I can’t quite recall when I learned that lonely was a bad word, but I remember that for a good portion of my adolescence, and the rest of my adulthood, I bit my tongue anytime it almost came out of my mouth. To be the ideal feminist (according to feminists and non-feminists), a woman can never express loneliness, but we’re “allowed” to—even encouraged to—embrace aloneness. The thing is, I never saw loneliness as necessarily always a bad thing because it is a concept far more nuanced than the idea of being single. Sometimes, as cliche as it sounds, loneliness is a sensation that exists when we’re surrounded by the biggest and loudest groups of people. And so I was not really surprised when I started feeling less and less lonely the longer I practiced stay-at-home orders.
See, maybe on a subconscious level I knew there was some type of loneliness within me that I couldn’t consciously grasp. Loneliness stems from a feeling of not belonging in either the self, the society, or both. I’ve always known (or been told) how much I don’t belong in places or with people—be it men, friendships/community networks, schools, jobs, and even poetry. But how deep this awareness flowed only became visible to me under pandemic, when I found an opportunity to reflect in a way that’s caused a re-framing I wasn’t prepared for. Suddenly I was reassessing my current friendships, my family relationships, my relationship with God, and well, my relationship with myself.
Since the beginning of this year, I’ve experienced a poetry-based writer’s block and I could deduce its larger causes: I was sexually assaulted in January, then forced to process it alone under pandemic, then my grandmother suddenly died the night before Ramadan, and all this while still trying to figure out what life is supposed to be like without my dad in it anymore. A simple task, no? I called my publisher one day and asked him for advice on how to write about the assault without fear, on paper, realizing that the fear wasn’t speaking out as much as it was about realizing how hard it is to confront Black and Brown men who perpetrate these things (which was the case). He told me I need to grant myself permission to just write it; eliminate the idea that anyone will read it, get out all the ugly and shitty poems, and then watch the flood gates reopen.
I know he’s right, but his advice transcended this specific encounter. My loneliness didn’t start at the hands of this assaulter. It started when I was ten and always left out of Arab girl get togethers and parties because I didn’t talk about the materialistic dreams every little girl was supposed to have. While they all fantasized about the wedding dress, cake flavors, and baby names, I dreamed of the doctorate degree with frustrating late nights of research stacked up next to cold takeout from lunch and four empty latte cups. As the high school and college girls compared who got the best tan that summer, I fantasized about how much fun it would be to teach a college course, rocking a red lipstick and stilettos, and making the classes fun with my social science students. (I envision being that “cool” professor, haha!) My dad had similar dreams for me and lately, it’s been hurting a lot more to realize he won’t be there to see them, but the fear of not manifesting them hurts me more so I wake up with a harder drive than the day before to make them come true, realizing how much less lonelier I’ve become. Then I remember how the older I got, the more vocal I became in my Muslim community, and the less I belonged.
I sought refuge, as in belonging, in other spaces and thought I actually found it in poetry community until I took a closer look at my poems collectively. I saw how little I wrote about culture and religion until very recently, when I started exerting more identity consciousness, because the truth is, saying “God” in these arenas is not welcome. Actually, very rarely have I come across spaces that welcome any sense of spirituality and faith unless it’s Christianity or Atheism. Everything else becomes stereotyped and stigmatized and well, my physical attributes confess my religion even if I don’t open my mouth, and I carry that weight (proudly).
But then the pendulum of authenticity swings back and I remember how uncomfortable I am performing poetry or giving a lecture in any Muslim and/or Arab space because my “not religious enough” physical attributes also speak volumes there. Then I open my mouth and all hell breaks loose (no pun intended). Even now, I worry about some conservative cracking open Contortionist Tongue—my recent poetry book—and landing on chapter two, where a plethora of sexuality thrives. It’s not that I’m ashamed—I mean if I were I wouldn’t have written or published them—but it’s just exhaustion from everything being so hypersensitive. But those poems came out of necessity, because after sexual abuse, domestic violence, and sexual assault, I deserved a form of body autonomy, taking ownership of what I want my body to experience on my own terms. And that came to be through erotic poetry.
Since the beginning of this year, I’ve experienced a poetry-based writer’s block and I could deduce its larger causes: I was sexually assaulted in January, then forced to process it alone under pandemic, then my grandmother suddenly died the night before Ramadan, and all this while still trying to figure out what life is supposed to be like without my dad in it anymore. A simple task, no? I called my publisher one day and asked him for advice on how to write about the assault without fear, on paper, realizing that the fear wasn’t speaking out as much as it was about realizing how hard it is to confront Black and Brown men who perpetrate these things (which was the case). He told me I need to grant myself permission to just write it; eliminate the idea that anyone will read it, get out all the ugly and shitty poems, and then watch the flood gates reopen.
I know he’s right, but his advice transcended this specific encounter. My loneliness didn’t start at the hands of this assaulter. It started when I was ten and always left out of Arab girl get togethers and parties because I didn’t talk about the materialistic dreams every little girl was supposed to have. While they all fantasized about the wedding dress, cake flavors, and baby names, I dreamed of the doctorate degree with frustrating late nights of research stacked up next to cold takeout from lunch and four empty latte cups. As the high school and college girls compared who got the best tan that summer, I fantasized about how much fun it would be to teach a college course, rocking a red lipstick and stilettos, and making the classes fun with my social science students. (I envision being that “cool” professor, haha!) My dad had similar dreams for me and lately, it’s been hurting a lot more to realize he won’t be there to see them, but the fear of not manifesting them hurts me more so I wake up with a harder drive than the day before to make them come true, realizing how much less lonelier I’ve become. Then I remember how the older I got, the more vocal I became in my Muslim community, and the less I belonged.
I sought refuge, as in belonging, in other spaces and thought I actually found it in poetry community until I took a closer look at my poems collectively. I saw how little I wrote about culture and religion until very recently, when I started exerting more identity consciousness, because the truth is, saying “God” in these arenas is not welcome. Actually, very rarely have I come across spaces that welcome any sense of spirituality and faith unless it’s Christianity or Atheism. Everything else becomes stereotyped and stigmatized and well, my physical attributes confess my religion even if I don’t open my mouth, and I carry that weight (proudly).
But then the pendulum of authenticity swings back and I remember how uncomfortable I am performing poetry or giving a lecture in any Muslim and/or Arab space because my “not religious enough” physical attributes also speak volumes there. Then I open my mouth and all hell breaks loose (no pun intended). Even now, I worry about some conservative cracking open Contortionist Tongue—my recent poetry book—and landing on chapter two, where a plethora of sexuality thrives. It’s not that I’m ashamed—I mean if I were I wouldn’t have written or published them—but it’s just exhaustion from everything being so hypersensitive. But those poems came out of necessity, because after sexual abuse, domestic violence, and sexual assault, I deserved a form of body autonomy, taking ownership of what I want my body to experience on my own terms. And that came to be through erotic poetry.
I’m not saying I prefer the isolation but this aloneness cleansed out a subconscious loneliness that’s allowed me to reexamine how we build the self, how we build community, and how we build the bridge between the two. And this has actually been the theme of all the prompts I’ve been teaching in every class/lecture I’ve given on Zoom this year, and I have to say, the feedback has been incredible because as humans we’re really good at being eloquent but not quite as good as mending what lies beneath. This creates that loneliness, the lack of grounding and belonging.
A week ago, I was FaceTiming with my mom, who’s still in Syria, and per our usual conversations, I updated her on these thoughts amid my online dating terrors, bills, and her beloved feline grandchildren. I told her that as beautiful as this awakening is, the idea of returning back to a society where I haven’t found the man or friends that enjoy this middle ground is daunting. “I mean mama, really is there no man out there who’ll go to the club or a poetry reading at a bar, but still try to wake me up for Fajr?” The next day, God kind of replied.
I’m not much of a fan of podcasts. Having someone talk to me, faceless and not singing, while I workout or drive or run errands, annoys me. However, I was introduced to a podcast that I decided to take a chance on. Five days and twenty episodes later, I finished listening to every episode of The Amreekies podcast and I know God was telling me to have faith. I’m not at all the most or even remotely religious girl on the block, but God and I have had this unique language for as long as I can remember, and for a brief moment in time I almost lost it, but He brought me back.
From the very first episode of The Amreekies, I was in awe at the sheer brilliance of its simplicity and hilarity at addressing things as mundane as house slippers (shout out to the “babooj” folks) to things as gut wrenching as calling out internal systemic racism and questioning religious identity.
This podcast is composed of two Arab American guys, a Palestinian and an Iraqi, who have been lifelong friends that talk about the experiences of the Muslim Arab American trifecta. Recently, they’ve brought on a Libyan American woman to the show and I adore her. To be able to hear of another badass hijabi who can hold her faith and authenticity but call out bull shit boldly, is what I needed to hear. Women always tell me (in secret) how appreciative they are of my bravery, courage, and social justice community organizing, but even we activists need a source of empowerment and faith restoration every once in a while.
And the guys, damn! The guys who have made me laugh so hard that drivers in the cars around me all thought I was crazy, are incredibly insightful and on point. For the first time in a long time I felt ironically seen (the irony coming from the fact that neither I can see them nor they me). But the vulnerability and detail oriented nature of each episode is impeccable, and the fact that they can incorporate life, culture, and religion, all while walking this middle ground is perfection.
I’m not saying The Amreekies has touched on risque works like that of my written work (yet?), but there have been episodes with sporadic subtle innuendos within context or jokes that almost cross the line that make the experience all the more relevant to those of us Arab Muslims in America who’ve been too haram for the halal-ies and too halal for the haram-ies and have been heavily searching for a place to belong among both our people (Arabs/Muslims) and our people (Americans). This all or nothing polarization is precisely why loneliness exists.
For example, one of my favorite episodes (that’s a lie because they’re all my favorites) is when they discussed Ramadan and how unspoken the anxiety (and even dread) is in the anticipation for it beforehand for some people. I’ve always felt like I was the only one who experienced that eerie precursor but lo and behold, someone else expressed verbatim what I feel silently each year because every other Muslim is out there singing their Islamic version of “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” Don’t get me wrong, I love Ramadan, but there’s something about the time leading up to it that feels heavy and hey, someone else feels it too!
I could go on and on about this podcast but I will stop before I sound too much like an obsessed groupie fan girl because this is not a fan letter. Or maybe it is? Maybe this is a fan letter to The Amreekies. A thank you for nurturing an idea you had years ago to authentically present witty banter and difficult conversation of true experiences that resonate with so many of us—especially '90s Arab Americans. Maybe this is a thank you to anyone who’s ever listened to their calling and created something that was so true to them, they unknowingly inspired someone they did not know needed it. I’m always so touched when someone reaches out to tell me what my words and works have done for them because it reminds me of how much we each matter in who we are and what we do in this world.
We build ourselves when we believe in who we are. We build community when we share our gifts authentically. And we build that bridge between the two when we embrace one another as we are.
This podcast is composed of two Arab American guys, a Palestinian and an Iraqi, who have been lifelong friends that talk about the experiences of the Muslim Arab American trifecta. Recently, they’ve brought on a Libyan American woman to the show and I adore her. To be able to hear of another badass hijabi who can hold her faith and authenticity but call out bull shit boldly, is what I needed to hear. Women always tell me (in secret) how appreciative they are of my bravery, courage, and social justice community organizing, but even we activists need a source of empowerment and faith restoration every once in a while.
And the guys, damn! The guys who have made me laugh so hard that drivers in the cars around me all thought I was crazy, are incredibly insightful and on point. For the first time in a long time I felt ironically seen (the irony coming from the fact that neither I can see them nor they me). But the vulnerability and detail oriented nature of each episode is impeccable, and the fact that they can incorporate life, culture, and religion, all while walking this middle ground is perfection.
I’m not saying The Amreekies has touched on risque works like that of my written work (yet?), but there have been episodes with sporadic subtle innuendos within context or jokes that almost cross the line that make the experience all the more relevant to those of us Arab Muslims in America who’ve been too haram for the halal-ies and too halal for the haram-ies and have been heavily searching for a place to belong among both our people (Arabs/Muslims) and our people (Americans). This all or nothing polarization is precisely why loneliness exists.
For example, one of my favorite episodes (that’s a lie because they’re all my favorites) is when they discussed Ramadan and how unspoken the anxiety (and even dread) is in the anticipation for it beforehand for some people. I’ve always felt like I was the only one who experienced that eerie precursor but lo and behold, someone else expressed verbatim what I feel silently each year because every other Muslim is out there singing their Islamic version of “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” Don’t get me wrong, I love Ramadan, but there’s something about the time leading up to it that feels heavy and hey, someone else feels it too!
I could go on and on about this podcast but I will stop before I sound too much like an obsessed groupie fan girl because this is not a fan letter. Or maybe it is? Maybe this is a fan letter to The Amreekies. A thank you for nurturing an idea you had years ago to authentically present witty banter and difficult conversation of true experiences that resonate with so many of us—especially '90s Arab Americans. Maybe this is a thank you to anyone who’s ever listened to their calling and created something that was so true to them, they unknowingly inspired someone they did not know needed it. I’m always so touched when someone reaches out to tell me what my words and works have done for them because it reminds me of how much we each matter in who we are and what we do in this world.
We build ourselves when we believe in who we are. We build community when we share our gifts authentically. And we build that bridge between the two when we embrace one another as we are.
Check out The Amreekies here on Apple Podcast or find them on other podcast streaming platforms.
