Miss Goody Two-Shoes

Back in my days of naivety, I thought that was a compliment. You know, Miss Goody Two-Shoes. Having just transferred over from a private school to a public one, I thought people were merely complementing me on the school-girl uniform and shoes I wore. My mother thought that changing schools did not mean changing clothes; so the attire continued. Perfectly (and I mean perfectly) pressed blouses. Navy jumpers. Plaid jumpers. Navy slacks. Ankle high white cotton socks. And two pairs of typical school girl flats. You know, the ones with the thin velcro strap that goes across the top of the foot. With the rounded toe front and half inch heel. (If that little girl only knew that those days of half inch heels would be far behind the now permanent four inch minimum stilettos).

So naturally, I thought people were complementing that gorgeous natural effortless shine that my mom created on the tops of those shoes. Those two pairs. One black. One navy. Three years into the public school system, and I finally got it all down. Those kids weren't referring to my shoes at all. And when they said, "Teacher's pet," I no longer needed to search under her desk during recess for the gerbil or puppy I assumed existed. No, they were talking about me and my behavior. Somehow though, amongst it all, even after recognizing their derogatory statuses, I was never insulted. In fact, I was proud. I wore those names with honor and realized I was going to make it work for me. And till this day, I maintain said vow.

The world is dwindling; no one can deny that. Morality has decreased far below zero, and the odds of finding an extinct animal have turned in our favor compared to the odds of finding truly decent human beings. And I can't believe I am going to say this, but I actually blame peer pressure and the lack of true inner human strength. It's become a disgrace these days to be moralistic. To maintain standards and abide by your own personal set of limitations. It is laughable. Shameful. And you are exiled from so many social networks you start to wonder which of your principles you can toss out the window to get back in. I've been there. But it makes it harder to swallow when people of your own faith group, from your own community, are the ones doing the shaming when they should be supporting.

It all started when I was seven. Innocent little seven year old me. Well, innocent probably isn't the right term because I don't think there was ever any real innocence. Naivety, maybe. Innocence, no. I chose to practice an aspect of my faith that many people thought I was too young for. I chose to wear the Islamic head cover. Gasp! At age seven? Why? First it was my mother, bombarded with those questions and harassment. And when she tried to explain that it was my choice, their focus shifted towards me. "Are you being forced sweetie?" I shook my head and the one piece white scarf that was a little loose swayed back and forth across my head. "Did your mommy tell you to wear this?" Again, I shook my head, taking with it that scarf I had eight replicas of, that I wore each day proudly and eagerly to school.

When the situation reached an all time concern, I was asked to explain. Finally, they wanted to hear my side. The tiny package spoke. "I want this. I chose it. I know that one day I will be practicing it. So why wait?" The mutters were muffled, but never silenced. I got the pity stares. The concerns. The explanations that it would irreversibly impact my self-esteem and restrict me from ever doing what "every young girl deserves to experience in life." By the way peeps, for those of you who said that, I'm curious, what is it that I missed out on? With a scarf on my head, I have still been able to: (1) go to school, (2) dance, (3) write poetry, (4) publish a book, (5) attend parties, (6) go out with friends, (7) enjoy time at the beach, (8) smile, (9) make new friends, (10) work out at the gym, ... need I go on?

If only it ended there. This was just the beginning. It was also the beginning to the realization that somehow, subliminally, people were trying to tell me to disobey my parents. That abiding by their advice, influence or opinions would oppress me into a life of regretful unhappiness. And this, this is where my blood boils.

First, since when was it a shame to actually listen to your parents? Second, just because I choose to follow the rules in many aspects of life (note, I said many, not all) why is it an automatic assumption that my "mommy" or "daddy" twisted my arm to do so? I can proudly say that I have had the greatest upbringing with two people who ensured that all my needs, and most of my wants were provided; who showed me the difference between right and wrong; and then handed me the baton to pursue my own path in life. Sure, their advice is still given, and it will always be welcome, even if not solicited. And if at times it is the advice I find befitting my current issue, I'll take it. Why not? People are foolish. Seriously. I just am appalled by the guile of people with the way they try and poke around at my lifestyle and my parents' parenting.

After the metaphorical shoes (of the Miss Goody Two-Shoes) were shined and ready to persevere, it came to the high school years. Ah, high school. The worst two years of life. Where drama and immaturity unite. (Thank god for http://chspe.net/). Yes, it was in those two mediocre years that I recognized the meaning of friendship. It came from my mom. When things got tough, I found that she was the best and only person to turn to. And before I knew it, I had found my soul mate. The girl I loved to go shopping with. With whom I had to text about a scenario that just occurred. Or a boy who had just said hi. The woman I could be held by in the toughest of times. The human that would never judge me, belittle me, or refuse me; the way that many others had. Suddenly I realized, there is no other best friend like a mother; at least like mine anyway. And that was it. That was enough to fuel the fires of those fools.

"Oh no, no, your mother cannot be your best friend. That's unhealthy. You must entitle someone your own age to be your best friend." I kid you not, these words came out of a 50-year-old woman. She was saying them straight to the face of a 14-year old. I looked at her with an utterly confused expression. "Well honey, your mom is your mom. She cannot get you like someone in your age range. You need to be free. To do what you want and enjoy your life." There it was. The subliminal psychosis again. Mom + Friendship = Dysfunctional Domination. Ten years later and I still don't see how that equation fits into my life.

If only it stopped at words. People did harass me. Try and purposely arrange events or things to keep me and my mother apart because they were so deeply concerned. And that's when I knew, at the young age of 15, that I needed to be a sociologist. When I found that I, a little adolescent in these senile people's eyes (and I say senile even if they were between 38-55 because their behavior sure resembled it), could easily assess and analyze the situation for what it truly was: These women were the mothers of the same girlfriends I shared my spare time with; the young girls who were constantly in horrendous fights with their mothers, arguing, yelling, cursing, hating, suffering, running away, lying; and they...they were...(take a deep breath in)...jealous.

Gasp! Did I just speak ill of the dead souled? I must have, because that's when I knew. When I saw how eager each one of those women was to drag me down when I revealed that I was graduating early and going to college at 16. When I had to endure, silently listening to their rants about how my family was influencing me without my knowledge to just suffer in excess unnecessary studies instead of being a free rebel in high school, with the ability to screw up before life gets tough (no joke, these are the words I was forced to hear). Back then I was far more respectful to my elders. Needless to say, that is one aspect of my goody two-shoe-ness that I have eliminated. We give older people far too much credit. When a child says something rude or inappropriate, we brush it off with an innocent, "Oh kids will be kids." Yet when an adult says the same rude thing (and you truly know that was not a sincere piece of constructive criticism) why on earth would I let it slide? Because you're from my mom's generation? Think again lady. I am a woman too. Maybe not your age but I am one indeed. I have my own free will. My own mind. My own choices. Don't badger me. I know, for a fact, that your intentions are not sincere, and so that advice you just handed me, or that awful yet sly insult you just threw about my mother/father is totally unwelcome. Say it again, and just beware of my tongue's anticipating back-lashing.

If only it ended there. Time for university applications arrives. Community college managed to end abruptly in one beautiful year. The best year of my life till this day. I was only seventeen, and personally (personally, should I say it again, personally) I did not feel like moving away was a good choice at this time. Did people agree? Oh no, of course not. "Dania, you can't be dragged down by your family. You need to get out. Spread your wings. Be free." I looked around. Wondered where on earth my broken wings were, or that ball and chain that they were referring to. What made it worse was that now the evil spew of lingo trickled down from those mothers to their daughter...my peers.

"Don't you just wanna get out and be free? Not have a curfew? Not be asked where you were and what you were doing and who you were with? Don't you just wanna have your own place? Your own freedom?" Call me crazy but the truthful answer to all of those questions was, "No." Not because I was being held back by family and enjoying it. No, but because in the years that I lived with my family I was never bombarded with such suffocation. I was raised with two things: Trust and respect. Both of which were treated as mutual rights. My parents gave me their utmost trust and respect; I owed them the same. That is MY standard and it will not change. The question is why does that bother people so much? Why are they so keen to believe that it is the doing of a family's hidden agenda to cage a girl, rather than the sincere appreciation a girl is doing for/to her family out of choice?

So I bashed everyone's dreams when I got my B.A. in Sociology from CSULB. Good old local Long Beach, just 25 minutes driving distance. Two years of commuting and people were silent. But then it returned. "Why don't you apply to grad school outside of Cali? Or at least outside of SoCal?" Again, I reiterated my choice to stay local. I was born here. Raised here. Grew up here. Worked here. Experienced life and its inspirations here. And the only people who care for me are here. Why would I want to abandon it all for an education I really could get anywhere? At the end of the day, I believe it's not where you get the degree from, but what you end up doing with it! And before I could hear anymore of it, I submitted the applications, received acceptance from both local universities, and chose CSULB once again. #Loyalty #BeachPride #49er

The same cycle repeated when I applied to PhD. programs the first and second time. But I've disappointed the world once again. And it just surprises me how intense and deeply rooted people's nosiness is in other people's lives. My mother comes home one day last year, after I got a rejection letter from the first PhD. program I applied to the first time around. "I ran into Lana* today." I didn't look up from the mail that I was strumming through. Call me old fashioned, but I still get the jitters when I see a pile of mail and anticipate a letter just for me. Now it's all technological. #Fail "And...?"

"We were talking about you and your PhD. applications and how this first one didn't work out." Junk mail. Macy's Coupons. Sur La Table magazine. Gap discount card. Nordstrom's bill. "Then she asked me why you didn't apply outside of SoCal." Now the mail was no longer an attention grabber. I looked at my mom and eagerly waited to hear the rest of it. "So I told her that you didn't want to, and Lana asked if you really didn't want to apply out of state or if I wasn't permitting you to." Was laughter the wrong reaction? I couldn't help it as the envelopes fell from my lap and onto the tile kitchen floor. "Seriously mama? She said that to you?!?!"

My mom smiled and shrugged her shoulder as she headed to hear the messages on the answering machine. But as she did so, and as the laughter died down, I suddenly was overcome with surprise again. "Wait, wait, Lana said that to you? Like that? So boldly?" My mom nodded. "Yeah, why? Haven't we heard this broken record before?" I semi nodded as I realized how absolutely inappropriate that was of Lana. "Yeah we have, but mama Lana is from my generation. How did she have the guts to actually say that to your face? You're not her age. You're one of her elders and educators that she supposedly respects and attends classes with." The smile my mom gave me is one of the smiles I love about this woman. It is a smile that speaks volumes. It's that Are-You-Seriously-Saying-That-Thinking-That-People-Give-A-Crap-Or-Respect-Anything smile. And before we knew it, the conversation was over.

It seeped into my social life a long time ago as well. A few of my girlfriends were planning a trip to a festival a few states away. It was last minute, of course; because Arabs don't know how to do anything early. (Which is another thing I face; if I arrive to something on time, it's a shame lol. Damn it, make up your minds!) Well it sounded like fun until I found out we would be traveling via a large cargo van, across an icy road, with a bunch of young girls, and one of us would be driving. I don't trust other people's driving. And if you've ever driven through California, you'd understand why. People are psychotic. Mix that with a large van, an icy road, and potential need for tire chains, and what do you get? So I passed.

While the girls were on the trip, I ran into one of their families at the mall. "Dania, hi!" I approached with a smile. We began talking when our conversation shifted into the trip. I asked if they had heard from them and how it was going. This was the response: *head hangs low* "Ugh, your dad was so smart to keep you from going."

My head made one of those mini instant double takes and somehow I held back the, "What the hell? Ex-cuuuse me?" First, if they were so anti the trip, why did they allow their women to go? So those girls disobeyed and went? They are abiding by the same rulings you're applying to me to disobey and do what I please? HA! Second, what on earth gave you the idea or impression that my father refused me this trip? He was willing to actually gift me a fully paid round trip plane ticket! I just didn't think it was worth it for two days.

It continued. If I RSVPd no to parties, people wondered if my family was prohibiting me from attending. Maybe I should have revealed that I just got so sick and tired of sitting around people who couldn't talk about anything but food recipes and tupperware. That I wanted to go to parties where I could sit with intellects and discuss matters like social issues. Education. Poverty. Projects for change. Upcoming seminars or travels and exciting things.

If I left events early, I constantly faced the crude jokes about curfews. How I would be in trouble for not getting home on time. If I chose not to get up and dance at parties, people asked if it was because my mother was sitting there and I was too afraid to do so in front of her. That was enough to inspire me to get up and not only dance, but steal the flipping spotlight. And damn did I do well!

Why is it so hard for people to grasp this concept? That if I choose to leave early and make sure I arrive home safe and sound instead of getting stuck with a flat tire or in a car accident at midnight; it is my choice. My etiquette. Why is that a shame? If the idea of getting up and shaking my body in front of everyone really isn't always my desire of choice, why is it because my mom made me a prude? What if I love being a prude all on my own? #Prude and #proud baby! Nothing is more attractive than someone who stands by their morals and principles. Maybe I'm the only crazy one to believe so, but oh well. Nice guys may finish last, but hey, at least we finish with #dignity!

I found that this was only increasing with time; and to tell you the truth, I know it will never end. In high school I heard this allegory that impressed me: A man, his son and their pony were traveling. In the first village they walked through, the father let the son sit upon the pony so that he could rest. The villagers began their gossip. "Look at that selfish boy, making his father walk on his old feet while he rests comfortably on that pony." As they continued onto their travels, the father and son switched so that now the father could rest. As they passed through the second village, the gossip began. "Look at that awful father, forcing his young son to walk upon those feeble feet as he rides comfortably." The duo continued and upon entering the third village, both decided that they were feeling like walking. But the villagers saw otherwise. "Look at those two, making that poor pony carry all their luggage as they walk freely."

I realized that people will always judge and even interfere in your personal affairs. Don't know why I was created to be its utmost victim, but I finally surrendered to that challenge. It will only be the fuel to my efforts towards change. So bring it on. Miss Prude Goody Two-Shoes is so ready for you!

Be careful what you wish for...or go on and wish recklessly!

His ego was bruised. I could see it, so clearly in his eyes, as I poured out line after line from the most intense poem I ever created. Anger makes for the greatest fuels, and I will continue to use it for the wisest of fires. The irony was that this poem wasn't about him. He was a random audience member, and I, an impromptu performer. But when you're put on the spot, you know you need to make the deepest impression, and this poem was it.

"Excuse me, can I ask you something?" He approached and I smiled already knowing what he was about to say. "Is that poem real? I mean based on a real story?" The 14 year old I used to be would dance around the truth and explain that was just a mere expression of what goes on in this world to save face. The 24 year old that I am no longer hides. It has become my philosophy to be me all the way. To not hide in fear of my opinions, thoughts, feelings, expressions. If it bothers someone, so be it. Why does the world hold the right to express themselves so clearly (and rudely) to me, yet I have no right to be honest?

"Yes, it is." His eyebrows raised. His eyes widened. "Wow...um...well." Speechlessness floated across his mind, while every ounce of speech drowned in mine. "You didn't like it? I heard you say something right at the end there." He blinked. "No, no, I was kidding. It's just that was intense you know. The anger. The emotion." The innocence or malice that dripped from my smile completely mimicked irony as he spoke to me of something that no one would smile of. I felt like the Grinch smiling in an evil like manner at something that didn't deserve smiling, but the truth was I proudly believed that I should be honored at such words. Not only have I mastered leaving an impression, on a man no less, but I got my message across! Why can Taylor Swift publicly express her anger in cheesy lyrics and state that men shouldn't near her if they don't want to be "track number 12" but I can't? How does poem number 237 differ from track 12?

Four years ago I worked with a man who was obsessed with Kanye West. To me that man is like hearing a cat scraping its awful white nails across the blackest and driest of chalkboards. It's not his voice...it's everything else. But four years ago he released a song that this coworker always had on repeat, "Heartless." By the 15th time of hearing it, it rubbed off on me. Not the beat. Not the singer. Just those lyrics. While people heard it, nodding their heads to the tune of the bass and sympathizing with West on his heartache, I envied the woman he was singing of. "The coldest story ever told...a woman so heartless."

And there I was, driving home after a long day, uttering simple words of a wish I didn't know would come true just a mere year and a half later and last for almost a full three years after that. "I wish I could be that girl that Kanye sings of, the heartless one that could make such an impression. At least then I will be remembered...and safe!" The magic lamp had been rubbed. The words spoken. The heart erased. And once upon a time I awoke heartless.

When he let me go, I changed. A lot. I'm sure deep down at the pit, in my core, an essence of who I am remains, but everything else changed with his absence. I learned to become...heartless. I learned to keep it from healing into a whole object again and let it be. Broken. Dysfunctional. A robotic shamble of pieces mechanically beating because that is their essential duty and nothing further. I learned to be tougher, in the worst of ways. I learned to stand up for myself and no longer take any abuse. So I was suddenly being courageous enough to defend myself with my boss. To say, "No," when necessary and explain my discomfort if needed. I was brave, so much so that we ended up clashing and I had to quit. Never in my life did I quit something, and suddenly it was becoming a habit. I learned to no longer take any crap from the so called friends I thought I had. And so I found myself shying away from them the more they appeared disloyal and careless. And every man that came into my life I pushed away, because he wasn't...him. But I also pushed them away because I was afraid each one would be him. The metaphorical sense of potential disaster and ache that cannot even be put into adjectives because of how horrifically painful it all was. So I learned to be, alone. Safe, protected, and miserably alone. And I realized that when you finally stand up for what you deserve, you get nothing!

They told me, "What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger." (Dang it, another Kanye reference!) What they forgot to mention was that for some reason, what doesn't kill you may only make you more evil. Harden your heart. Change your perspective. Manipulate your reality into a nightmare. Hinder your potential to thrive. And that's what happened to me. The metamorphosis I unconsciously endured after his blessed departure.

Six years ago, sitting with a group of my girlfriends, trying to avoid the horrid heat of Irvine, a friend of my mother's approached me and began complimenting me on how I had "blossomed" into a beautiful woman (a.k.a. puberty had finished running its entire course and now I was beginning to show my potential birthing hips that she could recommend to all hunting suitors - no joke). When we began discussing the recent trend in my peers finding their "perfect matches" and marrying, she immediately tacked on the infamous, "Your time will come soon."

Six years ago I was naive. I wanted love. I wanted a man in my life. And so I said, "Inshallah." (Inshallah means, "God willing," in Arabic, but I must have not "wished" those words because they didn't come true). Her facial expression distorted upon my innocent yet sincere words. Instead she replied, "Well maybe you should tone down that arrogance then, hmm?" I didn't realize that putting my faith in prayer to God to bring me my soul mate was arrogance, but apparently I was wrong. But now, six years later, I am more than ready to oblige to make her assumption a reality. Arrogance. Confidence. Me. Why not? After all, what remains?

Why not believe I am worthy of most if not all? Why not demand my rights, even if I get nothing? I've witnessed enough women who devolve upon their brainwashed mentality post-love and they forget who they ever were and intended to do with their lives. Their education. Their ambitions. Their dreams. Girls that I had spent years with, hearing about their visions and plans, and it all gets thrown away on a white dress, a big ballroom, and years of complaining thereafter. It's a turn off that I can't support. I want to see a woman who finds a man that only supports her of her dreams. Proves to her that upon their union, things won't change for the worse, nor will she be forgotten. But he will be a perfect scaffold to hold up her principles. I guess that is something overreaching these days? (I bet you were about to roll your eyes at the word "perfect" weren't you? Ha! No one is perfect.) So I find myself drifting away from the girlfriends I once knew as they try and show me the beauty of bubbly love where imaginary hearts twirl above our heads as we go cake tasting, wedding dress shopping, in-law gift shopping, and so on and so forth. The sadder part is that the crash from that high they are in may be far more painful than that crash I felt when he let me go. At least there was no ring on my finger to remove; no awful tan line to physically remind of what once was.

It probably is selfish to say all this, but then again, it's what's become of me. At first I told myself to keep away from the toxicity of the environment around me, to watch out for the dangers of getting sucked in. And all this to only discover that I've been infected with another disease all along. As tacky as it may seems, it reminds me of that Black Spiderman. All it took was one touch and I was a goner. Slowly becoming comfortable in this indulgence of carelessness and arrogance. Believing that I deserved something when nothing came. But when I wanted to slow down, take a breath and reconsider this new philosophy, all I could conjure up was this:

With every connection, relationship, friendship I always gave. I gave all of me. Everything I could. My time. My money. My sincerity. My efforts. My love. My heart. My mind. My ideas. My loyalty (yeah, that's a big one). My commitment. And I never asked for anything in return because I decided to wait. Patience is a supposed virtue? I thought deep down if they love me (friend/guy/relative/etc.) they will remember at some point. When it didn't come I put the blame back on me and said it was selfish to anticipate anything in return. Love isn't about taking is it?

I learned that lesson the hard way. Let's face it. That unconditional "I don't need anything from you" thing is bull. We are all humans. And it's only human nature to desire some form of reciprocation or acknowledgement or appreciation. So it was only human nature to feel worthless with the way it all dwindled. Because I used to never go down without a fight. Trying and trying again to grab hold of whatever could be salvaged until I finally awoke to the realization that I was cheap (in their eyes). And so I stopped. Stopped everything with everyone.

Pulled away from the society I thought I knew. Pulled away from the friends I grew up to. Pulled away from the idea of love and its twisted fairytale delusion. That's when I discovered that to be remembered, you must be forgotten. And to be cared for, you must become careless. It's this sick game of life. Men want the chase. Apparently friends want it to. I surfaced from hibernation at a few events recently and people had to actually take a few seconds to recognize me. "Where have you been?" I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. What excuse did I have? I couldn't find a job. Post-graduate schools had been as good as men in rejecting me. So where have I been when I RSVPd no to every invite?

The truth? On what seems to be an everlasting trip of self rediscovery. Swaying back and forth like a ship lost at sea wondering who I will become internally as well as externally. A long time ago I put this community at the forefronts of my to do list. I wanted to work for it. Give them all that I had. Help them with my studies. Be a part of them forever. Even, dare I say, marry from within to stay grounded and raise a family here. And if the latter was a fail, I urged in hopeful prayer that God would send someone who didn't mind moving here. Well, a majority of that has changed as I found myself quickly distancing from the "here" crowd to find new ones. New friends. New connections. Even new men.

It seemed the oldies were not into me or what I had to say or do or feel. They still aren't actually, even though now they somewhat seem to value my presence as I appear here and there after a long long absence. But what good does that do as it remains a shallow expression of, "Oh, hey, it's been forever. Hope all is well." Well, all is surviving, if it matters to you. I've learned what independence means and apparently the world is cruel enough to define it as: Knowing what you deserve and realizing that you'll get none of it...while the world thinks you are just an over emotional female that needs to be broken in by marriage ASAP.

One Year, Eight Months & Five Days Later

People were constantly emailing me articles and telling me about Syrian artists who manifested their talents into a form of expression about what is happening within our homeland, Syria. I read them all. Watched documentaries. Listened to newly released songs. Indulged within the ability of these artists to utilize their skills in such a wonderful expression. But that's when I wondered, "What's wrong with me?" I am Syrian, a proud one, with family (actually 95% of my family) still remaining within the country that is now becoming a place of human extinction, and a very emotional heart. Why was I not in shambled tears on a daily basis, pouring out poem after poem of expression of this? Why was my poetic stream still stuck in the genre of love & relationships instead of Syrian pride and anti-war depiction? At first I spent hours at my desk writing and rewriting verses and lines in hopes of producing a pitch perfect poem about Syria. I failed...miserably and embarrassingly. Instead I focused on merely keeping up to date on the news and posting whatever articles I found intriguing on Facebook and Twitter. But inside it was eating away at me, burning me with confusion and fear, that I still had not produced something with my talent. And I know, as an artist, you cannot force something to be produced if it is within your field of work, EVEN if it hits close to home. You have to wait till that hit reaches the right anatomy of your emotions until something, somehow, is unveiled. And tonight, it happened. At the expense of my sleep (which I truly remind myself I should be grateful for every single peaceful war free zone night) I found my fingers typing. And here it is, one year, eight months and five days later. After the brave Syrians chose to become the tipping point of change for their country and its future.

A bird's eye view of Damascus: The capital of Syria, the oldest inhabited city of the world, and where my roots head back to

One Year, Eight Months & Five Days Later

Feeble knees and wrinkled skin
They dwell upon his body, embedding the age within
But with age comes wisdom and an ever so treasured history
that unfold through those turquoise eyes of innocent mystery
But for one year, eight months and five whole days,
those eyes have held the most obvious of tears
Because a man of his caliber can never in any way,
anticipate the unraveling reality of his greatest fears

Once upon a time he held the highest of hopes

Established the greatest of legends for his people to cope

Watched his historical civilization blossom and grow

Shared it with the next two generations who were proud and show

The precious soil he once held between his fingertips,

that was destined for a greater land,

is now replaced with the dirt of rubble that drips,

with the stain of murder upon Arabian sand

Stroke the walls of a building he once knew

Closing his eyes wishing the realest of the world’s wishes that this weren’t true

But recognizing the slowing beats of his surviving heart,

only reassured him of this war’s horrendous start

He made a prayer for his late peers,

calling them lucky fellows to be long gone and nowhere near

And no one can blame him for those sharp words

Who else could steadily witness what has occurred?

After years of service and dedication to the country you love

Nothing remains but the anticipation of refuge from the One up above

A feeble smile and a wrinkled face

They dwell upon that body I miss in my country and its freedom in place

The grandfather who held the key to every perfect story

Struggles now to keep steady in his country’s days of ending glory

It’s been one year, eight months and five days later

And only the optimists babble that one day it will be greater

But until that day they’ve promised us so deeply,

what will be of those people who have lost their lives?

And what of those people that remain?

What will be of those historical places with only their memory as a mark?

What does the future see now but a history that’s too dark?

Legends will be born, and they will rebuild

but that can’t erase every aspect of Syria that has been killed

Because once upon a time I had a grandfather who held the highest of hopes

His strength gave me the reminder to hold on and to cope

To come back to my roots, and write it down for the world to show

To never forget my history so that every coming generation will truly know

The precious soils of a land that once stood true,

that fell, briefly, in the fight for freedom that they (the future) should never undo

Because the price their ancestors paid to obtain the freedom they now hold

is a price to never be forgotten for its ultimate worth in gold

One year, eight months, and five days later,

I know inside Syria will not be forgotten but it will be greater

Human Nature (poem)

Destiny will forever remain my greatest enemy

As it weaves a pathway that leads back to you and me

Three years have passed and I finally found my last broken piece

Picked it up in celebration only to find it in your hand refusing to release

The haunting memories of my greatest past,

have finally resurfaced in a shadow that’s been darkly cast

Unconsciously now, I’m remembering every look, every touch

Carelessly forgetting how the pain you once left me in was far too much

The delusional desire to get back to you has completely taken over

And the irony resides within the fact,

that I’ve pinched myself hard enough to know I’m awake and sober

My fingers are on standby to write you the greatest letter

My imagination continues dreaming on how this time it could be better

The remnants of my broken heart unanimously agree,

that I owe it to myself to at least confront you about what we used to be

After all, you never gave me a reason why

Just a mere electronic hello and goodbye

We’ve been given 1,095 days to spend apart

And frankly, let me say, I told no one that deep inside I wanted us to restart

I took on the role of the dignified and dumped

Carried my pride while secretly I felt stumped

Never in my life did I fall in love like I did with you

And my tiny hearts have never found any other that seemed true

Never found another man to linger so vulnerably near

Never found a pair of eyes that dwelled upon me in a love so clear

Never found a soul that intertwined with mine so well

Never found another that could read me like a book with every story to tell

So please, do tell

Why can’t it be all right to fall back under your perfect spell?

To be the bravest soldier and fight for my right

of having your spirit that I loved back in my sights

Remember every moment that we ever shared?

I know you do,

because it was only human nature when you showed me how much you cared

So just know that now it’s only human nature to want to come crawling back to you

Because it’s only human nature to believe in the hopes that you want me back too

I Can't Be Your Political Writer (Yet)

It was like those moments where out of nowhere you remember an appointment, a major deadline. My palm reached the top of my forehead in a painful slap as I read his most recent post on Facebook. It was a re-tweet from a girl I noticed he was constantly re-quoting these days. She was a girl someone introduced me to long long ago (via Facebook), who was apparently supposed to be my golden ticket to writing nirvana. She wasn't.

At one point the SPAM notifications I was getting from her became irritable and I silenced the news feed. Don't get me wrong, she was...is...interesting. Really. But I realized her style greatly differed from mine. While I write in silence and secrecy, only releasing pieces when I'm ready to drop a heavy bomb on a sensitive cultural/social issue, she spammed her work. Her phrases. Her quotes. People were constantly reading about her and her life and political thoughts/dreams/aspirations/journeys; but after all that's the way the evolved creatures thrive today. I'm still old fashioned in the sense that I like to be somewhat reserved. I don't always feel the need to share my personal life. But he does. And suddenly it hit me, what if she is a girl that has caught his eye? Could she be his type? Could she actually be his current interest?

I thought what if tomorrow, when I deposit that first fluorescent colored envelope in the mail and it reaches the hands of an old postal worker who will drop it off at his P.O. Box, I will be wasting my time in this pathetic yet creative secret admiration endeavor? It killed me as I began taunting myself with a quick sprint through her recent photos and posts. Has he "Liked" or commented on anything recently? He's clearly re-tweeted enough; my News Feed has bombarded me with it. Is she pretty in his eyes? Prettier than I am? I guess that's relative to whoever looks at us. I'm covered in religious terms and my photos depict that. Hers depict the choice to not cover religiously. It's not slutty; it's casual. But is that his preference? Pretty, uncovered, political, social network addict? The comparison bug was starting to bite all over me.

This entire time I've been at peace with taking a distant and slow quest with him, but that's because I thought I'd be alone. But how could I have been thinking so naively when all along it's been clear, I've never been alone in this nonexistent competition. I have over 500 potential female competitors, and that's only on Facebook. If I include the count of Twitter, LinkedIn, and the real world females, I'm screwed! And here's where the bottom line mimicked a safety-net-less ground to catch me.

I am not into politics. I never have been, and with the way every country on this planet runs its government, I don't think I could ever be. It's a deformed game of lies. Strange considering my most recent choice of study was Public Policy & Administration, but I guess in the logistics of it, I don't actually have to be a politician to work on enhancing society through the betterment of government. It's been my passion to help society at large, and I saw the works of public policy & administration to be a stronger mechanism, along with my sociology background, of reaching change.

But I noticed along the years that my writing, my works, rarely ever reach a big enough audience because it's never considered controversial in the political realm. Never the "hot topic" of mainstream political issues, which gets the bigger attention. I cannot pinpoint something with relation to Obama, China, Democrats, Tea Party, political uprisings, movements or the likes. It's not what my eyes see. While these politicians dance around and manipulate the world with their dysfunctional philosophies, I focus on the substance beneath it that actually emanates from the society they supposedly run.

The husbands that abuse their wives. The women that carelessly deal with their children. The girls who have no self-esteem and have contemplated suicide. The increased drug use that has taken away enough souls from the high school right down the street from my home. The increase in hate crimes, as well as the increase in interfaith activities to combat such things. The way in which a love can thrive and flourish within a heart when you meet a man that takes your breath away (like he has). The way in which a love can be crushed with the simplicity of a weightless "no" and break a person apart (like I surely will be). But I cannot see nor create a piece on politics, even if I tried.

And it left me wondering, would that be a flaw in his eyes? I wanted to apologize to him, to say to the world, "I'm sorry, but I cannot be your political writer. I cannot whip out an amazing brief on the most recent presidential debate, or post on my blog a piece on which bill or proposition was just reviewed/approved/rejected. Sorry I can't display my every thought on these subjects so you can "Like," comment, re-tweet, or buy into it."

I was standing in Starbucks one day after the most intense Pure Barre workout on this planet. [Seriously, check it out if you want to sweat like never before - www.purebarre.com]. A man had just finished ordering his drink and walked over, waiting its arrival. I ordered my iced tea and followed his way. Somehow I felt like the eyes of the current public would not be dwelling upon me like they typically do, because today there was him. He was a very handsome older man who appeared to have just stepped off Wall Street for a quick caffeine stop. His wavy hair was not receding but graying with refined spots of white. He was tall, very tall, and well built. His skin was aging but not dull. Reminded me of my father's; they were about the same age from what I could tell. He was dressed in a very attractive three-piece suit. Gray, like his hair, with white pinstripes and a small silk white handkerchief in the left pocket at the chest. I truly felt like I had just been transported to the Starbucks on 45 Wall Street and would be heading back to the building across the street for the 1:30 board meeting on the 27th floor! But I wouldn't be in my GAP yoga pants and sweatshirt. No, I'd be in my black slacks and that gorgeous new mustard blazer hanging in my closet, a perfectly matching scarf, and my one only choice of footwear: Five inch stilettos.

When I was done secretly gawking at the imaginary trip I had just taken to the Big Apple I prepared to unlock my phone and check Facebook until my tea arrived. [We can thank Mr. Facebook re-tweeter for my sudden resurgence on social networking]. But before I finished my password Wall Street spoke to me. "It's an addiction you know." I looked up to see his white smile facing me. I laughed and turned the screen off. "I know, but those companies have done such a magnificent job of catering to our inner temptations that I just can't bear the thought of disappointing them." He nodded and looked back at the counter. "Yeah, I've been convincing myself to quit and reduce my usage." The sincerity in his voice made me wonder if he had discovered the secret to becoming less technologically obsessed. "And has that worked?" I asked with curiosity. He laughed as he looked back to me. "No!" I joined in the laughter and said, "Well, when you discover that secret, please, let me know."

Our drinks did not arrive. Four others were waiting before us. "Are you Muslim?" he asked me as we both leaned back against the window. "I am," I said without hesitation, although suddenly I noticed everyone at Starbucks suddenly shift their focus at this odd pair that had just sparked what could potentially be a hot "political" topic. We mentioned the "M" word. "I've never met or spoken to a Muslim before in my life, so...." I was shocked. No wait, let me find a synonym to supersede that word. Stupefy! Although that word reminds me of Harry Potter lol, I was stupefied. A man of such a sharp and well rounded appearance, here in Orange County, had never met nor spoken to a Muslim before? But I held my tongue because I knew he had more to say, and I was eager to hear it. Clearly he did not appear to be someone with a vendetta or racist agenda.

"I'm not really sure what to believe from what I'm hearing on the news now. I mean should I be scared?" He asked the latter part jokingly and we both laughed. "Um, no I don't think so?" I said in somewhat of girlish tone, while mockingly "flipping" my pink floral scarf over my shoulder to add to the innocence in my voice. But the reality is just that; no, Muslims should NOT be feared. Because a true Muslim, the one who actually abides by and implements the realism of their faith is nothing like what is being displayed in the media. And I told him just that. "See the thing is unfortunately the media highlights the worst of the worst, and so the rest of us suffer in the background. But I guess that also demonstrates how much more we need to do to get into the spotlight. And, if you want my opinion, those people who do such atrocious things have applied nothing from the faith that I follow and I call Islam." He nodded. "Yeah, I am just confused and concerned. I mean I don't know." I bit my lip, realizing I had to make an extra effort to actually empathize with this man because he didn't know Islam like I did, so he really would be confused.

"Where are you from?" he then asked. This question has recently faced an influx in my life, and so I've shifted the way I respond. A long time ago I would merely say, "Syria" and end it there. But the truth is I am from America, with my family's heritage and roots being from Syria. Don't get me wrong, I am proud of my Syrian heritage and will always be. Great things once resonated from that country and I do believe they will do so once again when the Syrian people finally receive their humanity and freedom. But the fact of the matter is, I was born here, raised here, studied here, lived here, worked here, and plan on staying here to offer the best of what I have to the country that has given me the best of what it has. I'm as American as apple pie...and that's what I told Mr. Wall Street, but after I explained that "my family is from Syria, but I was born in LA and raised here in Surf City."

He smiled, "I figured. You're eloquent and have no accent." I withheld the urge to curtsey at that point and listened to his next question. [Yes our drinks had not yet arrived, but the truth is although this conversation seems to be long, it managed to start, climax and end within four and a half minutes]. "So what do you do now?" Ah yes, the next question I seem to be constantly facing. I need to get a t-shirt that says UNEMPLOYED AND SEARCHING. "Actually I'm job hunting right now and it's a bit difficult." He squinted as he looked up to the ceiling, like he was contemplating what job openings he knew of. "Hmm, well what are you studying, or what did you study?"

"I finished my Masters in Public Policy & Administration last year, and I'm really interested in working with local government in city planning/development, management or public works." His eyes widened. Now he was stupefied. "Oh wow! Masters! I didn't...I mean you...."

Yes, yes, I know, I get it, I look like I'm fifteen. Try adding ten years to that and let's get back to the topic (okay, I didn't actually say that, I smiled instead). And here is where politics comes into the picture (for those that were wondering where the hell I strayed). "Would you consider being a politician then?"

I stopped, for the first time in my life, before answering this question. Usually I have an automated answer: NO! But this time something made me reconsider. Don't know if it was his suit, the exhaustion from my workout, or the intoxicating fumes of roasted coffee beans, but I contemplated. "Well, typically I avoid that thought, but I don't know, maybe. I mean during my job hunts and my recent views of things in society, I'm wondering if I should enter that realm to actually make a needed change."

"Grande Americano for Lou!" His drink arrived. Saved by the drink I guess? Who knows. But he left me with a handshake and this, "Think about it. I really think you could be good. You're young and liberal, an Obama voter no doubt. Good luck though and it was really nice meeting you!"

He walked out and I never saw him again; although I don't doubt a reunion seeing as how we both live in the same city. But I went home that afternoon with whirling thoughts, and a few things I was certain of: I was absolutely sore from that awesome workout. The iced tea was a definite refresher. I left that man with a better impression of Islam and Muslims than he had before stepping into Starbucks. And somehow he saw in me some tiny sliver of overzealous hope. Could my passionate heat and words be filtered in something that would damn well revolutionize some aspect of our juvenile system of politics? Could I?

As I read this guy's Facebook wall flood with political updates and the girl's Tweets, I felt like I failed at that so far. She definitely beat me to the punch. Technically he's still not even "following me" on Twitter [lol to the lingo of 21st century humans]. What I do know for sure is that I will remain standing strong by the passions of my heart and its desires in all I do in life. And especially so in my writing. I will not allow myself to become a political addict and writer or even a potential political candidate for the sake of this guy, for the sake of anyone, except the citizens I want to help and vice versa. The citizens that sincerely support me and believe in my abilities to help them in whatever situation we know we can tackle. Because I know that if I make that promise to do so, I will die before ever breaking it.

A friend of mine once called me a perfectionist, and he half meant it a compliment, half a (constructive piece of) criticism. I told him, "Now, more than ever, us Arabs need to pull out that perfectionism and implement it in every step we take, or else we will be far worse off than we are now. " He nodded, and I knew that he knew I was right.

One day my perfectionism will pay off and my writing, political or not, will be re-tweeted by a follower who sincerely finds me (and my work) worthwhile. But in the meantime, Mr. Facebook will just receive fluorescent envelopes and a Facebook friend named Dania who posts about social issues, love, poetry, and whatever interesting article I'll come across and tag to Facebook.

Devolution in the Real Estate Market

There's always that barren piece of land that remains untouched. A real estate agent's sign claims a sense of ownership but even that sign seeks to rid the land to someone else. Something else. You wonder what was it? A patch of nature now destroyed for the sake of modernism? You wonder what could it be? Another set of Lego style apartment buildings so close to each other you could literally wish your neighbor blessings when he sneezes? You wonder is it affordable? Could you one day make a down payment when the next paycheck comes through?

It was part of our curriculum to study different lands in the state, and read about how lands' purposes are decided, and how often times those decision are made inefficiently, thanks to someone's personal agenda. But this is just land; it's far worse when this becomes applicable to humans. When they are treated like pieces of land. Forced to hold a sign soliciting their availability. Forever. For one night. For a few moments.

It was a cruel joke. Unintentional maybe, but cruel still. Somehow, wait no, not somehow, I made sure that it had circulated, this mantra of mine: No marriage. No kids. No problem. And people were unhappy. I went against the pure and utter purpose of a woman's creation: To marry and reproduce. That's it! To stray off this destined path only meant doom. To think for myself and be someone was wrong. To feel emotions and passions, have opinions and goals and dreams was an utter abomination.

I could see it. I was Reese Witherspoon in Pleasantville. The walking taboo that encountered a new realm of self-discovery while changing the minds of people in her path, and I loved it. I loved seeing a young woman's eyes tear up with hope and relief that she could amount to more than just dinner and diapers. That she should be valued for more than how perfect that turkey was on Thanksgiving. That she deserved to be the apple of someone's eye for who she was, rather than because she brought the apple pie. But the only problem with that part is we seldom ever get what we deserve in life. At least in this realm.

People can spend hours telling a woman, "He didn't deserve you," and "You deserve better, someone who will..." but the truth of the matter is where on earth in the 21st century does one find said partner? Good news, I no longer care. Remember? The mantra: No marriage. No kids. No problem.

But others do care, not about finding what they deserve, about this revolutionary mantra of mine. I've started my own Arab Spring here, or call it Arab Summer, as I find people wincing at my scorching words, telling me this fire I've started is deadly and wrong. It really does echo like a scene from a movie before the 1950s, when women could not even imagine, let alone implement their own ideas.

"You can't close the door on this. If you don't open up, you will lose opportunities," she said with sincere concern in her turquoise eyes. I was the landlord, refusing to sell, and she was the real estate agent, swooping in like a vulture on a property that seemed worthy. I knew she meant well. She had daughters of her own who were married (and divorced, like her) and she considered me to be one of them. "But I'm happy the way I am now. I just need a job, not a husband." The answer was less than satisfying and she pursued her own secretive course of action.

The man was now texting me, Facebooking me, messaging me, trying to see me, and I couldn't grasp why. We barely knew each other. Met once at a random event, didn't really hit it off (in my opinion), and I never looked back. But damn those moments when I never look back, because those are the ones that come back and bite me in the back. Suddenly the number of red notifications on Facebook sky rocketed, thanks to him. Text messages before I wake and sleep, from him. And in my mind I wondered where I went wrong. Where I led this man to think that there was a "For Sale" sign on me, and then I remembered.

My phone rang and I saw her number. The real estate agent, I mean, lady friend of mine. It took me a while as I debated answering because I knew, deep in the pit of my whatever, why she was calling. "Darling, how are you?" I did it, I answered. It would have been rude not to and I knew I would have to face her at some point. Be strong, I thought to myself. Stand by your mantra girl!

"So I did some background check into that guy you met a while back that was interesting, but he's unavailable. He's not really looking for a relationship right now. BUT good news, remember that guy you ran into at the event last week? He's looking to get married, so what do you think?"

Let's break this down analytically shall we? First of all, the interesting man was indeed quite a charming option, but his "Closed" sign was clearer than mine and so I didn't even consider it, and I explained that to her. Why she wanted to do some digging for me I have no idea. Secondly, why on earth would a man looking for marriage constitute as criteria for my intrigue, let alone a prerequisite to agree? I mean the way these women function, I don't get it. I've been in this situation before. I'm pulled aside by some random woman and she suddenly explains there's a man on a hunt for a woman to marry, and we literally begin to sound like we've been transported back to the caveman era. "Man hunt for marriage. You, marriage!" *Grunts*

It was ridiculous, ludicrous, and their set dysfunctional system of choice. "Uh, no, thank you. I remember him. He is not my type and honestly I'm still not looking for a relationship." She sighed. "Honey you have to open up to new things. New opportunities. Don't close the door. Think about it. He's an engineer."

Okay sidebar! Time to analytically critique again. First, why is it okay for people to respect a man's desire to stay single but not a woman's? Hmm? Hmmmmm? *Eyebrows raised highly in questioning format!* Really, why have I faced an extreme sense of backlash for being content at my current lifestyle but those free roaming bachelors are praised and admired for their desires. And strange those words "free roaming" remind me of cattle, yet those men are not seen as such, while we women are. "Oh look, there, that Dania is a free roaming ivory one. Brand her!" Why do I have to reconsider my choice and not instead have her call up the interesting charming man and convince him to reconsider his? Why couldn't I go and brand him? A hypothetical thought.

Second, what impact was the statement "He's an engineer" supposed to have on me? A turn on? An impressive motivating factor? Man, every flipping Arab I know is a doctor or engineer. Nothing screams turn on more than a unique study/occupation. Give me an analyst. An architect. A bio-genetic researcher. A man looking to create something new and beneficial to humanity. Something that can wow me with its originality, IF you were to truly believe that his occupation was supposed to be the biggest and most significant tempting push.

When we hung up I thought it would be over. That she understood my desire to be as cool as the interesting man and remain closed off from this. Remain that empty land content with being un-owned. Content with a "Not Available" sign upon it. But like those kids in grade school who stuck a post-it with the words "Kick Me!" on the innocent's back, she stuck me with the sign "Available" and now someone's been misled. *Caveman Grunt*

How do I tear down this sign and rework whatever damage's been done? Mend the fences and again reiterate my thoughts? It doesn't seem possible. And oddly enough, after embracing this mindset and philosophy people have reacted in ways I really can't understand. Women are protesting outside my doors, blocking out the word NOT with oppressive forces to change my ways. Men have been misreading it as "For Lease" and some freaks have even mastered a form of dyslexia that's led them to believe it says, "Try Me," like I were a toy at Target with that sticker on my hand or foot. Who knew getting an education really doesn't lead to being educated.

It's frustrating but I'm slowly becoming immune. Letting these people do as they please, while I do as I please. Women can banter and harass my family for allowing me to live my own life my way. Men can make their ridiculous attempts...and fail. And I can just be that happy landlord who knows no matter what offer I'm given, this land is far too valuable to sell; at least not till the market improves and I'm reassured that the coming buyers will actually be sincere ones who can afford to value what it is I offer. And that is not yet in the horizons that I see.

Zombie Love

It's that time of year again ... lol whatever that may mean to the heartfelt people of life.
Once upon a time I wrote about Vampire Love, when spending sleepless nights and horrendous drowsy mornings were my fate. This Halloween, the tables have turned in the imagination of my mind. Enjoy!
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A Zombie, in its broadest sense, is a person who has lost his or her sense of self-awareness and identity, and cares only for the destruction (and often consumption) of any human around, no matter what the circumstances, or cost to his or her self. – Zombiepedia

And then there were two…

him and you

But in reality I had neither one

I fell for him deeply,

gravitating towards him like the pull of the sun

Waiting on him for something I can only hope he’ll do

And all while I feel a confusing minimal for you

So I find myself burning both ends of a nonexistent candle in the forefronts of my mind

His shadow being the only thing I can’t help but find

I continue to bury you deep beneath endless black holes

only so that I can find peace from torturing your soul

Love may be the eerie term I am feeling for him,

while it seems to be the darkest term you’ve applied to me on a whim

If only I was as forgetful as the one that isn’t you,

life may be far more pleasant for us two

But he reminds me of that stubborn memory I hold

showing me it’s no gift, but a curse that’s gotten old

He’s carved my heart like a cheap orange pumpkin,

burned me with a flame, and only now has it sunk in

This may be another deceptive spell,

cast upon that heart of mine that will forever remain unwell

Ghostly flames have been reawakened from their creepy tombs tonight,

I guess three years is just about time,

and now I know the zombies are the ones with whom I will unite

Mindlessly chasing the man that will always run away from me

as you trail behind, fearless of my manic insanity

But there’s no cure for the undead living like me

This seems to be my fate for eternity

Because once I surrender to the love you’re willing to give

I know I will only once again become a lonely captive

He’ll be long gone,

and you’ll change your mind about everything you had done

leaving me only to repeat to myself on All Hallows’ Eve

And then there were none…

Independence Equals Sacrifice

                 Fireworks in Celebration of America's Independence Day

                   May God Grant the Syrians their Day Soon Enough 

At first I was ashamed of RSVPing no—especially when I ran into the bride to be and she asked me gleefully if I was coming. To the wedding. To the bridal shower. To the engagement party. To the celebratory dinner. The laundry list of partying was ridiculous and so long that even I personally got sick of the repetition. Because she wouldn’t be the only one. There were many before her, and many would come after her. But the problem lied in what seemed like a faint absence in their concern or deep thought for their people being slaughtered, raped and demolished on a minute-to-minute basis in Syria. [Please note I said faint…do not attack!]

I mean non-Syrians in the street were now suddenly concerned (and aware of) Syria, yet the Syrians were still skipping across the trail in la-la-land, believing that their attendance at this rally or that protest would be deep enough to alter the life of a mother who witnessed her infant being murdered, or a boy who watched his sibling brutally beaten to death. I couldn’t understand it, and still don’t. But I took this oath, this vow, along with my mother that until this regime of savage villains falls to pieces and beyond, I would not set foot at another extravagant gathering.

Now, as the matters in Syria get worse, and the parties over here get even better, I find no more shame in strongly supporting my decision not to attend. I believe in the Day of Judgment, when I will be facing my Lord, my Creator, and I want to be able to say I did sacrifice something from my life for the sake of the Syrians. And it wasn’t just a few hours at a rally, but it was days and weeks and months of avoiding useless partying and chatting where people are holding their glasses high in joy, having just brushed off their 15-seconds of Syrian remembrance where they said, “Yeah, it’s so sad. May God help them…because I really wana go back and visit Syria.” Uh selfish a bit?

You do realize that Syria isn’t just a place you take a vacation in for a few weeks with your family. It is a country that many considered their home. Home. Does that word ring an eerie bell in you? Because you still have one, that shelters you, protects you, keeps you cool and warm, holds your food, water, electricity, wi-fi, television, and so much more. All of which those Syrians have lost in an instant because they just wanted to be treated as humans.

At the beginning I supported all the protests and rallies, and I still do. Don’t get me wrong. It’s one thing that can and should be done to spread awareness even further. But it is just one thing. The problem that I have noticed from the Syrians around me is that they are willing to do the easiest and most minimal acts of sacrifice for Syria. It’s quite easy to get in your car and drive over to a protest where you hold a sign, or recite a few things under the hot sun. But it’s not easy to reroute your financial investments to support the Syrian refugees that were pushed out of their country because they now have rubble in place of where their home used to be. It’s not easy to dedicate an entire week or month of extra fasting from dawn to sunset for the sake of God to aid His people in Syria. It’s not easy to make a vow to God that you will increase your Quranic readings for the sake of victory and peace for the Syrian people. It’s not easy to make this internal adjustment and true sacrifice for them; and hence, we remain in this stagnant process, watching the news give us gut wrenching numbers of deaths in the 200s and 300s as if they were just a group of ants that were stepped on. It’s despicable!

But then I come across these families and their unbelievable expenses and continuous parties. I get it. You found a guy/girl and you’re getting hitched. I truly am happy seeing how shaky relationships are these days. And inside when I got all your invites I prayed to God so deeply that you would be eternally in love and continue down a path of strength and merriment and overcome every obstacle in life. But my friends, couldn’t you downsize? Create a more intimate family and friends setting and use the saved up the money on donations to assist the Syrians and their refugees who are now living in tents (by the way) on the borders of Syria and its neighboring countries because the other countries themselves cannot host all the refugees? To pay your bills for the first few months of marriage?

Did it never occur to couples to just host a big spiritual gathering in lieu of a wedding or dinner or party or shower and conduct a prayer night of religious recitations and lectures focusing on things we can sacrifice for the sake of God to help the Syrian people?

To 99% of the population I sound crazy, but in my heart I know I’m not. And I’m not afraid of my opinions or decisions anymore, no matter what facial expressions or glares I may receive. It’s funny, or sad, that when I express this concern and my views on Syria I’m faced with…you got it…criticism. I can’t even post a picture of Syrian deaths that shook me without facing the repercussions of it. But its well applauded for people to post pictures of them posing and shopping and feeding their babies and any other personal piece of information they just have to share with the public realm. It’s totally cool. Well not anymore. That’s yet another piece of sacrifice for my community to consider. Trying to remember the meaning of the word privacy and apply it in life—especially the social networking one. It’s time for people to wake up and accept the reality that the change needs to be a deep internal one—one that affects you personally, because you are sacrificing something you like that’s wasteful, for the sake of God in the dedicated intent for the Syrians.

Many may not understand this type of sacrifice, but having just left Ramadan not too long ago, Muslims, you should not have forgotten the effort and blessings that come with this sacrifice. And even those who are not Muslim, who know of that heartfelt sacrifice you do for your Lord, your Creator, you understand that this is the one that brings the result. This is the one our Syrian brothers and sisters are yearning for halfway across the world.

This is the one we need to start working towards.