When the Sun Sets

You grow up being told everything happens for a reason. Deep down in my heart I know that's true, and as I felt the sun kiss my covered skin beneath the chilly Newport Beach air, I cried in wonder at what God intended to produce from this. It was painful, bittersweet and ironic; the three words most commonly used to describe life these days. I sat in the same place, smelled the same ocean and soaked up the same sun, but something was entirely different. Actually more than one something, but one was the feeling in me.

Once upon a time this was a carefree blissful moment of "anything can happen" and now it was a worrying stressful moment of "what is going to happen?" Life is unfair, that's another point I'll give credit to the world for actually warning me about. It truly is. When wars are waging for no valid reason with only innocents as casualties while we slowly alienate ourselves from the gravity of it all because of time lapse, life is unfair. When you put your hope and trust in something and someone and you take that leap of faith only to belly flop on pavement, life is unfair. When you sit upon the most beautiful bench staring out into the water created by God, as sailors pass by, swimmers pass by, and who knows what else, and yet you ache so uncontrollably that you cry, life is unfair. And when after all that you get one silver lining, immediately grab hold of it and think, "There is a chance," it breaks almost instantaneously and drops you back down on that black hot pavement, life is unfair. But I guess, like I noted in one of my previous posts, humans are either born lucky, blessed, or some rare few, lucky and blessed. This was a moment of bad luck, a long one, and yet such an unmistakable blessing it hurts. The mere fact of knowing that is just a blessing in itself.

It is a blessing when you know your Lord so well you actually hear Him. You may hear Him through actions, through gestures and through life experiences. For a while I've drowned out His words, pushing aside my intuition and gut feeling to follow blind faith. But how could I be so blind when I know that with God’s Faith there is never to be blindness? I cried more.

For a while now I prayed for signs, like a ship lost at sea looking for the lighthouse. A beacon of safety. I think He sent me many, but they were not what my current desires wanted so I ignored them, and continued to do so until I cracked. Shattered into jagged tiny shards of glass like the one from the window that collapsed in my house exactly one year ago. It was a frightening sight as I stared at the glass frozen in its space but so thoroughly cracked. It was clear that at any point gravity would overpower those pieces and they'd fall. They were me and I was them. I held on so tight when I knew the damage was done and the only thing left was to fall so that I could pick up the pieces to start again, and yet I refused.

Everyone around me was hurt, sliced by my newly formed jagged edges. I was changed, and not for the better. Ah, what life can do to you when you enter it with hope. I'm not saying look at the glass half empty, just be wary of what it may be half full of. If you’ve been drinking something that clouds your judgment and makes you lose your way, it’s time to let it go. Pick up your pieces, take a step forward, and watch the sun set on this chapter of life. All that matters is that your heart is finally in the right direction, knowing that the intention is to prepare for the next sunrise.

Trust and Go

One of the things the internet has revolutionized for us is the expansion of sharing, sometimes so far that an alienation of labor occurs. I came across this quote today, author unknown, and it just made me laugh in awe at how ironic my life can often be. “A relationship without trust is like a car without gas. You can stay in it as long as you want but it won’t go anywhere.”

I remember the moment I looked deep into my ex’s eyes, beneath the magical skies of Disney’s fireworks, and truthfully and faithfully confessed, “I trust you. With all my heart.” Trust far exceeds love in my scale and I guess he didn’t realize what value that confession carried.

It’s quite a difficult thing to trust someone, definitely when it’s someone who made it difficult to do so. However, it’s even harder to trust yourself, especially after for so long you were made to believe you were too unstable to be trusted.

They say time heals all wounds. That’s what I’ve been hearing from a few these days. Deep down I knew they were right, but I couldn’t quite express to them what it felt like to realize my trust and self-trust was just as tarnished as my heart; my intuition too betrayed to speak up again. That was until this very morning, when I found myself sandwiched between two totaled cars, on my usual two-hour commute to work.

The whole incident happened in literally a blink of an eye. Red lights flashed before me. Brakes slammed beneath me. Car behind me swerving away and into its neighboring car. Both cars ricocheting in a spin, knocking into me before bouncing straight into the center divider. All that remained were visions of smoke, air bags and shattered metal.

It took a good 75 seconds of shock before I was awoken by a knock on my window. “Ma’am! Ma’am! Are you okay?” I must have nodded because he replied, “Yes? Just a little shocked huh? I’m an off duty fire officer and the authorities have been notified. Stay put. You’re going to be alright.”

My knees were shivering so violently that I fell against the side of my car as the officer spoke with me. The electric zap of pain kept shooting up and down my spine, knowing that surely the real damage would be felt later. That’s how my heart had been for a while. Too absorbed in the shock of a very ugly divorce that it took a few weeks before the pang hit me, just as hard as the silver Mustang did. And both were ridiculously hard.

I even recall the scene in my rearview mirror, watching the car approaching me, knowing the inevitable was going to happen, while still praying that that 1% chance of hope would kick in. It’s the same percentage I hold on to in other aspects of life, although I usually call it faith. The 99% won and I know that’s destiny, as was my marriage.

When the police officer said I was good to go I sat in my car for a while, watching the ambulance wheel away the people in the two other cars. “I’m blessed,” I kept repeating to myself. “I could have been one of those on the way to hospital. I’m going to be okay.” I looked at the two cars, hoods thoroughly crushed to a pulp. “Even my car is blessed. It’s only the entire left side and the tire and the bumper, but it still runs. We’re okay.”

It was on the traffic-less drive home that I faced a literal experience of mistrusting myself. Despite knowing that the morning’s collision was not my fault—the woman behind me swerved into both cars—I couldn’t help but be paranoid at how fast I was going, how much space I placed between me and every car around me, how instantly I hit the brakes when necessary. It made the drive all the more intolerable. I silenced my phone, kept the radio off and seriously drove with my eyes peeled, constantly monitoring every mirror and every window.

Suddenly the confident (sometimes speedy) driver was starting all over. I remembered the anxiety of driving with my instructor during training. “Faster!” he would often say because I was too scared to press it with even my toes.

I praised God upon arriving to my driveway, the car making very awful screeching noises the whole way over. When I got out and stared at the damage, I felt like I was looking in the mirror. That was me. We had both been hit, hard. We faced the damage and were banged up, but you know what? We are both going to be okay. With some time, some repairs and some absolutely amazing spirits (like loving family, loving friends and loving coworkers) we are going to return back to our true selves or even better.

Regardless of the efforts aimed at destroying every piece of who I am, piling all the blame on me, I know the truth. I know my strength. I know my faith. I know myself. Some of the final few un-regrettable words I said in my relationship were, “I am happy and content with who I am and that’s something beautiful. It’s what made me give you a chance, being told that you loved all of me…I don’t know where that changed.” Maybe it never existed.

After a year of almost losing every ounce of self-respect and self-love I owned, it took a lot of courage to remember them and state them with utmost confidence. And it is the truth. For a while I know I will live (and drive) with some hesitation. The thing about me is I always have a destination, so no matter what bump in the road I face, I can’t help but get back up and keep moving forward. All I really need to do is to trust and go. Trust and go.

Teaser

As some of you may know, I'm currently working on a book relating to the very subject described in my previous post. I must state the feedback and support received from that piece is overwhelmingly beautiful and inspiring. It keeps me motivated and has already strengthened me throughout this very difficult healing process. 

I'd like to share a quote from the upcoming draft for eager readers. It spoke deeply to me (although most chapters have) and I could not help but stop midway in writing this chapter (which was entirely on my phone — thank iPhone 6 plus) to release a very painful cry. I know it will be some time before there comes a day of complete closure but until then, your love and my writing outlet are the greatest gifts.

Enjoy.

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"For too long I believed I was (demented) and he, just a poor unlucky man who happened to only stumble upon messed up women. Sometimes I find myself crying in the shower, hoping the sound would be muffled from my mother whose heart can't handle anymore of my misery. I wonder, am I really wrong? Did I leave someone genuinely good because my fear and anxiety were out of whack? It's the scariest self dilemma to face but I always come out a winner when I remember what a relief I feel every day that passes without him. How much weight has been lifted that I am finally able to breathe again. What an amazing sense of liberation it is to never again walk on eggshells. And how absolutely phenomenal it is to love myself again and have faith in God—not man—that I will be okay even without a husband. And that if a man comes along, I am now wiser and stronger, capable of knowing right from wrong. And if I say yes to him, it will be because my heart knows God sent me this one to make my life even greater than it already will be. That's how I know I was right. I was right all along and I was right when walking away."

Beauty over Beast

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"At least he didn't hit her." That was when I lost it. Not in the flip out go crazy and overreact way, but in the knot in my stomach memory way. It was only innocent fun, I know, but to a certain extent. My mom once told me, as a poet, I am forever destined to experience things a lot deeper than the average person. That’s just how it goes.

Having just recently escaped an absolutely draining and manipulative relationship turned marriage, I have slowly reawakened to a great deal of realities, and one came about during this very simple debate. The topic: Feminist Disney films. The controversy: Whether or not Belle was a feminist character.

Disney has always found itself to be the center of controversy on so many levels in this day and age, but it has become clear that with the recent changes in society, they have quickly hopped on board the feminism train, and it truly is refreshing.

It all started with Frozen, at least our debate did, and how that was one of the most revolutionary Disney films that redefined a woman’s role. From there it snowballed. The list grew to include Mulan and Brave; but then came about Beauty and the Beast. “What?” I caught myself shrieking. “Seriously?” And without a second thought, the following words just flew right out of my mouth, “That film is basically teaching women that you can assuredly change an abusive man with love.” Even I caught myself by surprise in the 30-second silence that followed. How did I never recognize this analysis until now?

Almost immediately though, the gentleman of the group defended his thesis. “It depicts a nerdy strong female character who refused to marry the town fool and stood up to her people.” I raised an eyebrow. “You mean the pitchfork Salem witch hunter crew? Um, okay.” I never saw Belle as nerdy, but rather as an educated woman and an avid reader. Who wouldn’t love that gorgeous library? And as for the town fool, honestly, even at four years old, I hated Gaston. He was just…gross!

However, underneath all of that remains a very disturbing message that is often, if not always, overlooked. It truly instills the mindset that even a beast can evolve into a prince with the unique love of a woman. So there she was, the educated beautiful classy Belle, putting up with this beast time and time again because she had faith. It’s that faith that can lead us to our demise. It’s that spark of hope that leads you to trust and open up to a beast because you want to eternally believe that the prince, buried somewhere deep in there, will eventually come out.

In the sickeningly devolving Arab culture (that I am slowly but surely ridding myself of) women are trained to embrace the “damned if you do and damned if you don’t” mentality. As a female, you will always be blamed and you must always take the fall for whatever your beast/prince does. If he cheats on you, you’re the flaw. If he beats you, you caused it. If he psychologically destroys you, you’re stupid. What makes it worse? It’s your feminine duty to nurture the boy back into loving you with your soft caresses and gentle kisses. I heard it all and lived a lot of it too. All that is only reinforced when Belle watches the hairy monster magically transform beneath the gray rain. Suddenly his sharp piercing blue eyes appear soft and serene. She did it. She changed him. She tamed the beast.

I recently came across an article that countered a long-lived misconception: WIVES ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE UPBRINGING OF THEIR HUSBANDS. Yet somehow, we are continuously expected to be. We have to go above and beyond the extreme love and passion, strip ourselves of our worth, in order to protect and serve the men. Yeah, you know what, no! When I was kicked out of the house that never really became mine, shivering and in shock, I suddenly remembered who I was. But all I could hear was the echo of the beast yelling at me. Cursing me. Breaking me down and informing me of how utterly worthless and incompetent I was at being a lover and a person. Time and time again I heard, “At least I didn’t hit you.”

“At least I didn’t cheat on you.”

“At least I didn’t go get drunk.”

“At least I didn’t leave you.”

Often, I think I wished he did all of the above, so that the underlying pain my heart felt could be justified to the world, because telling someone you were emotionally, verbally or psychologically abused doesn’t seem to suffice. But I held on because from the first night, I saw the prince in his eyes and I watched as rose petal after rose petal fell. By the last petal though, I had no prince.

Everyone is captivated by the perfection and romance when the Beast gives Belle the library. Your heart sings. The butterflies swirl. You can’t help but say, “Aww,” in lust. Yes, abusive men can still do beautiful things. I know. I ache when my brain remembers what beautiful romantic things I experienced, yet I ache even more when I realize I convinced myself that those blissful pieces were supposed to be enough to erase the invisible bruises and breaks.

No one noticed how silent I got right after that statement, but it was a trigger. Luckily the night was ending, and as I walked to my car with one of my girlfriends, I couldn’t help but get back to that point. Shaking my head in surprise at how unconsciously applicable that all was to what I just encountered.

“Yeah, but that’s Disney,” she said. “Most, if not all, their films revolved around that very same idea. A woman’s sole purpose is to find and/or fix a prince because that’s when her happily ever after begins.” I nodded, knowing that it was true. Somehow we grew up with these films and I am grateful to see the expansion of female characters and roles with the changing times.

If anything, I think the feminist award is a tie between Mulan and Merida, from Brave. Mulan did join battle to honor her family and she did manage to meet a man who literally fell in love with her personality. However, Merida was that bold little red headed rebel who decided to fight for her own hand in marriage, and I can’t help but admire that too!

Dignified Filtration

There are no such things as ordinary mornings, not for me anyway. Sometimes, when the sun starts rising and shining through my broken blinds, I can feel something approaching. This morning I slept in. It was only an extra 30 minutes but it’s amazing what half an hour can do. After praying the pre-dawn prayer, I did my usual unhealthy skim through my phone: Emails, texts and Facebook. Nothing significant and so I decided at this hour, I could afford one more nap before heading off to work.

The second time around, my phone skim brought me something new, a Facebook message from yet another man eliminated out of my life this season. I say another because I recently made a harder elimination in order to regain myself and my life back, and I am grateful. I am grateful to God for finding my way before I really was taken far off track. I am grateful that I am happy, strong and wholly content again. Interestingly enough, these two men and their stories intertwine.

The departure of the first man brought about the nosy speculations of male #2. Mind you, the latter is of my father’s generation, married and a parent, but who says that means much these days? What fuels his high school childish behavior is beyond me, but a week ago I received the dreaded red flag icon notifying me of the no longer accessible Facebook message (yes, I have refused to download the Messenger app). Knowing it was from him, I got suspicious. He’s been a harasser before disguised as just a guy trying to pull off the hip routine. I brushed off his behavior for the reasons I will explain later. When I opened it, I found it to be an invite to an event. However, the way it was worded (a copied and pasted thing) and what the event was itself, appeared very shady and I knew the motive behind the message—invasion of privacy. It must have been far more difficult to maturely conjure up a hello…how are you…did you get a divorce? Or better yet, find the maturity to not ask. But then there it was. After I politely declined the invitation, without any introduction, any question, any appropriateness, bam! The invasive attempt to dig into my short-lived marriage.

True, I may not have changed my nonexistent Facebook marital status to now read Divorced, but it’s no longer a secret and I made no effort to hide the fact. Nothing can be more empowering or uplifting for a broken woman than coming across quotes and internet memes that remind her of her worth and value after losing sight of both for almost two years. Yet, it was deemed a cry for help; and for Arabs, an opportunity to interject. So I left his message alone, reminding myself that I owed this man and every other man NOTHING. That was a mistake I just escaped from and will not allow myself to fall into again, in any other way.

Then this morning, when the red flag appeared again, and his name sat highlighted in the Facebook inbox, I knew his harassment was coming. His all to familiar resenting tone infuriated me as he demanded a response. Somehow though, I chuckled, stumbling out of bed to get started with my day. I envisioned my established father, and if he were to have a Facebook account where he wasted his time harassing younger friends about their personal lives! My fingers began immediately formulating a defensive response, giving him an absolute huge piece of my mind about his invasion of privacy, his rude inappropriate behavior, and what a disappointment he was to be ambushing me with his falsified event invitation. But then I stopped. I erased every letter and word and put my phone away.

When I was younger, and I would watch films where a girl was victimized in some way—be it bullied by the popular girls in high school or manipulated into an embarrassing situation—I would get so frustrated and wonder why on earth these women never spoke up to defend themselves or explain that the situation was not their fault. But now, I get it. I get the invisible forces that prevent us women from retaliating and I also recognize how the value of that golden silence only grows.

Being silent in the right way can save you from a great deal of messes. I know that it saved me from a lot of bad roads I almost took in my relationship. The concept of silence also gave me a deeper perspective today, on my two-hour commute, where I started the personal debate of whether or not this individual, this friend, should be deleted from Facebook.

It comes with a raging fire, this territory of Facebook deletion or blocking. You face heat and hate and are dubbed many awful things. Years ago I deleted and blocked a girl who had done something terrible to me with her lies. It was a simple click and I knew that now there would be no connection with her since I had done my best to distance myself from her and her likes offline. She still found a way to attack me for that—the act of blocking her from Facebook. It was amusing as much as it was amazing. The sociologist I am does indeed find fascination in these creatures. Even my family was in awe. I implemented my silence mantra there too, realizing she didn’t deserve an ounce of effort. With this man however, I had to think just a bit more before deciding because there was slightly more of an investment. Not only was he connected to me on Facebook, but so was his entire family, people I actually respected and admired. The debate then became, did I want to delete him and lose the whole family or should I suck it up and give his pathetic behavior yet another excuse? Because I knew, if only he was gone, and the rest remained, I would face a wrath that I really don’t have time for nor do I deserve.

Just a few miles away from my office I came to a concluding question: What do I value from Facebook? What about it is so key that it must involve this particular family? The final answer? Nothing…that would really benefit or involve them. The initial answer? Facebook is my tool for campaigning efforts (literature or events) and connections (the friends that have gone international to be honest). Facebook is where I share ideas, advertisements and work that as an artist and a writer I would like to share with the world. And yes, the world that can value it appropriately and provide it the constructive critiques, not the degrading ones. And that was it, right there, clear as day. I asked myself as I took the elevator up to my floor, “Why else is there a Facebook blocking tool if not to report spam or abuse?”

I realized then how we, women, are conditioned to always fear. We fear being disliked or unaccepted. We absolutely fear being labeled, especially if the labels are crazy or melodramatic. We fear being humiliated. And we fear the backlash, which we often face for speaking up. For simply standing up for our human right of dignity! So instead we oblige. We turn the other cheek and create excuses to brush off the abuse and the harassment. Now the stronger of us, we will know when the major line is crossed and take action after a bit of tolerance. The strongest of us however, will never even allow the original fine line to be neared. I used to be one of the latter until recently. It takes one slip and you can lose it all. It also takes agonizing years of hearing every label set upon you for being a good, moral person who values her dignity and self and refuses to allow anyone to trespass her on any level. I fell into the first group, but the good news is I still had the courage to put my foot down when that major line was crossed—in both scenarios. So I took action, blocked these individuals from life, on and offline, one by one, and you know what? It feels phenomenal!

The irony was how it all just wrapped up so eloquently with what happened at work only a few hours later. My inbox housed an urgent email. Apparently as a manager, I was mandated to complete a two-hour workplace harassment prevention training. I laughed and continued laughing even harder as I went from slide to slide, reading about the very same thing I had learned to detect in my own life and change. But there was something very disturbing underneath that training and it was the way that even by law, no disciplinary action was taken until something drastic enough had to happen—like rape or quid pro quo harassment. And don’t even get me started on the statistics of how many women often find themselves practicing the wrong kind of silence to save themselves, their reputations and their jobs.

What kind of a sad world do we live in today where a woman is so afraid of not finding something better out there, she settles for something horrible and inhumane? At one point I caught myself yelling at the monitor after reading one of the real life scenarios. “What? Oh my god, just quit!” I looked around, remembering it was a reenactment, and started to think about this hypothetical woman who represented a great deal of non-hypothetical women today. Who are trapped in their possibly terrible jobs, with abusive and manipulative superiors, and seriously cannot go anywhere else because this economy has destroyed the opportunity to get anything anywhere else.

Even I, who has recently faced some harsh attitudes from two fellow employees, caught myself doing the same thing. “Oh I won’t complain to the director because he will either think I’m just causing drama in the new job or he will approach those two and then they will hate me more and retaliate.” Apparently, retaliation is punishable. Whoop-de-doo! But when someone pushes past you with a snort and a very disturbing harsh demeanor, after you say, “Good morning!” with a smile, everyday for 90 days and you actually start to feel it just may be racism, despite the fact that you NEVER pull the racism card out ever, yeah, you can’t do anything there until he acts out.

What a concept it is to ingrain in the minds of women that these things are okay and should be tolerated. That literally was one of the scenarios: Woman is molested by the company’s star performer and manager tells her to brush it off because the accused harasser is too valuable to lose right now. Once upon a time I put up with similar things—the little crossed lines and the big crossed lines—I just didn’t want any more labels. Somehow, I still got the labels, some that I never even expected. Failure. Disappointment. Emotional. Dramatic. Crazy. Delusional. Too serious. Blah blah blah. However, it’s these labels that fuel me to continue down this path of filtration.

If women are going to be labeled and criticized either direction they take, why not at least take the direction that involves far less harassment and abuse? I would rather be labeled by ignorant people who don’t have any morals or value dignity because I chose to stand up for myself, than stay in an abusive or harassing situation and hear far worse than a label. The greatest reminder we can give ourselves is that we live for a purpose, sometimes one that can be greater than we know. Our efforts will not be harmed by the removal of these toxic people, both on and offline. We will not miss out on anything. On the contrary, we will remember our worth and find that the paths to our missions are clearer and lighter.

Lessons from Maleficent

Yeah, this post is long overdue but life can most certainly get in the way sometimes, but here it is nonetheless. After weeks of waiting, we finally made it to see Maleficent in theaters. Surprisingly it was a small crowd considering that it had only been out three weeks. We grabbed our seats and eagerly awaited the start of a movie whose previews were as seductive as possibly could be. I was loving how recently film makers were and entertainers were trying to take old well known stories and give us a twist—the other side—maybe even the truth that we were told to never believe all along. And that’s just what they did in this spectacular film!

But like always, I left feeling like a heavy load was just implanted on me from the depth of the film. Contrary to the request at the start of the movie, I couldn’t help but take out my phone and jot down notes of lessons I felt like this movie taught us all.

First off, the movie begins with a clear demonstration of what goes on today. A majority group fearing a minority group and the latter is invaded and attacked for no apparent reason. Why? Why invade a peaceful group that does not bother you? Because you fear them? Because they are different? Because you assume they are terrorists? And I use that last term not to reference the 21^st century implementation, but rather the way the film demonstrated it. They were absolutely terrified by these different beings when there was no need to be.

The lesson here is fearing the unknown could not be more stupid. On top of that, you reap what you sew, and boy do you sew a great deal of evil when you oppress another. Invading other people’s lands and lives can produce a mass spread of darkness and destruction, and you will reap even more of what you sew when you find how much damage you’ve instilled in the personalities of the victims. I fear to even imagine what years of this oppression will do the continuously dwindling population of Middle Easterners. It’s been reported that since the start of the Syrian Revolution, millions of children have gone without education or any sort of schooling. That’s millions of children remaining ignorant to significant life skills and information to survive for almost four years. What a shame! What a sickening shame!

Second, the movie illustrates quite how strong selfishness and greed can be. It portrays the way that it can ruin the strongest of bonds, the strongest of loves and the strongest of lives in just a moment. It becomes like a cancer that takes over and sooner rather than later is eternal. Catch yourself before it latches on tightly and grows.

Thirdly, the film teaches people how significant overreactions can be in life. That allowing yourself to overreact in a moment of heated anger or revenge can forever bring you a lifetime of regret. And it may be something unchangeable, because lesson number four is, no matter how much you try, fate will always play out.

Lesson number five is a difficult one and yet a beautiful one, or maybe a painful one. In the movie we witness how possible it is for people to change—for the better and for the worse—but what ends up being the most real is who they always were on the inside. Sadly Steffan proved himself to own a very ugly heart, and we find that Maleficent never was evil. That ties in to lesson number six which show us just how powerful media outlets can be in making us believe who’s the enemy and who isn’t.

Beautiful lesson number seven is that true love can come from the most unlikeliest of people and places…and I’ll let you watch the movie to find out whose kiss awakens the sleeping beauty.

Lesson number eight had me hypnotized from start to finish and that is that no matter what anyone says, red lipstick is most definitely created for us fair skinned girls. I now own two tubes. Thank you Disney!

Last, and most certainly not least, Maleficent teaches us all a very important cautioning lesson: NEVER ever mess with a woman and her heart. We will make you pay.

Religious

 

Probably the most regrettable $6.99 my mom and I ever spent was when we purchased Noah on Pay-Per-View at home last week. We finally nestled onto our soft couch, made some popcorn and prepared to watch the film everyone was raving about so peculiarly. Lucky for us we watched it at home because surely, neither one of us would have survived in a theater that was playing that movie! For starters I give Hollywood my two thumbs down on such a disastrous film, except for Emma Watson’s acting. She may have been the only good thing in the whole movie. Or maybe I found her role to be the most intriguing, being the traumatized barren girl whose worth clearly dwindles in the eyes of the minimal society because she can’t…wait for it…conceive. Enraged by that and everything else I was watching scene after scene, I held on until the end. It left me in my usual sociological analytical funk as I turned to my mom and said, “This movie just inspires humanity to hate religion because all it is basically saying is, “Do your best to not be chosen by God or even get close to Him for that matter or else you’ll be screwed.’” And hence, Noah ends up alone and drunk towards the very end of the film, until his pious patient wife forgave him and welcomed him back with open arms after he verbally and emotionally abused her and threatened to slaughter his two twin miracle granddaughters—born from the no longer barren Emma.

All in all it got me thinking about religion and religious choices, which has been quite the hot topic around me these days. Especially just recently, after hearing about a friend’s very difficult painful story, when I began to question religious interpretations and the supposed scholarly leaders who come up with them. I must begin by saying something quite bold, and that is that if this woman’s life is broken because of what she is facing, I will live and die forever blaming you oh scholars and leaders for allowing the sexist abusive misinterpretation to continue, all while preaching it as truth. (Bring on the opposing council, but you know what, I don’t care anymore; not after this.) I think she will also do the same because the internal and emotional turmoil the men in her life are abusing her with right now has been labeled quite proudly as religious application. Arrogantly claiming that they are aware of the true knowledge and faith because they know God.

If you knew God, let me tell you, you’d spend a majority of your life in silence. If you knew God you’d wear your faith inside equal to or greater than you do on the outside. Long ago it used to be the thing to say, “Look at him/her. Not practicing the faith because he/she doesn’t dress the part. What a lame thing to say that faith is merely in the heart.” But now, now I’m finding that those with true spirit and love for God, no matter what is on the outside—scarf, beard, tattoo, piercing—I can feel God in their breath and their actions. My religious studies teacher always repeats, in every single class and lecture, that Islam is about a balance of two things: Faith in God and Good Deeds with each other in life. How does that fit into the category of women being hurt, degraded, abused, suppressed, manipulated and controlled? How does that induct men as being the better sex to be obeyed? Please! Just, please!

Sorry men, but you don’t always know it all. You’re not always right. And you’re not always in charge. I’m not saying that women are (it’s a balance), but I am saying that it’s time to get off the high horse. Stop the abuse and the manipulation and the misconstrued interpretations tailored only to please the male egotistical desires.

A big part of the trouble is the fact that this woman was born and raised into a religious lifestyle where it was the norm to believe that God allows and encourages women, like men, to be ambitious, educated, social, accomplished and involved. There were behavioral limits set by the Islamic standards of modesty and respect, but that was it. Besides that, life can be lived. Around her now however, the thoughts differ drastically, and the sad part is that the extremeness of these differences didn’t appear as intense until much later. Maybe at a time far too late.

She explained how she was informed that the Quran clearly displays the rules and regulations for a woman’s (not man's apparently?) behavior. Who she can interact with and how and when. Who she is allowed to be visited by at home and some other nonsense. Also, it seems that the belief is the Quran, deep down, in its subliminal unseen messages, is really trying to call upon the world to recognize that the true way of life is a life that consists of separation between men and women in every possible time and place. I asked her how she could ever work or thrive under that mindset and her answer was a shrug. Apparently this new century has brought us Muslims to a point of desperation where we just have to grin and bear it because we are living in sin with this “mixed” environment. So we women work outside of the house in misery because we are not offered an array of opportunities to work in an all women environments—unless we work in a women’s shelter or a women’s gym? I cannot help but prepare to topple over in laughter. For those who are not Muslim, please understand that this is the farthest thing from the truth.

I am not by any means claiming myself a clergyman of Islam or some highly astute scholar, however, I have studied and been involved in my faith and its works long enough to know the Love, Mercy and Justice of God. And what is being spread around these days isn’t the holy truth but the manmade lies. I cannot believe that at the end of time, on the Judgment Day, I’ll be questioned by God for my lacking skills in cooking, cleaning and sewing; and for not reproducing six kids, slaving away after them and their grumpy, ungrateful, overbearing father. That isn’t faith, that’s unfair.

Religion and spirituality are about the inner liberty of fulfilling your life mission—and for women it’s not reproducing and pleasing the men. Those are choices to be made but not the reason God created you. Learn the difference. I know I’ve mentioned this before in other posts and articles, but in Chapter 2, Verse 30 of the Quran, God tells the Angels that He is creating a representative (of faith) on earth. That is us. Humans. We are here to serve Him, not His creations. We do so by implementing that reminder my teacher always repeats: Believe in God and do Good Deeds in life. How does that happen when you live with the mindset that you’re living in sin because you really shouldn’t be out and about being a member of society?

Yeah being a Muslim is about living and loving and working and achieving and helping and making a difference and smiling all while doing so. There is a Prophetic saying that defines the simple act of smiling as an act of charity. I remember so vividly how my peers in middle school made fun of me for passing out the postcards my mom forced me to, that had that Prophetic quote written on it. She wanted me to be a good involved happy Muslim and I did so willingly. Yeah, Muslims are meant to smile with love and care, not to have mug shot style photos plastered all over the media when some tragedy strikes that involves a slightly tan bearded man. That’s not Islam and neither is the degradation and oppression of women.

Unfortunately however, that’s what is being preached and that’s what is being illustrated. It’s been a while since I was a frequenter at Islamic events and seminars, because there came a time where I could no longer tolerate being insulted for my female state. Being around people who were soaking up the ridiculous manipulations given to us like they were legitimate truths. I only recently tried attending a few with my husband before we both gave up and left early each time—after having been scolded for wanting to sit together too. There’s only a certain amount of times I can be faced with a bearded guy in a jumpsuit loudly lecturing me on how I will eternally face the wrath of God if I don’t obey my husband (like he were my father or something); that I will be cursed all night long in damnation by the Angels of God if I do not please my husband sexually at his command; that I will ruin my life and forget my role as a true Muslim woman if I leave the house to pursue higher education and be an active member of society rather than stay at home and be a mother; or that I will be cursed by God if I leave the house without my husband’s permission. If I’m faithless for saying I don’t believe in that religion, then yeah, I’m faithless because I don’t abide by that religion, nor do I read a book that tells me that nor do I believe in a God that expects that of me.

When my friend talked about pursuing higher education, she was informed that the support for it would most certainly be there, but the preference would be she attend an all girl’s university or take only online courses. Um, anyone know of a Master’s/Doctorate program that offers said choices? I’d like to relay the good news to her family. Not!

I felt at a loss for words at that moment, knowing she was torn between being true to herself, what she knows is right, and her maturity to know never to go against God’s wishes, and being loyal to her well-intended loved ones who unfortunately misconstrued religion to match their own dysfunctional perspectives of life. Her relatives do highly consider themselves religiously all knowing in a way, and I’ve witnessed it firsthand in how they talk and argue. I don’t think there’s ever a way to get through to them and that is a frightening thought. But then again, how can there be a way to get through to them when for years and years they’ve been force-fed the same religious extremism that’s been unjustly justified by the abnormal norms for ages?

The painful part is watching a number of lives get dramatically destroyed in the process of applying incorrect religious understandings. Instead of taking a simple modest step back to basically hear and listen to what the other person is saying and reassessing themselves, they are fueled to go against her (and anyone else that differs in opinion) until she gives in, takes the verbal beating and remains silent. That is until the next time she accidentally forgets to bite her tongue. I know her loved ones are genuinely unbelievably good people in life. Just keep them out of religion and you’ll probably get along just fine. Ironic huh? That’s what I meant when I differentiated between wearing religion on the exterior (physical appearance or condescending approach with words) or interior (heartfelt sincerity, self-reflection and accountability, acts of kindness).

Now don’t misquote me, I’m not at all rejecting the notion of abiding by the obligations of modest attire (for men and women) but I am reiterating the fact that we layer on the outside and have almost entirely forgotten the inside. Where’s the balance? It’s time to reassess. After all, God tells us in Chapter 2, Verse 151 that the purification of the self must come before knowledge is obtained. What good is knowledge to a judgmental conceited heart? With knowledge comes the necessity of Mercy—and Mercy in the Quran appears in relation to many other parts of life like family, marital and work relations. Mercy is highly needed in this life and we need to learn it first and foremost from our Lord, the Most Merciful. Why else does every single chapter of the Quran begin with the verse: “In the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful?”

At this point, I don’t know what else I can do for my beloved friend in her time of need except pray for her and share this post. I am a writer and a (heated) passionate one at that. I cannot remain silent when I see something as wrong as even basic oppression happening. I pray that my words make a difference, my prayers make a difference, and that I as a faithful Muslim female human being make a difference in this world.

Sinful Silhouettes & Singles

It was 7:45AM, far too early for a Saturday morning. Instead of dreaming comfortably in bed, I was busy coordinating my wardrobe. Finally, I slipped into my straight leg jeans and long polka dot beige dress—along with the well matching scarf and shoes.

An hour later I was on my way to a marriage seminar, eager to soak up as much religious guidance and spirituality, as well as knowledge. I arrived on time, 9:30AM sharp, just like the Facebook invite requested, with giddy excitement. Only three people were there and absolutely nothing was setup.  It wasn’t all too surprising really, Muslims unfortunately are not known for being prompt or prepared, but it became utterly frustrating when the program apparently got changed to start at 11:00AM instead of the listed 10:00AM.

The day continued with elements similar to this and a great deal of irony. The one thing my fiancé and I were sure of was the existence of irony in our lives and our relationship from day one—and day one dates back to about eight years ago for one of us! We sat in the middle of prayer room, which was converted into a multi-purpose room, and felt the new atmosphere of attending such events as an official couple. We were no longer confined to being seated on opposite ends of the room beneath the invisible labels of “Brothers’ Side” and “Sisters’ Side.” Rather we were now seated in the “Couples’ Section” and it added an interesting new flavor to the day.

However, nothing was more interesting than what I experienced during the first break at lunchtime. It started with a call to the noon worship—the second of our five daily worships (often known as prayers). Men were asked to enter the downstairs prayer hall and women were asked to enter the side prayer rooms because of the crowd and setup. We (the women) made our way across the hall to the side rooms, gathered close together in our straight lines and stood there waiting, and waiting, and waiting. The Imam (leader of the worship prayer) was inaudible on the microphone downstairs due to technical difficulties.

One woman leaned over to catch a glimpse of the men downstairs through the window and said, “Yes, they are praying we just can’t hear them. What do we do?!?!” It was utter panic. Frantically the women started murmuring to each other, almost like a flock of chickens in complete chaos when the answer was simple: We elect a woman from amongst us to lead the worship prayer on our own. Each woman turned to her sides to see who would do it and everyone refused in complete anxiety.

It was truly the most depressing sight I had ever seen. No woman felt strong enough, courageous enough, and eager enough to lead us? In prayer? To God, the Most Merciful and Forgiving? It’s not like we were asking for a new national president—just someone to repeat the words we have repeated for years of our lives, five or more times a day. I couldn’t take it anymore and so I stepped up. Moving from the second row to the first I exclaimed, “I’ll do it!” And as I straightened my dress, closed my eyes, and prepared to enter my five minutes with God, along with the 25 ladies behind around me, I was interrupted.

“Excuse me! No!” a woman cried out from behind me. “Your shadow! It’s unacceptable. We can’t be led by someone dressed like that. We need someone else.” A slap in the face filled with five fingers of irony, but I held my tongue and gave a bow of the head, giving her the notion to come lead us since she was so keen to believe that my flowing attire would not serve worship well enough. She panicked. “No, no not me!” despite her being fully clothed in layers and layers of black, which made her face look like a floating pinkish white glow.

I turned to the woman beside me, who was an older Indian woman, wearing a see through green shawl on top of her head and she immediately shot me a “Heck no!” look so I continued to look around until another young girl volunteered. She was wearing a well-kept scarf, a cotton long sleeve shirt, a turquoise skirt and no socks. I wanted to laugh and cry and speak my mind but we had already wasted so much time being too cowardly and ignorant.

I won’t lie. It was near impossible to concentrate on my worship, not when I knew that Islamically a woman who comes to pray must be wearing the attire of a woman who chooses to wear the “Divine Outfit” (most commonly known as hijab), and that entails covering the entire body, except for hands and face (as clarified in the saying of the Prophet Muhammad{pbuh}). And not really because it was me, but I found it so interesting that the woman who yelled out at me because my dress wasn’t floor length enough to cover the lower half of my shins and ankles (that were encompassed in cloth—not bare) was perfectly content praying behind someone whose feet were entirely uncovered.

It also intrigued me as well that that same woman refused completely to lead herself. But then again it was also intriguing to realize that none of those 25 women had faith in themselves or their abilities to lead and I felt low, so very low, that nothing our Muslim people and world was going through shocked me.

We judge by the littlest of things and neglect the biggest. My inner capabilities were devalued because my shins were covered in denim instead of a skirt. And the irony hit me again: Apparently I will forever be confined to being judged by my looks both inside and outside the Muslim community. For outside, I’m strange to consider myself American beneath a headscarf and long sleeves and inside I’m strange to consider myself viably religious beneath a floral print scarf and Paige jeans.

This reminded me of a time when I was working at an agency my friend wanted to apply to. She had asked me to put in a good word. My boss called me in the day after my friend’s interview to ask me some follow up questions. At first, all seemed well as I complemented my friend’s sincerity and hard working nature, then it went downhill when my Muslim boss asked about my friend’s attire. “Does she always dress like that?” he asked me with clear resentment towards my friend’s wardrobe—which quite strongly resembles my mother’s, a headscarf and flowing dress like robe. “For as long as I’ve known her she has, yes.”

He clicked his tongue, “Well I’m not sure that would fit our image here because see we don’t want the public to assume we are religious and Islamic.” I raised my eyebrows in surprise and confusion. “Um, doesn’t my mom often volunteer here, dressed in the exact same manner?” He nodded slowly but followed it up with, “Well, your mom’s different. She’s got a reputation in the community and is known.” I didn’t see the difference and so I continued. “You can’t really judge her and limit her because of how she dresses. It does not relay her abilities as an employee and it really shouldn’t impact your clientele and image. I mean I wear a scarf and walk around the office and the community representing the work, doesn’t mean I’m smearing Islam paint all over.”

My friend was hired elsewhere but that incident remained forever engrained in my mind and resurfaced after this last event. It’s only the tip of the iceberg to what we face, and although the seminar gave us just a tiny taste of beneficial knowledge for our marriage, it left me with a lot more confusion to contemplate upon. So many other “religious” pieces of information were given that seemed so un-Islamic to say the least that I remembered why I had refrained from attending anymore of these seminars for the past five years.

I felt bad for the people who were single, being almost reprimanded for it, although one speaker did finally inform the general public to get off the case of single people for their status. That God has not yet given them the green light to marry and therefore must carry patience. My inner feminist kicked in when other speakers emphasized that God naturally created us to desire partnerships and marriage and that when choosing otherwise purposely we are almost sinning. And that these people are just “faking” that because it hurts too much to be alone. I turned to my fiancé, gave him a look, and whispered, “That’s so false and ridiculous I don’t know where to start.”

In the years leading up to meeting my fiancé I was truly and completely content in my singlehood. When people asked I meant it when I said no. I wasn’t trying to create a false statement and deny myself something out of rebellion. It was disappointing to see that our leaders and scholars were trying to tear that out of our young single people. People who were actually confident and content in their lives, following ambitions and dreams without feeling incomplete. People who weren’t dwelling on this ideology that you need to be with someone to really be someone, but rather that you can be yourself and when you are blessed enough to find someone who loves all of you (whether you’re in jeans or a skirt), you’ll be able to welcome them in to your heart and life. And their place won’t be in a hole in your heart—that’s too small. Their place will be a part of your heart that you’ll create upon meeting them.

Life is Not a Hallmark Movie

Not in that way though. Most of us adults are mature enough to know when something is too fairytale-esque, as seen in the historical trend of reprimanding Disney and romance films. But there’s something else going on behind the scenes that often goes unnoticed.

          

Once upon a time I loved the Hallmark Channel, and I will confess, every once in a while they release a decent fiction I do enjoy especially during the chilly yet cozy winter holiday season, but recently that love is fading. How can it not when I recognized that movie after movie women were being fed the ugliest of subliminal lies: Despite the happiness and success you think you may have now, deep down you’re a lonely miserable failure if you’re single and childless. That joy and satisfaction you are now feeling in your career and social life is only a façade—worthless and temporary.

           

It hit me when I decided to DVR a movie called A Ring by Spring. The informational snippet made it sound like an interesting sci-fi of magic and love and my boredom intrigued me to play some sort of romance rubbish in the background while I worked on the leadership curriculum of a conference I am planning with the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department. The movie was pretty much just that. It was the story of a successful and happy business consultant who was content with the progress of the relationship with her long-term boyfriend. After hearing a fortuneteller explain that she was destined to “receive a ring by Spring” or she’ll never wed, she assumes her boyfriend plans on proposing when he invites her to dinner at a classy five-star venue. However, when he ends up breaking off the relationship, she is confused, and upon asking why he simply replies, “You’re not marriage material.” Like me she despised that sentiment, considering it utterly offensive to a human, and begins to psychoanalyze her past, present and future.

             

She embarks on a soul-searching journey and tracks down each of her ex-boyfriends to inquire as to why they ended the relationship. In her first meeting with her high school boyfriend she discovers her first supposed flaw. After rambling about his picture perfect picket fence life with a wife, children and the ever so clichéd golden retriever, he then turns to ask her if she married or has kids, to which she replies. “No, no I’m still an army of one.” He follows it up with the first slap in the face: “Well that doesn’t surprise me.” Seriously? Did he just tell her that she seemed un-dateable since they were 17?

             

“It doesn’t?” she asks curiously. He shakes his head no and continues, “No, you were always so independent, so self-contained.” Slap in the face #2. Can someone tell me where the error is in a woman being independent and self-contained? Because the answer he gives is utterly ridiculous. “Brandy [his wife] is the opposite. She needs a lot of attention.” She then asks confused, “So Brandy is high maintenance?” He nods in agreement and with pride says, “Majorly!” She continues. “And if I’m the opposite of that, that means I’m low maintenance?” He smiles and says, “In high school you sure were!” Her expression was beyond puzzlement. “But isn’t low maintenance a good thing?” To which he replies yet another fib that only seems to complicate the ability to comprehend the male species. “Well I like high maintenance. I like being needed.”

             

First, let me differentiate to the sad writers and producers of these Hallmark films, the difference between being independent and self-contained and demonstrating a sense of neediness. If a woman is capable of taking care of herself, it doesn’t mean she has no room for a man in her life. A romantic partner can provide some special and valuable benefits one can’t find from friends or family. That is a feeling that I’m not sure I would define as a “need” as much as I would label it a “want” and I feel that wanting a romantic partner is better than needing one. However, that doesn’t mean it is a mandatory void to be filled.

             

And since when did men WANT a high maintenance partner? Isn’t all that we’re trained and informed in this dysfunctional world of relationships to avoid? Ingrained in our freethinking minds the concept of being un-invested? Self-contained and independent beings who show men we are not at all needy or interested, but mysterious and chase-able beings? I still don’t see how women are considered the confusing incomprehensible sex.

             

The film continues on her journey of self-discovery, where ex-boyfriend after ex-boyfriend informs her of how she was too much of a determined and goal oriented woman to be loved long-term. Rather they took a backseat and refused to be her supportive partner, who illustrated their pride in such a free-spirited visionary. One ex had tested her by breaking up with her to see how desperate she would be afterwards and whether or not she begged for his return. I see. So one must degrade themselves on their hands and knees and plead to prove their love for you? Nice one Hallmark. Nice.

             

It’s sad, because I really did enjoy the holiday sweetness of romance films that were the nice touch to an evening by the fireplace and a mug of hot chocolate. Action & Suspense films, here I come!

             

After she heard all these offensive and ridiculous sentiments, Hallmark ensures her to be such a naïve and innocent passive female who decided to revolutionize and change herself to become the woman all these men need. She returned to her most recent boyfriend, told him he was wrong about her being “marriage-able” [yes, the one positive thing she had in her script—refusing to be called “marriage material”] and begged him to try again with her. Instantly they began wedding planning, doing all the things she never once mentioned or showed interest in; and all the time she was falsely convinced (despite her discomfort) that this is her destiny as a female.

             

Really? Since childhood she, like me, had demonstrated the sensibility of a woman living her life for her, and not for the intent that since birth she’s been on the hunt. Prowling for a man to complete her because all along apparently she was incomplete. This character too was less than satisfied with the story of Romeo & Juliet—two immature adolescents who mistook lust for love and decided life was worthless without it. She never believed that it was the end of the world if she remained single in life because the love and happiness she received from her family, friends and career was satisfactory. But like many other women in this life, every time she indulged in that joy and bliss she was reprimanded. Ex-boyfriends. Peers. A fortuneteller.

             

These films always seem to portray successful businesswomen or workingwomen as imbalanced beings who should not be in this position. And unlike their male counterparts, who are not only deemed worthy of having the career-oriented life but granted permission for it, these women are ironically shamed for it and chastised by their male partners instead of supported, as it would have been the other way around. Why?

             

For those who were wondering however, I would like to share with you the great news that she did indeed find true love, as they all do in these films. The CEO of the business she was consulting for fell in love with her at first glance; and as she took the analytical self-discovery quest, he waited and yearned for her till she finally noticed him in the last 65 seconds of the film, when he gave her a Cracker Jack box that miraculously was the one carrying a plastic ring. Therefore, the fortuneteller’s vision came true—she received a “ring” of some sort the day before Spring and was therefore not “doomed” to an eternity of the weirdly dreaded singlehood.

            

Bravo Hallmark! Bravo!

And just a final note Hallmark, there is something else that you portray in a majority your films that is also ridiculously untrue: The ideology that all women are inherently and subconsciously attracted to the country small town boys in jeans and a flannel shirt rather than the Wall Street clean shaven suit and tie kind of guy. Um…really? Life is full of diversity. Women and men are attracted to a number of different characters and attributes. So why are all the women in your films illustrated as oblivious to the reality that their hearts only desire the poor country boy chopping wood and lounging in cabins and were for years blindly stuck in a relationship with a handsome accountant or stock broker. To each her own.

A Day in the Life of a Syrian American – Lady Narrator

“God has put a button on my hat today,” he said in his exotic accent. It was unique and only illuminated his bright smile. “My dear sister,” he continued, “Do you pray for your country?” I smiled. “Yes, of course.” He smiled back and asked, “What exactly do you pray for?” I looked down at the frame before me, with over 30 signatures of people from all over the world who had been amazed at our Syrian history, and said, “I pray for peace. Just peace.” He nodded in approval.

“This morning God spoke to me. He put a button in my hat and told me that surely, surely the chaos in Syria would end and peace will come to its people. So do not hope for peace, but believe. God is not man. God cannot give us a Word and change His mind. He is God and so what He says Will be.” Despite my history with those who have had “conversations” with God, I agreed with him. In Islam too we believe God is not man, but only God. We also have verses that repeat the concept that all God has to do is say, “Be” and it will be and that His vows are concrete. And I knew (and still know) that God does everything for a reason, if we never get to see the manifestation of that reason in our lifetime—so as he said, I do have the conviction that surely one day, peace will come.

He told me how miraculous it was of him to stumble upon our exhibition in Downtown Los Angeles today when he was actually on his way elsewhere. But he realized God had sent him here for a reason—to deliver this message to me since it was freshly given to him by God directly just a mere few hours earlier. I accepted. For the past four days I had been praying to God more than usual—and by more than usual I mean actually making prayers when I had been long overwhelmed with life and slightly forgotten to do so. I needed Him and His presence to reassure me that I should not lose faith, even if I lose people or things around me. That one day, I will either know the reason for things or feel a sense of contentment for their happenings even if I remain ignorant of their purpose. And maybe, just maybe, it will all unfold into its proper place.

This pastor was just the beginning to a day that left me in tears—although I have been crying since we opened the doors of the Pico House for our “A Country Called Syria” exhibition to the public. He left me a flier for his upcoming event the next day where he would heal our life problems through the power of Jesus and revival of faith and was on his way.

I smiled and fell in love with God even more. How can I not? He brought to life this dream of ours and allowed souls from all over the globe to taste and touch the soul of Syria that is almost forgotten. People from Mexico, Canada, Russia, Philippines, Denmark, Morocco, China, Japan, Saudi Arabia, France, Oman, America and even Syria were in awe, just utter awe, at the truth about Syrian history and culture. A man came to sign our Welcome Book and began falling apart in tears. He dropped the pen and went outside, apologizing for his demeanor. I didn’t know him. He didn’t know me. He was not Syrian and had never been there, but he knew. He was educated enough to know that what is happening there is destroying life and history in the most inhumane way possible. Another man in a suit came up to me and was utterly impressed with the accomplishments of our Syrian and Syrian American figures we listed. From artists, to politicians to businesswomen and men, we are showing them who make up Syria.

Friday was different than the remaining days we held our doors open. After a slow agonizingly empty week, something felt unique about this day. The air was different; the courtyard full of eager minds waiting to satiate their curiosities. An Assemblyman held a business meeting in our exhibit’s setup in the morning. Count 30+ people. A commercial was being shot right outside our door beneath our banner. Count 15+ people. School buses and tour buses parked outside with groups and groups of visitors. Count 25+ people.

Another man walked in. He was from the group shooting the commercial. “Wasn’t Syria called something else in the past?” he asked with confidence. “Yes," I replied, "It was once Mesopotamia, along with its surrounding areas like Iraq and Lebanon.” He snapped his fingers. “That’s it! Mesopotamia! I remember. I did a school project once back in Brazil when I was in high school about Mesopotamia and its rivers.” I liked him. He seemed knowledgeable and sharp. He continued to impress me when he began discussing the current conference in Geneva with regards to Syria. “I’m not satisfied with how stubborn these political aspects and people are. It’s not fair that such beauty has to suffer at the expense of these beings.” He got it. He appreciated it. He spent a good 30 minutes ditching his commercial crew to take a trip across Syria.

He walked around on a tour with a historical perspective, trying to fathom how every canvas painting he was admiring, every handmade artifact, and every portrait hanging illustrates a piece of this world that is being demolished so shamelessly. He couldn’t grasp the concept. Who can?

Visitor after visitor stopped by the welcoming table just to comfort my mother and I that Syria and its people are in their prayers too—not forgotten at all. Each one was grateful that we showed them what our country has to offer and wished that our exhibit went on past Sunday, February 23^rd 2014. But alas, our funding only allowed us said time.

He finished his tour, took a photo and went back to the film crew. Ten minutes later he was back. “This is really Syria?” I smiled and nodded. “Wow, just wow. I am so amazed. I want to stay but I have to go back to the crew.” He felt at peace here and I knew exactly where it stemmed from. There is a magic about Syria that no visitor can ever explain and it is the greatest honor that we were able to capture it here. I pray that it always stays and only gets better.

His film crew called him back and so he left, but returned once more to offer my mother and I two fresh cool bottles of water for our efforts and the long day ahead of us. He was truly grateful that his clients requested to shoot their commercial here, at the Pico House in the El Pueblo Historical Monument of Los Angeles.

God is there with each and every one of us, even when we forget. So just like the pastor said, I do believe (not just hope) that Syria will be at peace. And I do believe that each and every one of us that strives to keep our faith will feel the inner and outer peace we look for…someday. I pray that we all find it and I do pray that every reader who can get the chance to see the work of Syrian American Mothers does—be it at this exhibition or the more to come!