Generation XYZ 2.0

No offense, but I’m not a robot. Not yet anyway. However, if you’ve chosen that path of life for yourself, then kudos to you. But I prefer to still stay human. Indulge in the human aspect of a techno-free life. So sometimes, believe it or not, my phone is not in my hand. Sometimes it’s silenced. And sometimes…wait for it…I turn it off! Gasp!

Off? Yes. Yes I do.

It’s both a gift and a curse nowadays that most phone companies have enforced a must-have-data plan with all smartphones because it only encourages the robotic aspect of being technologically addicted. And worse than that, these technological social networking sites only encourage instant gratification, which if you’re aware enough, you’ll realize is not always readily available or a commonality. But we’re raised in it. We watch a television show and in 30-60 minutes we see the beginning, middle and happy end. Our minds have now rationalized the idea that all things in life can be solved with such simplicity and speed…like drive thrus. They cannot.

We have Twitter, which teaches people the shorthand to the shorthand in language. All things must be said in 140 mere characters or less. What can be expressed there? But people are slicing apart their ideas and words just to fit it into that miniscule box. I guess it has its pros with being a good use of shortened links and announcements? Still, something about it irritates me. Maybe the fact that when I want to share an idea or a quote IT NEVER FITS? Life cannot be constrained to a mere 140 characters! Yet the newer generation is devolving into one that can only function on small things at a time. No more vast abilities.

And there is the ever so infamous Facebook. Ah Facebook! How you’ve absolutely revolutionized not only humanity, but life itself. People can no longer simply smile for a photo. People now pose with the curiosity of whether or not this photo could be new the profile picture or cover photo. And if so, how many Likes can it obtain? People base their worth on how many “Likes” or comments come through—how many red notifications are numbered at the top of that blue and white page. God forbid you ever log in and find none!

And with Facebook the changes never cease, which only makes people want the newer things in life—just like Apple—and honestly less patient. And here is where my purpose comes in:

I’m not always on Facebook. I don’t always check to see if I have notifications. I’m not always on my phone—texting, calling, Tweeting, commenting, Liking, Instagraming, etc. Sometimes I live my life. Alone. With my family. With friends. With nature. But I think people have forgotten that that exists. Or maybe they don’t think that I still live in that life. Just me. Because miraculously, no one else has complained of this except me. At least none that I have heard of yet.

I have sent my fair share of emails, texts, FB messages/posts and personal tweets that either go unanswered (till today) or are responded to anywhere between 72 hours to nine days later. Never have I harassed anyone whatsoever about the delayed response UNLESS it was an absolute emergency, like a paper deadline or proposal due date. But if it were anything else, I hit send and never held my breath. People don’t always respect other’s time and therefore I know not to wait. However, with me, if I ever ever ever, let 45 seconds pass without instantly responding to someone’s Tweet, email, text, Facebook message, Facebook comment/Like, I never hear the end of it. Ever!

Seriously? What the hell people? Excuse my hell usage, but really what the hell? Does it not occur to the people who text me at midnight that maybe I crashed and am already in bed? Does it not occur to people that maybe my phone is off? That I’m in the shower? That I’m downstairs while I “accidentally” forgot my phone upstairs (and I put accidentally in quotes because no where in life does it state that one must be physically attached to phone at all times—but leave it to the future to create a waterproof one to keep with you in the shower or pool. No more iPhone water damage huh?). What if I was in a meeting? Talking with another human being who values personal interaction as much as I do? (I’m trying my utmost best to avoid ever taking out my phone during a face to face conversation unless I need to). In class? Driving! Need I go on? We all have things to do!

Oh and hey Facebook, I applaud your great idiocy with the implementation of that damn “Check Mark-Seen-Time Stamp” that appears beneath every freaking Facebook message that was opened. What if I accidentally clicked it but didn’t actually read it? Now the sender is flipping out and cursing me under his/her breath, wondering why on earth I didn’t respond immediately. Buddy, chill, I have a touch screen phone that sometimes thinks I touched one link when I meant to touch another. Pardon me for wanting to give your message my highest respect and respond properly in ten minutes when I’m absolutely free! The ironic flipside here is the possibility that this person could also wonder why that “Check Mark-Seen-Time Stamp” has not appeared and why I have not already opened their message. You know, because I only live for them right?

My policy is work towards responding within 24 hours. Maybe a little less with text messages. But I mean really, if you texted at 6:00PM and I didn’t get out of class till 10:00PM (which is what life in grad school looked like people) how much evil jinxes did you already send my way for not responding? I can’t deal with this useless drama. Really. Life has already got a heavy load of hard things to deal with as it is. Why make it harder for others? Why harass me with more texts and emails asking me why I didn’t respond ten seconds ago? Why I’m ignoring you? If I got your email five minutes ago? Look with today’s technology, you no longer need to worry if something arrived or not. It usually bounces back (even with texts now) if it didn’t go through.

It’s just tiring to sit and begin worrying about everyone’s feelings on such a miniscule and ridiculous matter. To try with your utmost best to make me feel so guilty, when these same people have gone days without calling me or emailing me back on matters far more significant than, “Why didn’t you comment under my new picture?” It frightens me because we are all adults…or so I thought. But can we start taking time to breathe and realize that there is something called personal space? A life offline? That people are really not born with a phone attached? With the Facebook/Twitter/Instagram apps already downloaded into their mental systems? We are human and I intend to remember that aspect as often as possible.

So the sensitive ones may read this and take it personally. I recommend you don’t. I’m being honest and sincere. You are…well…suffocating me. You want to message me constantly? Fine. But don’t use those extreme numbers of messages to ask me why I’m not responding to the one before. Or to your text. Or your email. I promise I will when I get to it. And if, god forbid, I didn’t immediately click “Like” to your new profile picture, your check-in, or your status, please forgive me. There may be a chance that I won’t “Like” it. I’m saving my thumb’s energy for other typing matters.

We really do have to change that dysfunctional mentality of valuing ourselves based on our technological popularity. Social networks only go so far. And I plan on only meeting them halfway.

Dear Arabia

As I listened to Wael Kfoury (a famous Lebanese singer I equate with John Mayer) all I could remember were his eyes. Not Kfoury's but a Syrian man. The piercing brightness that burned right through me. That vibrated brighter than the neon orange vest the sanitation district handed him upon being hired. It greatly clashed with the dark navy toned dirty raggedy jumpsuit he wore, and the deep shadowy face of his, tanned from years of working beneath the scorching Syrian sun. Somehow I thought it may be the only one he owned. But he wasn't just one. He was thousands. Thousands of "waste management workers" (to call them politely because honestly and unfortunately, all they were considered in Syria were just poor people with a cheap vest and cheaper income).

Upon every trip I knew I'd see him. And him. And him. With the bloodshot eyes. Thoroughly dry cracked lips. And barely a voice. Of all the men I encountered on the streets of Syria, these were the politest. The humblest. The most respectful. And if you know what it's like to walk through the streets of Syria as a woman, you'd understand. They never begged or asked for anything, not verbally anyway. I mean two years later and I still remember how his eyes wrenched my soul. When I handed him the 300, 400, or 500 pounds it always felt like never enough. And I would climb back up the three stories of our green building to cry secretly in my Syrian bedroom. The room I now may never see again.

Now almost two years after the revolution and massacre have occurred, he...they, are all I can think of. The men in soiled jumpsuits, orange vests and the Arabian checkered scarves on their heads. Once upon a time they picked up the trash that lazy careless Syrians deposited so apathetically on the jagged ancient streets. Now what has become of them? The families I knew he tucked away my 500 pounds for? Did they survive the various snipers? The impromptu bombings? The missiles? And the now introduced chemical gases?

Hundreds of Syrians have fled. Those who had the means and the money were able to quickly salvage their goods and head to the Gulf, Europe or America. They have no knowledge of whether or not the home they grew up in still stands. But families, like those of the men I remember, they had no means or money. All they could salvage were themselves and their family members. No inheritance. No saved money underneath mattresses or foreign bank accounts. Everything was getting expensive in the past few trips I took to Syria, and I wondered how they were surviving then. But now, everything has changed.

The memories of the impoverished that I encountered in Syria kept me up till 4:00 AM last night. Kfoury kept singing and the strings of the violin were vibrating faster than my heart as I remembered how just a mere two years ago I enjoyed the ignorance of an innocent Syrian December breeze with only bliss in sight. I would open my bedroom window, but only after closing my door because my grandmother would flip out and exclaim how absolutely cold it was; and yet I never felt the chill. And I would sit atop the window sill and admire the perfection of what little I could see. A glimpse of a purple and red sunset. A snippet of the nightlife that was beginning to come alive in the strip mall across the street. The red dome of the small mosque beside the courtyard. A neon light turning on in the children's ward of the hospital three feet from my room. I heard the infants cry very often, and when I would look down I'd see the nurse, dressed in a white coat and a soft powder blue scarf on her head, coming to soothe the baby. I heard the constant sirens, kids in the street, the famous horns of cars (the soundtrack of the Middle East), and the occasional wedding ceremonies hosted throughout the alleyways of Damascus.

It's all changed now, as I hear the news and read the Facebook feeds of my remaining friends and relatives in Syria. They explain how changed the sounds of Damascus have become. The way that gunshots, explosions, and mysterious booms fill their dawns, days and evenings. They are always reminding each other to kiss every family member a strong farewell before heading to schools (whichever have remained open), or work (whichever still stands), or travels (whomever still can) because no one knows for sure if there is a return. Many never did return home.

And I go back to those eyes. So small yet so meaningful. And I realize, it's all for him. All because Syrians, Arabs actually, finally gathered the bravery to stand up to this awful lifestyle they've been forced to live. The dehumanizing poverty that's left them in shambles. The almost 1984/Hunger Games fear of speaking, because there always was a big brother. The starvation and inflation. The twisted educational system that literally makes or breaks a person's future.

When they had enough of that suffocating environment, the Arabs took a stand. After centuries of their silence, they remembered their origins of civilization and success, and they rose to the challenge. But the courage and bravery did come at quite a price. Friends that have traveled to work with aid services and refugees have thoroughly described that hefty price. Broken skulls. Murdered infants. Raped girls. Beaten men. The list goes on.

What scares me even more is: What next? Has anyone seen the light at the end of this tunnel? Not just for Syria but for the entire Middle East? We all stood in solidarity with Egypt. Demonstrated our pride in their ability to begin working towards an implementation of democracy. And sure, there will be loads of kinks and bugs to work out of the Arabian system after years of oppression, but this new generation that apparently initiated such a ripple effect, how many of them were looking at the after scene and really preparing for it? You know, after we make the tipping point move, how do we begin building sustainable futures for our country and our people? Everywhere I go now I see the "shaking heads" when they define the current status of Egypt, post democracy and election based presidency. And now, after the most peaceful protest to remove the old dictator, suddenly the death tolls and violence has surfaced. Why? Why?!?!

This only concerns me because I wonder about the other Arab countries. They all found this indescribable inspiration when they witnessed Egypt's success. It was enough to get them going. But what is the point, really, of getting rid of a bad system to ring in the new life with a worse one? I mean...(and yes I know maybe now this may seem like useless ramblings, but I think ahead because that's where we're headed)...I won't be able to tolerate the idea of a "free" country for Arabs where they're still not really free. I wouldn't be able to wrap my head around the image of seeing another abused laborer after the fall of Syria's dictatorship. It wouldn't make sense to me.

I know poverty will always unfortunately exist, but when I envision this fight for humanity and dignity, I envision it's because the less fortunate ones are those who want the ability to actually have access to a better life. Because really, at the start of this, and I will be honest, the rich people there had their legs crossed and said, "Yeah, I'd give this a few weeks, months top, and it will blow over." I heard them say it to me verbally. It wasn't until they suddenly had the carpets dragged from under their feet with the battle closing in on them literally, until their home was destroyed or rampaged by the military that they finally recognized EVERYTHING this revolution entails.

Every trip I'd take, I'd come back with pages of notes titled, "What I Will Do to Help Change in Syria." In my last trip, when I extended it to half a year, I thought I could start planting the seeds to my longer return and finally make those childhood notes come true. I never realized I was going to plant my seeds of hope. I only pray that this hope can be manifested into a success that will bring about stronger and cleaner roots, for today and the future. My metaphorical suitcase is packed and ready to depart at the call of the white flag. But I'm scared. Not for my life (that will end when God has set it to end), but of the hidden agendas and intents. This Arab Spring has sprung out the newest of sensations within the Arab people. Mistrust. Ego. Pride. Such ugly things that apparently were always there but never had the opportunity to awaken till now.

I want to see a successful, peaceful, supporting Egypt. I want to see a free, peaceful Palestine. I want to see the Saudi Arabia that it once was when it encountered the revelation of the greatest miracle over 1400 years ago (oh God I really pray for that one, because recently I've been reading some horrible articles about that desert). And I want to see the entire Middle East no longer be that focal point of head shaking news. A Syria that I can visit easily without issues, and feel like my hands are not tied if I want to write in a magazine, work with the educational system for creativity to enhance their children's skills and not hinder them, implement better waste management and sanitation programs to reduce the pollution and urban damage, help create better social policy and human welfare, work with schools and families to promote healthier human relations, and so much more.

When I finished my M.P.A. (Master's in Public Policy & Administration) I began second guessing its use. I knew my passion was always in Sociology and more precisely gender issues. But witnessing what the Arab world needs, I feel that God was preparing me for an opportunity to benefit others, one day, someday. Here, America, Surf City, will always be my home. I plan to dwell here forever and work here forever. But half of my heart resides in Damascus, and I intend to give it my all as well. Who said you can't be in two places at once? It may be my one lifetime, but I will split it between two homes. Because I never want to see those broken eyes again. I want to see them smiling. Never yearning. Always inspiring and believing in a future that it truly deserves.