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.