain - the trees hear me

God hears me
I crave the unity of the soul , a commuinity of the heart
communion with God through you and him and her
help me drop my defences
help me get rid of my identities - I want to be whole when with you
how can i if i am not whole within myself?

help me break free from the grinding wheel - acknowledge my courage - my stuggle
embrace my schezophrania
my madness is part of me
my maddness IS me

take me as a whole
Allow me to be me so that I can seize to be me
What I feel is real even if it doesnt make sense to you
Do you know how it feels to be jailed? stripped of your freedom?
do you know how it feels to be a woman? an arab? a palestinian? an artist?
do you want to know? do you care to know?
Does anyone care to know?

why would they, depressing lamentaion ...
minority colonialism feminism
oppression stuff ... boring depressing activist blabla
why would you care ? you were born up there
on the top of the hill

but if you want to be you
i need to be me
there is no you without me
and only when you stop being you
is when I become me
and only then
is when
I stop being me
only then
you can be you
and i can be me
do you see ?
what i'm trying to say ?
yes or nay?
hey?
hello
knock knock..
anyone there
or just an empty headskin

let's both seize to be you and me,
and only be
a one amazing we

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

words for LOVE in Arabic

Alâqa : liaison
'araq : insomnie
Balâbil : tourments
Cha'af : souffrances
Chaghaf : désir
Chajan : chagrins
Chajw : souci et tristesse
Chawq : nostalgie-désir
Da'mukhâmir : affection sans répit
Danaf : mal chronique
Futûn : désorientation sous l'effet de la séduction
Ghamarât : débordement
Gharâm : passion
Hanîn : nostalgie
Hawâ : tomber en amour
Hurqa : brûlure
Huyâm : transport d'amour
Huzn : tristesse
Ichq : amour passionné
Ikti'âb : mélancolie
Istikâna : apaisement
Jawâ : consomption
Junûn : folie
Kalaf : épreuve
Kamad : amour étouffé
Khabal : confusion mentale
Khilâba : envoûtement
Khilla : amitié profonde
Khulm : ien affectueux
Lâ'ij : affection douloureuse
Ladh' : morsure du feu
Lahaf : avidité
Law'a : amour lancinant
Lumam : transgressions minimes
Mahabba : amitié constante
Miqah : attachement prévenant
Rasiss : fièvre
Sabâba : finesse et ardeur du sentiment amoureux
Sabwa, sabâ : penchant pour les jeunes femmes
Sadam : affection suivie d'abbatement
Suhd : insomnie
Talabbud : adoration(mais on n'adore qu'Allah,swt)
Tabâla : anéantissement de langueur
Tabârîh : rigueurs
Tadlîh : stupeur et déraison
Tatayyum : sujétion par extase
Wahl : frayeurs
Wajd : véhemence d'amour
Walah : stupeur
Wasb : mal chronique
Widd : pureté et délicatesse

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Rejection and realizing you've been rejected

I remember the first time i was rejected. I couldnt believe it. (we are talking about romantic rejection by the way) . I couldnt get over it for the longest time. I was so full of myself and couldn't comprehend, how can anyone in their right mind reject me. I thought I was unrejectable. Now I know better. I dont take personally as much as i used to. I realize people have different tastes and interests so therefore not everyone is supposed to be attracted to me. and when i dig a bit deeper , people who are not attracted to me I am not really attracted to them to start with, when i really look hard and honest inside myself , i realize that their rejection makes them look more attractive, because my focus becomes to get accepted by them instead of feeling weather there is a connection there. Now if things were this black and white , not a big problem. The real problem is when you are not sure weather you are being rejected or not, weather the person you are being involved with is just afraid or if they are really not into you. this confusion eats up a big part of the self esteem. and instead of focusing on how you feel about the person , you get sucked into speculating and interpreting this other person's signals (or the lack of signals)
recently i realized i have been rejected. i feel much better now that i am outside the speculation and guessing game. i hate mystery and guessing. so , i got rejected, good, better now than later, that means i am getting closer to my goal. i am burning down my rejection quota, anyway , someone who rejects me cannot be suitable for me . dont you think?

Emotional state

I'm feeling emotional, I know that is stupid. no, really it is stupid. nothing changed since yesterday, i only grew up one more day, i slept and woke up, received some more spam, spent a little bit more time on the PC and the TV, ate and drank...
nothing significant.
i feel rejected though. maybe because i am listening to emotional songs that are taking me back to times when i felt loved and in love. maybe because these songs are transmitting sad feelings. i wonder if i will feel happy if i listen to happy songs. am i taking on the feelings in the songs or is the song playing because it is reflecting my own feelings.
recently something happened , i met someone , and i got rejected, it didnt feel good at all. it clouded my judgment about how i feel about that person. you know what Madonna says? "rejection is the greatest aphrodisiac" do you think she is right?
The truth is that i have so much love inside me, that i need to share, to give, to express, and i keep on running into people who are afraid of love, i learned recently or not so recently that i cant express my feelings openly and freely, i cant be transparent. i never believed or followed that directive. the result, rejection or feeling rejected. having to swallow back my pride and emotional expression and crawl back in bed with old memories and fantasies of glimpses of loving moments.
Why do humans need love?? what is so special about a kiss ? about lips meeting? what happens when lips meet? how can people be so close one day and next day they are strangers. they hurt each other and say bad things about each other..
why does a song affect me so much? is it because it resonates on the deepest level with feelings i once touched and tasted? sad or happy
I dont know. i wish i knew, or maybe i dont wish, because at least i have an excuse now to be stumbling, i dont know, if i knew then i cannot justify my stumbling.
love love, they say it makes the world goes around.i love myself , but that still isnt enough, nothing is like hearing and smelling the love.
i am rambling heavily , i know. that is why God invented blogs , so that people like me ramble freely, liberally.
it will pass, the 'i need personal romantic love' fever. i think i like being in that state otherwise i can turn off the fucking music and go take a shower or a walk.. but again, no , i cant run from myself. in the shower I'll have me with me, i cant hide or run.
i tell myself this is only my domestication, it is all learned behavior. even feelings are not real, they are how we learned to react to different things.
In Star Trek there is a race called the 'Vulcans'. Vulcans were once emotional barbaric but then they decided to control themselves, they meditated and controlled their minds and emotions so that they dont get into the kind of emotional turbulence similar I am in today. they succeeded in living according to logic. But the price was high, we see in one of the episodes how Tuvac , the Vulcan became crazy eventually. In another episode it shows how when Vulcans are in sexual heat they are totally out of control.
The question is , will I even find the kind of love that i imagine and wish for? will i feel this real and deep connection with another person where there we become pure energy, where we merge but stay separate , connect on the emotional, physical, mental and spiritual, where there is no inhibitions and right and wrong, only pure transparency and childlike innocence exists, where play is the game, exploration of the soul.
bla bla bla

Interesting blogs by Arabs