Monday, June 19, 2017

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!

Thursday, June 1, 2017

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.