Cinderella's Survival Story

When the clock strikes 12:00 Cinderella appears, and by that I mean I’m overcome with this urge to suddenly clean and dust the nooks and crannies of my room that sometimes I neglect but keep simmering on the back-burner of guilt in my mind. After finally releasing my book, doing its initial launch tour, finishing the first half of the edits for someone else’s book, and completing all doctorate applications, I wanted to celebrate. I think I’m part Monica Gellar. Hey, if she found her Chandler Bing, I think I’ll be just fine.

There was another underlying reason I had to clean—God wanted me to. If you’re a follower of Lady Narrator, you know that I repeatedly bombard you with my mantra of, “Everything happens for a reason.” There are no coincidences.

Two days ago, a man reached out to “advise” me about my social media posts. (Yes my friends, this is going exactly where you think it is going.) He started out with a supposed disclaimer that he is not the only man who feels this way—as if that would soften the coming blow. I smiled, gesturing for him to continue because I’m not one to shut out potential constructive criticism. The advice was this: My social media posts allude far too much to my experience with domestic abuse and domestic violence awareness overall, that “men” (emphasis on the quotations) are too uncomfortable to approach me, pursue me and date me because it gives off the impression that I carry “too much baggage” and am not yet over my ex. (Are y’all in stitches too?) Apparently all my posts on Syria, of cute adorable children, and motivational humanitarian initiatives are invisible. I should talk to Facebook about that.

I smiled wider at the ridiculousness of it all because this is what we women will eternally deal with when we stand our ground and remain strong and vocal about any cause, not only domestic violence. First of all, it’s such a shame that this is what men have become today; so intimidated and threatened by an awakened woman. F.Y.I. this is why a good number of Muslim women are turning to non-Muslim men. While double standards and sexism still prevalently exist outside of our Muslim spheres, it is quite a few notches down. Non-Muslim men praise women like me for our activism, and for maintaining these efforts while still wearing our faith proudly, headscarf included. I’ve heard it three times this year from non-Muslim men. This year, alone, I have heard four Muslim men tell me this soft fabric on my head turns them off and prohibits them from seeing me. Must be so sad to be so weak. (No, I’m not sorry for that harsh comeback. I’m tired.)

Habibi, if this kind of soul and spirit scare you and your friends, then half my job here is done. I am not looking for fearful and insecure. I’m looking for proud and relentless.

Did I choose to be in an abusive relationship? The notorious victim blamers and shamers say yes, because I didn’t leave sooner. Did I see the red flags? I did, but they weren’t as red as the fear and threats that came when I tried to call off the engagement, then the wedding, then the marriage. Am I sorry for going through it? No, and neither am I apologetic for the activism it thrust me into. Does that mean I’m not “over it” and that I’ve got baggage? No! It means I am SO over it and ready to fight hard to end this vicious cycle. So maybe what’s really affecting these “men” isn’t so much that I, and other survivors, appear to have too much baggage anchoring us down, but rather that we have proven our capacity to own our own strengths, and that intimidates them from pursuit?

But vulnerability kicks in. At the end of the day, I am still human, and on top of that I am still a woman in this man’s world. No matter what we do, we find ourselves at a sickening impasse, victims of attacks we didn’t even know people thought we were deserving of, while having fought our own battles.

As I was dusting, finding old books I promised myself I’d read (and never did), books I plan on reading in 2018 and photos that made me smile so wide, I couldn’t help but think of those inadvisable words. What the hell am I posting that’s so problematic? Do I need to tell the world that I moved on so far that two years after my divorce, I met someone else, fell in love with him and then ended it when disrespect and toxicity became evident? Do I need to justify what words I produce in my poetry, even as a valid artist and published poet? Since when did anybody have the right to question what the hell I should or shouldn’t write? Post? Do?

The beauty of art is in fact its liberating power. Just because I still write poetry about abuse, doesn’t mean I’m not over it. Just because I write poetry about a man who wasn’t too good to me, doesn’t mean I’m only talking about my ex-husband. I could be talking about the man who thought it was appropriate to demand I send him nudes. Or the man who I thought was a friend and ended up playing me for months to try and get me in bed. Or the man who, in the middle of a conversation about social policy, asks me if I know any “sluts” because masturbating is no longer cutting it for him.

I could go on and on about the inspiration behind my words and my work, but then again why are women expected to justify our…anything? What man is asked to justify his poetry about heartache or abuse or racism? They are elements that exist in this day and age and when we ache or have ached and survived it, we reserve the right to speak about it till death. These are our causes.

Needless to say, I was aggressively using that Swiffer duster across my desk, wondering where this guy comes off and remembering he had been trying to “reach out” since my divorce. I guess there’s that hostility that comes when you don’t give men the attention they demand, and for some reason, believe they’re entitled to. I knew his intentions were iffy and so I refused to answer him. Plus—not that I need to provide him or anyone with an explanation—in the first six months post divorce, I was rejecting a good majority of those “reaching out” because unfortunately, I knew that many were simply seeking the juicy details of why this festival wedding marriage ended abruptly when it looked like happily ever after. Some were even upfront about that intention, which I appreciated but was still appalled by. How does someone react when a peer says, “Hey, I’ve been hesitant to reach out, but honestly, I really just wanna know what happened.” *insert meme of surprised dude*

In between nooks and crannies, I found receipts, stuffed beneath photo albums and files for my nonprofit, A Country Called Syria. They were sitting next to a large legal sized white envelope I thought was where I had all the paperwork for the nonprofit, but when I pulled it out a restraining order fell at my feet.

No lie, the sight of those words shook me and I froze, disoriented to what I was looking at, and suddenly I went back.

I was 24, exhausted, and sick of seeing the jade and salmon colored building again and again. The sounds of my stilettos echoed so loudly against the cobblestone path towards the family court. I wondered why I was doing this on my own. Then I remembered I didn’t want to deal with lawyers. A marriage of a few months really carries with it minimal assets to divide, right?

An incident had happened the night before that made me genuinely pursue the process to filing a restraining order. The packet to file a restraining order was as thick as the divorce packet. On top of that, to file, you’re mandated to take a course (and if I recall correctly, there was a hefty fee) and none of the hours worked with my new job schedule. I realized that I may not be able to move forward with it and wondered if I would be safe without it. It wasn’t too long before I was surprised with bad news that entailed the silver lining of no longer worrying about filing an R.O.

When I snapped out of the flashback, I was overcome with burning anger. Not at my ex, but at this guy who thinks he has the right to “advise” me in such a patronizing manner, when it’s not only none of his business, but unnecessary. I felt like I was being stripped of my right to be a survivor of all of it. I looked at those thick pages, my handwriting all over those copies of a file for marital dissolution. He wants to tell me I cannot speak of this in order to raise awareness and aid others? He wants to tell me this turns away men? Intimidates them? Newsflash! Any “man” who finds that intimidating or a turn off is not quite at man-level. He is still a boy, incapable of yet comprehending not only the complex realities existing in life today, but also the humanity of a woman. Welcome to the 21st century!

And yes, being a survivor means that whoever chooses to be with us is choosing to take on the history we carry, just like we would be agreeing to take on whatever history our partners carry—even if they weren’t survivors of abuse. It doesn’t mean we’ll unleash the past on them or treat them as if they were our exes. Whoever comes to me is meeting the me that I have become. Like in any other relationship, it’s a “take it or leave it” situation. I can’t believe I even have to justify this for not only myself, but other survivors as well. This is called an adult relationship.

So let me wrap it up for you. If you “men” (emphasis on the quotes and emphasis on the absence of the world “all” before men) are emasculated, threatened or uncomfortable with a survivor’s resilience, activism and vocalism, please reassess yourselves and not the survivors. Time passing and healing do not strip us of our rights to claim our scars as our own—as learning tools, as mechanisms to awaken others. We were ironically gifted this burden unbeknownst to us and we use it wisely. Do not go around advising us on how to be survivors or activists. Also, if you’re going to walk around, puffing your chest with pride in being a “#MeToo women’s rights solidarity bro,” your job is simply to amplify the volume on that mic we keep trying to speak into—with your male privilege—not filter us down to a silent comfortable tone.

Syrian Summer: On Aging

My grandfather's study in Damascus (a.k.a. my favorite place on this entire planet)

"Stop annoying me! Oh my god! Leave me alone!" I woke up to the sound of my grandfather's voice, pleading with my laughing grandmother, who was waking him up. She must have been tickling him or something and he was agitated.

"La hawla wala quwata illah billah. Amal! You're so annoying!"

I cracked up and wished that to be my daily alarm clock rather than the default iPhone ones.

My grandfather had surgery back in June and no one told me till much later. Then, three days before our trip to Syria he fell and it scared the heck out of everyone, especially him.

Last year I noticed how different he was and I knew that the war had aged not only him, but everyone drastically. The thing is many of my grandparents' peers have passed and I can recognize how that shakes them. In last year's trip, I attended over seven funerals in a span of three months and it was surreal. I'm here now, and considering everything that's happened to me internally and externally, this trip has felt even more indescribable.

We sat on the couch and my grandfather elevated his legs up on a stool. I could see the bruises and scrapes from his fall on them and he looked off into the distance. I don't wonder too long what he's thinking because he usually ends up breaking the silence with the thought. "How do you take those cell phone pictures of your self that everyone is doing?" he asked, referring to the notorious selfie! I picked up my phone and told him to smile as we took our first selfie. He nodded his head in understanding. I wish I could post it but I wasn’t wearing my scarf.

My grandmother came and sat between us as commercials played in the background to our born again silence. She looked at him then reached over to massage his ankles gently and said, "Hello there, Mister Abdallah." (For my family, this is when Teta says her usual, “Ahlain Abdallah Beik!”) My heart cracked and then shattered and then its pieces melted and I wanted to cry. Why doesn't love like that exist anymore? I wouldn’t even ask what’s their secret because there’s clearly a divine power and destiny.

These two people were meant to meet, meant to marry and meant to make magic. Seven years ago I was blessed with the opportunity to spend six months of my life with these two phenomenal people in the best place in the world. The experience was utterly remarkable that I intended on moving back there soon after my final semester of graduate school I had left. But a few months after my departure, the revolution started and everything changed. Before I left, I asked my grandparents if I could take a photo with them and surprisingly my grandmother agreed.

See, in my entire lifetime, I never saw my grandmother agree to take photos. She hates getting her picture taken and always refuses. It’s a well-known thing. So when I took the risk and asked if she’d join my grandfather and I, and she said yes, I was floored, but I was moved because I knew why. I had just spent six months with her in the most memorable experience of our lives. When she dropped me off at the airport, she was crying like I had never seen before. Neither one of us wanted to say goodbye; and before I left, I gifted them a poem titled “Two Words” with the photo in a silver filigreed frame. It was a poem I wrote, expressing my gratitude for not only the time spent with them, but for everything they’ve ever done, including giving me my mother.

I had asked my grandma once, on a quiet afternoon, while my grandpa was sleeping after lunch, how they had met. Very briefly she said, “We were part of the same group of friends and he would always annoy me and make fun of my Aleppo accent.” That was all I got folks. My mom once asked and my grandpa said, “If Amal approves, I’ll tell you the whole story, but she won’t approve.” Now I’m curious. It sounds like such an exciting love story, but one that’s lasted a lifetime, something we don’t see anymore and something I’ve unfortunately lost faith in. Not in my generation anyway.

They were, and still are, people who do not hold each other back but rather push the other to keep going. My grandfather has no problem with my grandmother working and my grandmother always had my grandfather’s back—and his line of work was very challenging, including networking, moving, diplomacy and much more.

These days, if you don’t answer a man’s text in ten seconds, he throws a tantrum and says you clearly aren’t “wifey material” because you’re obviously way too busy to wait on him hand and foot. Yes, that has happened. On this trip, I overheard a woman in a kiosk explaining how she’s putting herself through school (in Syria) for a second degree, while working at a restaurant, until she can afford to open up her own clinic. An elderly woman who was listening said, “Wow, look at you! Working harder than men today!” The woman chuckled and said, “We don’t have real men anymore and women are left picking up everyone’s slack on top of their share.” I couldn’t help but laugh…loudly, and she turned to me. “Am I right?” she asked. I smiled back and said, “Don’t even get me started.”

I’ve heard it time and time and effin time again, that a truly secure strong man will not be intimidated by a secure strong woman, but as logical as that sounds, the question is are there any of those men around? This is rhetorical. Please don’t bombard me with answers. Life is answer enough. I’m traveling and finding women worldwide are struggling with this man-drought. My grandfather, may God bless and protect him, seems to be the exception.

He folded his napkin, like he usually does when he finishes breakfast, and said, “Well, I’m going to get ready.” My mother and I both squealed. “Ready for what???” Calmly and so casually he replied, “I’m heading to Damascus to handle some errands.” It was the most adorable moment to capture, hearing this cute old man say that phrase in that manner. “And what are these errands you are about to run, sir?” my mother asked. He listed that there were a few things here and a few things there. “Grandma, are you heading to Damascus today too?” I asked. She didn’t look up from her phone (she was playing solitaire as she usually does—then she scolds us when we even touch our phones LOL). “Not today.”

“Wait so grandpa is going to town but you’re not?!?!” I asked surprised. My grandpa replied, “See, she does this on purpose. When I want to go to the city, she doesn’t. When I don’t want to go, she does. She always does this.” He was kidding with her to see if he could get a reaction, but she was ignoring him, playing it cool, and keeping up with her cards.

Damascus was about a 20-minute drive from where we were staying on this trip—Yaafour—another area on the outskirts of the city. The temperature was cooler and it was away from the sounds of battle, or so we thought. Some days, they were still audible. But we all agreed that getting my grandfather away from the city, the crowd and the phobia he had of thinking he was surely going to need a hospital (a thought he was constantly expressing after his fall) was best; and since there was a place and availability, why not?

Slowly he made his way to the stairs to get ready and he stopped. “Amal, don’t come with me, okay? Just stay here and I’ll go by myself.” She kept her gaze on the phone and waved him with his hand. “Bye Abdallah!” I see the vein of sass travels through generations. I cracked up so loudly and my grandfather looked at me with a laugh. “That’s how I get her! I have to use reverse psychology on this one,” and he went on to go get ready. He dressed up in a white button up t-shirt, khaki pants and a baseball cap. He was the epitome of adorableness. They both were and they both made aging—living—seem like the greatest mission in life to accomplish.

But there’s another side to aging that is frightening or better stated, humbling. One night on this trip, my grandmother called all of us in to their bedroom to say goodnight. My grandfather was already in bed and she was slipping in. My mom, my aunt, my cousin and I joined them on the bed and suddenly a kissing fight erupted, thanks to my cousin and her charming sociable nature. She started harassing my grandmother with kisses and then my aunt joined in, then my mom and I dove in headfirst.

My grandmother was yelling at us to stop kissing her and to stop annoying her and to go away already, that all she wanted was us to come say goodnight. Karma, haha! But while my aunt and cousin continued smothering her with kisses, I turned and found my mom in the arms of her dad. He was holding her like a father holding his toddler—her head on his chest as he stroked her hair. I almost collapsed at that humbling sight. Suddenly my grandfather was no longer my grandfather, nor an old man in in his 90s, and my mother was no longer a mom, nor a woman in her 50s. They transformed into father and baby daughter and it was an utterly inexplicable thing to witness.

It was like they had escaped the current reality and entered a parallel mellow universe where everything was how it used to be and I had to back up and soak in the reality, the passage of time, the aging. We were three generations, connected by blood and lineage, but at the moment connected by touch—him to her and her to me, and it felt like this supernatural experience of literally watching the earth turn in bittersweet pain.

Last year, my grandfather thanked us for taking the risk to come and visit because he feared that it may be the farewell visit. So when God graced us with another opportunity, he wanted to savor every golden moment, so did we.

Oceans & Flames

It is with utmost gratitude that I announce I am now a proud author of a second poetry book. Nine years after releasing my debut poetry book, 91 at 19, I have finally published Oceans & Flames. This book, also a poetry anthology, highlights the work I found myself creating amidst my experience with and survival of domestic abuse.

Most people (if not all) were unaware during the situation, myself included. It took a few months after my divorce to recognize what I had actually been in and what it was that I got out of; to digest and process all of that took a long time and poetry was my greatest catharsis.

To compile these words together and read the ebb and flow of emotion, along with the intricately spot on illustrations created by my best friend and fellow Syrian American Artist, Sama Wareh, was remarkably overwhelming. It gave me greater goose bumps than when I was 19 and feeling the smooth glossy red cover of my first publication.

I want to hand it to Sama, who patiently worked alongside me on drafting perfectly coordinated images to the words; graphics that would align the pain with the beauty, darkness with light, oceans and flames.

I also want to thank my beautiful cousin Dima A.K. for doing the design of the book in a matter of days and keeping me on my publication deadline.

Lastly, my amazing family and their phenomenal patience with my transition—especially my mom and for her hearing me say, “I promise I’ll start editing your book as soon as I publish Oceans and Flames.”

Promise kept mama!

Copies of Oceans and Flames are now available on CreateSpace and will be available on Amazon early September. To purchase, click here: https://www.createspace.com/7240033.

Love,

Lady Narrator

Syrian Summer: Vantage Points

For the past few days, I’ve been having nightmares. I haven’t had these in a while and they leave me waking up in a daze. The weirder part is each nightmare has been about someone that’s no longer in my life. Be it ex-husband, ex-friend or ex-love that I painfully had to let go of recently.

The quote says that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I think distance does too. Distance also puts things into perspective. It shows you what matters and what doesn’t. It also shows you who matters and who doesn’t, which can be an agonizing reality to face, but that distance gives you the courage to do things you can’t do when you’re “home.”

I found myself detoxing my soul and my online social networks from toxic groups I didn’t even realize were killing me—physically, emotionally, mentally and financially. Was it easy? No. I mean it’s easy to hit a button that says BLOCK or UNFRIEND but it’s the aftermath and the meaning that weigh on you. I told myself I had the rest of my American time to worry about that. Right now on Arabian soil, I would concern myself with who and what mattered. That’s the miracle of this place—for me anyway.

The hotel balcony overlooked the shores of Lebanon and an excitingly busy street. I loved the sounds of traffic—honking cars and screeching tires. It reminded me of the lullabies that put me to sleep in California. My ex-husband used to harass me about that all the time. He told me I was seriously messed up that I couldn’t fall asleep to the quiet and for being nostalgic to the sound of horns and sirens and slamming brakes. For 20+ years those were the sounds that put me to sleep. How was I supposed to adjust in one night to the eerie silence of his overly quiet dark empty hidden neighborhood? I’m a city girl and will die a city girl. Give me skyscrapers and downtowns and I’m set!

 

My mom was napping inside—the byproduct of jet lag. I sat on the balcony enjoying the humidity that was balanced out by the air condition that was coming in from the open door to our room. I watched the cars drive and swerve. I relished in the waves and their capability to crash against those ocean rocks and find themselves whole again, united. Resilience.

We were out of mugs, so I used the water glasses to drink my Nescafe and eat really old and stale peanut M & M’s that I found in the hotel minibar. Across the street, I saw a car trying to back out of a full lot and into the street. It was inching out slowly and then slamming on the brakes, and it did so with so much trouble for ten minute before finally getting through.

I laughed at the manifestation of perspective right then. The entire time the car was inching back and forth, I kept talking to the driver (from eight stories above, so really I was just talking to myself) and saying, “Keep going! You have room. Yallah! Go! It’s okay.”

With eight stories of height, I had a different vantage point than the driver and could see the clearer, bigger picture. The driver, however, trapped within the four doors of a black sedan, couldn’t see further than his/her peripherals. Why can’t we understand that this is how life operates for each human? Why can’t we all comprehend that sometimes others do not/cannot/may not be able to see the fuller bigger picture and need their own time and space to grieve? To heal? To find their way?

After my divorce, I faced this stupid frequently asked question:

“How were you dumb enough to get caught in an abusive relationship?”

It ended up inspiring a poem where I respond:

“I am not dumb, nor have I ever been dumb, nor will I ever be dumb, but being intelligent does not equate with being immune.”

It’s always easier said for the outsider than it is done for the insider. Why don’t people get that? Everyone is suddenly an expert critic when it’s not their story, but turn the tables and they suddenly become paralyzed. Growing up, people always had this desire to remind me that “not everyone thinks like you, Dania,” but they forget to remember that not everyone thinks like them either.

I stood on that balcony for a long time, beneath the sun and extreme heat, mesmerized by the visual representation of reality I had just witnessed. “What are you drinking?” My mom broke my train of thought as she stepped out onto the balcony. “Coffee. You used the other mugs so I resorted to these. I hope they don’t crack.” She pursed her lips. “Why didn’t you just wash one of the mugs?” I shrugged my shoulders and gestured for her to join me.

“Everything seems so small, insignificant and peaceful up here. Can we just stay forever? Or maybe go back to Hawaii? I think I’m done with California.” I began unloading on the one and only loyal human in my life.

The plans for the day seemed lax, which was a relief for my jet lagged self. The debate was over where to eat, what to eat and when to eat. I was just glad that there was a plan to eat. We sat together over more coffee and talks with the family. “Has anyone gone back to visit Drosha?” I asked. My cousin, who had come to Lebanon to see my brother (who is currently unable to enter Syria) gave me a sad smile and pulled out his phone.

Drosha is the name of an area on the outskirts of Damascus where my dad’s family had a summer home. Every Friday was spent there from noon to 10:00 p.m., eating, swimming, taking photos, playing cards, napping and just enjoying Syria’s scorching summers with family. A little over seven years ago, it had been remodeled from the old raggedy red run-down shack that it was, to an actual livable home and I was blown away. I remember the last time I was there, it was actually winter, which was a possibility thanks to the remodel and inclusion of heaters. We played charades in the living room, a game I had spent three days preparing the words in Arabic for and fifteen minutes explaining to my uncles, their wives and my cousins. It was one of the most fun Friday afternoons ever.

That same living room was shattered. It looked like a bomb had gone off in there. The marble floors lacked luster. One sofa chair remained in the corner. I gasped as I swiped photo after photo of the home I remembered, in pieces. Walls crumbled. Ceilings on the ground. Trashed. I have seen videos and photos of Syrian homes in shambles, but to see your own home as rubble puts things into an even more vivid perspective.

I knew that this trip was going to give me a deeper perspective into the vision I got last year and that is something to fear. Somehow this trip, I feel weaker than last year. I don’t know how much of this bigger picture I’ll be able to swallow.

Syrian Summer: We're Back

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She poured the coffee into tiny ceramic cups from the cupboard of her hotel suite. I wondered why I never drink this coffee when I’m in America, as my grandmother leveled off the four cups. "Do you like cardamom?" she asked. "I do," I replied, and she continued to let the little cream colored droplets of cardamom fall in to my cup. The smell was intoxicatingly beautiful and I knew it had a certain charm here in the Middle East than it did in California; and as I sipped it slowly to the gorgeous view of the sea and listened to my father's mother share stories, I held back more tears.

I had already cried on the drive from the airport to the hotel, taking in the perfection that is home. Sure, it's not Syria, but it's so close and resembles it somewhat, and technically these countries were all one once, so we are one. At least, I wish we could remember that more often because we Arabs seem to be better at division than at rounding up together.

Nonetheless, I savored in the messy traffic, reckless driving, honking, colorful lights and Arabic billboards, and it was immense that it sent me to tears and yet again I questioned my capability to leave at the end of this "three week" trip. Last year it was supposed to be six weeks and it turned into three months. This year I have school, work and applications but somehow, that all seems moot in comparison to sharing coffee and laughter with family in the Arab world.

I hate distance, as much as I hate war.

The news played in the background, a common setting in every Arab household. A story about Trump appeared and I remembered how a year ago, in Syria, I watched election drama with utmost conviction that he'd never win. Syrians around me however, carried opposing convictions and we Americans caught ourselves quite the curve ball from left field.

"The state of humanity," we all sighed as news story after news story left us shaking our heads. My grandmother began telling us a story about a neighbor of hers in Damascus, who was originally from a Bedouin village on the outskirts of Aleppo, who hadn't been able to see or visit her hometown and family since the war. Then, a couple of weeks ago, she decided to make the journey and take her children to go see their mother's hometown and their grandparents.

On average, a trip from Damascus to Aleppo is roughly four hours. Last year we learned that because of closures and checkpoints, it has become an approximate 8-9 hours. But this woman's journey differed. Her village was an hour outside of Aleppo but it took her another ten hours via bus to arrive because the typical route was under pressure from battles between three groups trying to gain control.

The poor woman and her children traveled almost 20 hours on the road to see family in a rural village for a couple of days, then traveled the same distance in return. She said it took her three days of sleep to recover but the ache of realization lasted a lot longer—grasping the damage this war has caused.

A sad silence filled the room as we took in this story. "Did you enjoy your dinner last night?" she asked, alluding to our midnight escapade for authentic shawarma. America, I’m sorry, but you ain't doing it right because one bite into that hot and juicy chicken shawarma from Abu Waseem's joint and I died and came back reincarnated as the same woman, lavishing in the same sandwich. (And I’ve been off meat for almost two year now yet I still make an exception for this perfection—I paid the price later but it was worth it.)

Abu Waseem is a Syrian man who owned a shawarma shop in Damascus, really close to my dad's family's house. A few years ago he left and came to Lebanon and opened up shop in the downtown area and O. M. G. We each inhaled a foot long piece of perfection with freshly cut fries, legitimate hummus (something else I can't find in America) and pickles. Oh the amount of pleasure it brought to our souls. It's tradition. Upon landing in Syria (now Lebanon), the first thing we do is get shawarma, with a can of Ugarit soda, and dive in to home. No one cares what time we land or how tired we are from the 16+ hour journey, this tradition is never to be broken.

Honking cars overpowered the news as we finished up the coffee. I took in the cups and washed them, returning to hear another story about the Arab nations.

"We fell apart when we became more concerned with ourselves than with our neighbors. There's a story about how outsiders knew we were now susceptible to becoming overpowered." My grandmother continued, "The outsiders would send in spies to scope out the environments, and their best means of assessment were markets.” Whether this was a true story or a parable, I was hooked. “One time they entered our Arab markets and began purchasing a variety of products and then asked for a certain item. The salesman said he didn't have it in stock but his neighbor did a few shops down. They told him they'd return when he restocks, to which he said no. He expressed that he was grateful to have received his fair share from them today and would be much obliged to see his neighbor receive some business. The outsiders left and returned after some time had passed and repeated the process in the market. This time however, when the salesman said he was out of stock, he asked them to wait while we went to go obtain the item and sell it to them. That's when they knew priorities of the land had changed. The people were now divisible when they put themselves above their community."

As she wrapped up the story, I felt a shiver run up and down my spine. This story still gives me goose bumps as I write it out now. It speaks volumes, even if only a metaphorical figurative level. It had only been a few hours in the Arab world but I knew, this trip was bound to bring about some very meaningful lessons—ones I was ready to take and learn from after the whirlwind of a year I encountered.

Here’s to my Syrian Summer!

Seven Countries

My grandfather once told me that someone truly in love, in real love, can never put in to words that love. So he said that all those artists in history, who professed their love in poetry and song, really hadn't achieved the apex of love. I smiled and admired him, sitting there in his navy grid bathrobe, sipping his afternoon tea on a somewhat quiet Syrian afternoon. The missiles had subsided or maybe by then we had all adjusted to the booms and shakes that surrounded us after all those weeks.

In my fifteen years of writing poetry, I never could write a true love poem. I could write about heartache, about pain, about yearning, about hoping to be loved back, but love in its purest beautiful form? No, and I always wondered why, but I felt like my grandfather answered that question just last year.

I remembered when my ex-husband, during the early period of our engagement, asked me why I hadn’t written sonnets of love for him. I was taken aback slightly but I hid it and suddenly understood Sara Bareilles’s song, “Love Song.” An artist should be left alone to manifest their art in its organic form, not by demand. That is love.

A human being should be left alone to manifest their expressions organically as well. Being rushed or coerced creates nothing but tension, but I was under a deadline to prove my loyalty and a poem was born. It was powerful and deep and it left a smile on his face but I wondered was it love or was it relishing in the reality that he made me do something? After the divorce, I read that poem and laughed. I vowed to never again allow myself to be cornered into poetry creation.

That vow transcended all barriers in the genre of poetry and at the start of the Syrian war, I was questioned as to the absence of my poetic catharsis for my country. The thing was, the entire situation left me aching and paralyzed. It was the hardest thing to talk about it, let alone write about it. There’s so much to say and it seems like never enough space. Syria has beauty that never ends. One brick of a Damascus wall can be described in twelve different poems.

Event after event I would hear other artists express in poetry or paint their love for Syria and once again I questioned my capabilities. Is my love for Syria below par or has it left such a deep imprint upon me that I’m still weighed down by writer’s block from too much love?

The answer came to me one year, eight months and five days later. A poem was born about my grandfather and Syria and I decided to title it just that: One Year, Eight Months and Five Days Later. Suddenly the writer’s block turned into a writer’s flood and every whirling thought I had buzzing within me for Syria came to fruition. It’s not that I didn’t have enough love for Syria, it’s that I have all the love for Syria.

So this year, when Trump issued the Executive Order for the Muslim Ban, and decided to include Syria in the ridiculous decision, the passion grew and so did the poetry. The ACLU put together an anthology and called for writers from all seven countries to submit their work in order to be published to honor and shed light on these seven cultures. Two people sent me the notice and I submitted three of my pieces on Syria, including One Year, Eight Months and Five Days Later.

That particular poem talks about Syria through my grandfather, and on my trip last year, I printed it out and framed it for him. He read it, got up and shuffled around in his office (my absolute favorite room in the entire world) and looked puzzled. I asked him what was wrong and he said he was struggling to figure out where is the most honorable place to put the poem. I cry now simply thinking of him. He’s a man who goes out of his way to make everyone and anyone on this planet feel worthy. He cleared off a special space and placed the frame. He turned to me with a smile and said, “You know, you truly are a talented writer and poet my dear.” No other critic matters.

I submitted my poems in February and last week a package arrived in the mail. Puzzled I opened it up, trying to think back about what I absentmindedly ordered from Amazon and couldn’t recollect. But when I opened the package, saw the cover and read the title, I was ecstatic. The team that put together the book sent each author a complimentary copy and there it was, my name beside other remarkable Middle Eastern authors expressing their words.

Humbled is the weight I feel now. Being published is such an honor and I am utterly grateful to the ACLU and its partners for thinking of such a beautiful project. Seeing its manifestation only got me more excited to expedite the publication of my second poetry book, Oceans & Flames, which highlights my personal experience and survival of domestic abuse. It’s coming nine years after my first publication, 91 at 19, and I’ve been published in other anthologies here and there, but this ACLU publication, Seven Countries, is outstanding.

It’s out now on Amazon and all proceeds go to support the ACLU. Check it out below and remember, always spread kindness and spread peace!

https://www.amazon.com/Seven-Countries-Arroyo-Seco-Press/dp/1546603891/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1497935732&sr=8-1&keywords=seven+countries+poetry.

Hijabis in Hawaii

“On the first day of Ramadan, my true love gave to me…”

From his name we knew, our Lyft driver was going to be an Arab. He was Palestinian and we greeted each other with well wishes on the beginning of Ramadan. It’s always that awkward moment of silence in a ride where you wonder do I initiate a conversation? If he/she initiates are they just trying to break the silence or do they genuinely want to chat? Considering it was 6:00 a.m. (a time far too early for my soul) I let my mom have the conversation and it turned out to be quite interesting.

It says a lot when a Palestinian tells you, “your people have got it worst.” Palestinians have faced their own bloodshed and turmoil that growing up, the Palestinian cause was really an Arab cause. We protested. We marched. We fundraised. We went ballistic when finally a political candidate came out and acknowledge the Palestinian people and state. So to hear Palestinians tell you that they ache in more remorse at what Syrians are enduring is mind blowing. He was not the first Palestinian to say this and probably won’t be the last. The inhumane destruction of Syria and its people—for six years—is incomprehensible.

As I sat on the plane, feeling overwhelmed by this thought and the thought of a million things in the churning wheels of this mind, I realized this would be an opportune moment to catch up on the sleep I’ve been missing this past semester. There was one problem. It was cold beyond belief that we literally asked the captain to raise the temperature. The stewardess scoured the entire plane twice and couldn’t find a blanket till the last hour. It must’ve been the only one—or she finally felt pity and took it from first class. Either way, it amazed me how quickly I knocked out for the last hour after feeling the warmth of that blanket and then guilt kicked in. How have those Syrians in the streets, beneath tents of awful refugee camps, slept? I couldn’t even process that.

If you’ve kept up with the rants of Lady Narrator, you know that one of my resolutions this year was try to find the silver lining in all situations, no matter how awful. It’s not neglecting the realities, but embracing every element of that reality. So I refused to let myself drown in guilt or misery. I had done that for almost 28 years of my life. I remembered the sweet gentleman who parted the way of people to let my mom and I pass with her wheelchair to the gate (her back has not been cooperating with us). He said, “I’ve been there before once. I know how difficult it is.”

I marveled at the miracles of God of being able to fly thousands of feet up in the air, traveling thousands of miles, to an island, a large piece of land entirely surrounded by water, still floating. I laughed at the irony of being expected to pay an extra $20 fee above our baggage fee of $25 in order to get our bag checked in on time and how suddenly the man at curbside was oh so sweet and caring after the financial exchange. I remembered God once more as I overlooked the Hawaiian horizon, watching the sun set and eating one divine four course meal graciously offered to us by our host for the trip. Each plate was a modest masterpiece of colorful deliciousness that we pretty much inhaled.

Day one ended with a short walk from the restaurant to our beautiful hotel where my mother and I engaged in a session of belly aching laughter we both genuinely needed and realized was long overdue. I’d say, the first day of Ramadan was perfect. Aloha!

“On the second day of Ramadan, my true love gave to me…”

The only constant in life is change. I’ve heard that quote in varied forms many times but the bottom line is this: life is unpredictable and scary at times, but God has a plan and although it’s difficult to roll with it when it’s unknown, the safest thing to do is just that. We woke up to unfortunate news that made us appreciate the blessings we have. Praying for stability and resilience is key and I knew that this would only take a toll if I didn’t stand even stronger for my mom.

As we got ready, I found myself singing the seriously old song, “Hey Ya,” by Outkast. Don’t ask me where it came from; my mind has a mind of its own. The crazier thing was two hours later, on our ride to the Dole Plantation, guess what song came on the radio? The weirder part? The station the driver had on was an 80s and 90s genre, so where on earth did that 2003 song slip in? Then I knew, it was those little things God does for us on our heavy days that matter, so I danced along.

So that Dole Plantation, let me tell you, yum-mazing. Yes, we got a dole whip float. Yes, we got some legit pineapples. Yes, we got to tour the botanical garden. And yes, we got lost in their ginormous maze that hit the Guinness Book of World Records. My mom and I came to the conclusion that we’d never survive being lost in a jungle or forest, but we cracked up with every wrong turn. “Didn’t we pass this flower before?”

“Was this the same bush that I walked into last time?”

“Should we just climb out of the fence that leads into the highway?”

“Are we dead?”

Unfortunately we didn’t beat the world record of finding all eight hidden stations in the three acre jungle in fifteen minutes, but we got three…in one hour…then we had to go back to the hotel for the interfaith discussion. That was what brought us here in the first place. The Shinnyo-en Foundation invited a group of representatives from various interfaith communities to join them at the Lantern Floating Hawaii ceremony that has happened every year since 1999. The goal? To unite people together and celebrate the memories of lost ones.

We had no idea what to expect but we were in for one beautiful surprise.

Before that surprise however, I stumbled upon another lovely surprise when I randomly Googled “open mics in Honolulu.” There it was, one happening that very night and guess who decided she was going?

Unfamiliar with the area, and slightly misconstrued by the media’s portrayal of picturesque Hawaii, I was met with another surprise when I came to find that this area was a mirror image of the worst areas of DTLA. Actually, the population of homeless here is surreal and it left me aching.

Four were sleeping on the floor right beside the arts center where the open mic was happening and it had the Lyft driver on standby, waiting for me to get inside safely.

Imagine the 70s with disco balls, bubble lights, incense and other plants being burned for various reasons—that’s what I stepped into. I knew I was probably the first Muslim woman in hijab to ever set foot in the venue. Heck, I think my mom and I were the only hijabi women on the island. People were looking at us like magical spectacles that it sent me into frequent laughter. I never understand when hijabi women say staring people make them uncomfortable. It makes me happy!

I signed up and grabbed a seat when this adorable puppy came right over and made a home beside my feet. The first 30 minutes of prep work the organizers were doing, I spent trying to gage the environment and what kind of poem would they be welcoming of. This sure as hell wasn’t Da Poetry Lounge, but I factored in the side effects of burned plants into the equation and realized my poem “Weakness” would suffice.

It did and it felt so good to perform in front of a brand new audience that wasn’t accustomed to poetry, but rather music. Three different people came up to me during other people’s sets to tell me how moved they were and had I not been so jet-lagged and tired, I would have stayed the whole night but by 11:00 p.m. I was pooped. But what resonated was the host’s powerful statement of the value of these open mics: “Because we want to build a place where people feel that they don’t have to be in a bar to have a night life.” It hit me because I thought of the Arab culture too, where everyone thinks that the only thing to do on a “night out” is chilling for six hours at a hookah lounge, smoking and wasting time and money. We need a revolution.

I did get a chance however, to hear the beautiful sounds of the Native American flute by a man who called himself “Broken Eagle Talon” and it was the perfect spiritual touch to my second day of Ramadan.

“On the third day of Ramadan, my true love gave to me…”

What makes traditions unique is that they remain in place for generations. Sometimes, however, traditions can be broken and we learned that in a beautiful way. Ramadan has always been known as our family’s hibernation month. Literally, people joke about our family as being the bears that disappear during this season but that’s because Ramadan has always been that one month of the year where everyone is home for dinner daily, a time for family bonding and a very spiritual renewal. It’s a time to reduce the social hours and late nights. It’s a time to reassess where we are at in our lives. It’s a time to fast from not just food but from a majority of other things that we didn’t even realize were taking away from our precious time and purpose.

Last year, I broke tradition by not hibernating but that was because back then I knew that part of my healing process needed community. This year I recognize that I don’t need to go out as often in Ramadan, I want to, and this month is about doing more of what you need and less of what you want. I need more home time and family time.

And God gave me the latter with this trip. He knew it was exactly what my mother and I needed and while it felt so awkward to be on white sand beaches with blue waters and halal piña coladas in the first four days of Ramadan, it’s where He put us because that is where we were going to find new routes to Him.

We found it under the humidity and heat of walking back to our hotel after a daylight stroll and then not knowing whether to laugh or cry from exhaustion. We found it under the shared aches we exchanged and pondering life and what it will be when we return to our routines in 48 hours. We found it under the remarkably impeccable perfection of Shinny-en’s organized efforts in preparing the lanterns that more than 50,000 people will release at sunset.

We sat there at the table, in awe at it all, trying to figure out what prayers to write in honor of Syria and its refugees. “Here, write a poem,” my mom said, handing me the lantern and a sharpie. “Like that?” I asked, puzzled at her expectation and belief in my spontaneity. She believes in me, even more than I believe in myself, because seven minutes later, a poetic prayer for Syria was born. The photographers and videographers were mesmerized by the words that were then accented with maps of Syria. To us, this was our most painful loss, especially that it continues.

The ceremony was held at the shore; the high tide creeping in. It started with phenomenal music and dance, a procession and an utterly moving speech from Her Holiness Shinso Ito, who then signaled to the over 50,000 people that it was now time to release the lanterns.

There we were walking straight into the Pacific—ankles to knees to waist—well I didn’t go waist deep but my mom did, holding on tightly to that lantern with dear life. Her tears streaming. The most amazing thing was witnessing the transformation of the ocean. Going from an empty blue sea to a sea that was slowly filling with glowing orange lights was mesmerizing and yet an eerie reminder of how small we are in this big big world and yet how connected we all are.

People held one another. People cried. People struggled to let go, including my mom, who had a hard time releasing that lantern and even walking away. Instead she slowly inched her way backwards, keeping an eye on that lantern for Syria. We stood there for an hour, watching the sea of orange grow, reminders of how many fallen souls were being remembered. Soldiers. Lovers. Mothers. Sisters. Best friends. Refugees. Sick patients. Children.

My mother put it perfectly, it was like Hajj (though I’ve never been—only experienced U’mrah). The gathering of so many people for one cause, one purpose, in unity, under such a spiritual venture, that was our route to God this Ramadan. Yes, we may not have been abstaining from food and in a mosque all night long for Taraweeh Prayers but we were finding God nonetheless.

We were also finding ourselves and finding each other, and really that was the greatest gift I could receive this Ramadan.