Verdicts

Today I lie down restless again, not because of my burdened mind, but more like another boy thinking about a girl whose skin he smelled not too long ago, whose image persists indefinitely.  If I'm honest with myself, I'll admit that I miss you and the selfish aspect of having your beauty momentarily all to myself, devouring your body to the rhythm of your moans. If I'm more honest, I'll admit that I've missed others before - those whose breaths paced mine, while staring at me over a pillow, or a moment of awe. Missing begets a verdict, and a verdict is always too rash. How can it not be! Give it another day and things may change, life itself may change. But so could your youth, your passion, and your appetite for love. So a sober verdict must pass, one that contemplates not our fleeting moments but what partnerships are made of. Not love that shelters you for hours but sustains you for years on end.

Vulnerable

I could count the words that you spoke

The times you chose to cross my road

In plain sight

Or tucked away

In some corner of the world

In some open field

That yields to your thoughts

Or a little kitchen

Where you keep your pots

I’d promise to stop wanting

If you promise to stop taunting

With a face like this

Of a joyful child

Then curves like this

From side to side

Don’t get me started

With words like this

Vulnerable.

Does a lioness confess

To her open wounds

Like the rest of us?

Would she run my hand

Across her soul

And let my words

Tempt her butter lips

Would that be gullible?

Vent

How many times do I have to hear it
Your little story
With another?

The way he swarmed
And the way you yearned
For his smoky voice
‘n some more lovin’

You spat it out, you’ve had your fun
Telling me what I’ll have to run
A dozen times through my head tonight

I don’t wanna wish you bad
Not a blow to his face
Not a hole in your heart
Or the whole thing set on fire

Some gent sits through that sorta thing
Pass me my coat
Gotta blow it off, and vent it out
And vent it out

It's not that bad
Not a blow to my face
Not a hole in my heart
Nor my whole life set on fire

But you spat it out, you’ve had your fun
Tell you what, I gotta run
A dozen miles till it wears out

Don't Fall Dead

Wise woman said

Free yourself from me

Linger around

But don’t ever love me

Crawl by my fire

And breathe in my face

Bleed at my alter

But don’t you fall dead.

Linger around, but

Don’t ask my name

I’ll take you no further

Than she who you blame

Just burn by my fire

And curl up in flames

Whatever made you dream up

Some comfort in my bed.

I’ll take you no further

Than where you are already

Did you think your haste

Will ever get me ready?

My spell is my fire

Consuming your dream

Breaking it just as quickly

As your heart, and your head

I'm A Thirty Something

I think I am having a heart attack.

I am feeling the weight of an imaginary building on top of my chest. Actually, it feels more like an invisible Sumo wrestler who is comfortably sitting above my sternum, adjusting his butt cheeks. Now it’s a piercing pain right above my stomach. Is this what it feels to get stabbed?

I try to breathe, but I can’t, so I wake up and go to the toilet. I pee and try to burp hoping it was just last night’s meal, but that doesn’t seem to work. I look myself in the mirror and acknowledge this is not a dream. My steps are deliberate yet I feel I am losing control inside some washing machine. I’m not woozy, but the ride is worrisome; it isn’t fun. I open my window, prop myself up against my biggest pillow and try to calm myself down. This too shall pass, Amr. (Are you struck by the thought that we sometimes delegate part of our conscious to look after the other, more troubled part?) I focus on relaxing all my facial muscles, based on a discovery I made a couple of years ago: even at my quietest moments, I catch my face all tensed up, leaving my head overworked – a good reason for my continuous headache. That subconscious frown / pout has to go. It’s incredible I have been wearing it throughout my six hour of sleep.

Feel that? The pressure is gradually easing. Streams of emotion are finding their natural way around and out of myself, no longer clogging my arteries. I exhale, deliberately.

I have to remember that I cannot chase for all the answers in my sleep.

I must have been seven years old when my father told me flat out, “Amr, you can’t be that sensitive; life will get too hard on you.” I used to cry a lot. It was not to manipulate anyone into doing something for me, nor to get attention. I only cried when I felt that life’s trickery betrayed my innocence. Many a thing that came my way came with a sense of injustice. Meanwhile, parents and teachers demanded perfection, and in turn, I grew up idealistic, setting myself up for disappointment. Today, the tears have long dried, but the disappointment continues. I’m a thirty something who thinks too much. He ignores injustice for the most part. He is trying to come to terms with what lemons life throws at him. He is trying to keep his calm, at least while awake. This is me making lemonade: It doesn’t have to be perfect. This is good. Accept it, or make the best of it. Now shut up, don’t overthink it, and get on with as little drama as possible.

But maybe that’s the crux of the matter: drama. That terrible feeling I had this morning is like the unbearable breast of a mother cow, aching to perform its role of giving milk. That incredible charge inside me needs to find its way out to some great stage or canvas. I’m crippled by the notion that my expressions will be less than perfect, that my canvas may have streaks I cannot justify. But as I write this, I realize that I have to make a choice: either take to the stage no matter how ugly my performance will be, or let this cost me my life.

I’m a thirty something whose clock is ticking. Never thought he’d have to make art to win time.  

The Boy

Some adolescent I am.

Struggling with the deviance of a boy who has never been allowed to play. Now it’s a different story; he’s fretting to let loose. He’s agonizing over greener grass, fuller lips and finer kisses. His paradox is pressing, but he’s clueless. Shrug it off, and the world is his, for a while. That world of no plan, no consequence, no guilt, no time and no where.

The boy gives no damn about the familiar mistakes – not the glance that lingered too long, not the waking fantasies, not the heavy breathing, nor the thumping veins beneath his shell. He gives no damn about getting caught red handed, knee-deep in a serious case of infatuation.

He’s half sleepwalking, fixated on the fabric of her skin and the life in her restless body, radiating in her curly smile, betraying the shyness in her eyes.

Your Father

I am so sorry for your loss.
I can imagine what pain that costs you, having been there myself.

This will make you grow older overnight. It will bring you closer to your father more than you imagine. You will find him living in you, in your gestures and facial expressions, in words you say and the way you go about your life from time to time. You will find him in your dreams for years to come.

Nothing remedies this loss, except maybe time. It's hard waking up to this reality everyday and trying to make do with it. But you will be immersed in all sorts of things in his trail, and you will meet so many people you may have never seen before, who will tell you about your father.

A great relief is to put this collage together, and from those fragments, create a bigger picture for him; one that you will know like you know yourself.

Why Not The Islamic Rule?

Hi Amr, how are you?
I listened to your answers, thank you.
it's interesting because the other guy that I interviewed has different ideas. He's turkish but religious, he would like to have sharia states in the arab countries. (What are your thoughts on that?)

Luca

----

Yes, i have family in Egypt. I am Muslim by my upbringing, but i am rather agnostic now. I have removed myself from practice while i ask questions, reflect, embrace different view points a long process that will hopefully end up in a conscious decision about belief. Not your typical Egyptian Muslim.

You will find a lot of people pro Islamic rule and they will have their reasons. those reasons usually revolve around Islam being the sober system that grants fairness, equality, decency etc.. to the society. I agree with all that, however, when you surrender the rule of a country to a religion, you'd be ruling by the ruler's interpretation of that religion. You'd be putting a ceiling to people's freedom to question whether a rule is OK to apply to their society today. that's because you'd be ruling by the irrevocable, nonnegotiable word of God.

If it were so black and white, it would have been fine, but it isn't, especially when you try to address contemporary issues with a seemingly ancient law. And of course there are models as extreme as the Taliban, and the Ayatollahs of Iran to validate that when such a law is left to the interpretation of the ruler, unquestionable because he is applying the so-called word of God, then you have fanaticism breeding on every corner. These examples are as bad as what used to be the case in medieval Europe under the rule of the Church. Today, it's easy for any European to realize that he or she wouldn't have enjoyed as much freedom of anything had he or she lived back then.

This is the scenario that a civil rule hopes to avoid. How? Civil law is subject to the creation and tweaking of people of today's society, and while it's open to interpretation, it is ALSO open to amendments and changes to which opposition is an equal participant, a scenario which a religious law doesn't entertain. The law itself could be modified in order to grant as much equilibrium within the society. Just to be clear, this is all idealistic, but it's closer - i believe - to the fair middle ground that the diverse population of a country like Egypt with its Christian minority may accept. The last thing you want after a revolt is to censor people's expression under the flagship of any kind. You want to facilitate and lubricate dialogue as much as possible without hitting the wall of violating someone's beliefs, or being dismissed as an infidel, etc.

I am yet to see a country ruling by a religious law that truly revives the aura of the early Islamic society of Al Madina. The historic accounts depict a rather Utopian image I'm reluctant to believe it can be reproduced today, especially with such lack of adequate education, open mindedness and farsightedness.

One more thing. I have noticed by living in a society like the Dutch one how being more permissive actually curbs the appetite to violate other people's rights. I have also noticed by living in a society like the Egyptian one, how being more forbidding (by emergency law, conservative tradition, social taboos, etc) actually invokes the appetite to violate other people's rights. It's a matter of handling power: the power to dictate rules, police others and play guard. All this creates a disparity between the life of the ruler who exercises such powers, and the ruled, who typically have to suffer a much less humane, expressive, full life than their ruler.

hope this helps.

amr

In Dreams

I wrote this in memory of those who left us.

They come back in dreams
When you least expect them to,
When you're not prepared.
They come back with light steps,
And words softly muttered
By hesitant lips.
With food to share
And stories to tell,
They come back to leave you
Hungry for more.
They come back to say
They never meant to go.

What's this Arabic you speak of?

ya noortje,

this is one of the most interesting emails i have got in a looong time.
thanks for sharing all of this with me.

your questions are very valid, and i think it makes sense to ask them as a non-arab, meaning, that you wouldn't have asked those questions had you been raised in an arab country, because these are such subtle dynamics that it doesn't even occur to us to wonder about. unless of course it's a matter of interest, say, to a radio broadcaster who wonders how to deliver the next piece of news (in fusha or ammeyya?) ... then the matter becomes more salient to her.

ok, let's take them one by one:


What do you think about the gap between fusha and ammeyya, written and spoken arabic?
let's get one thing clear first:
there is written ammeyya, especially in cartoons (eg. Mostafa Hussein) and contemporary poetry (eg. Ahmad Fouad Negm, Salah Jahin). also in novels, when the author wants to switch between a narration (him telling the story) and a dialogue between the characters. and typically in most scripts written for film or theater. the national theater in egypt resorts back to fusha when they perform plays for old foreign writers, like Shakespeare, unless they want to wink at the audience, that the matter discussed in that old play still relates to our today and here and now.

so, obviously it's a big mix of when to use what.

luckily for fusha, it has a universal protection system, which is the Holy Quraan. because there are institutes and boards specifically made to monitor that the quraan is maintained word for word from one copy to the next, and make a lot of noise if they find any deviations, the bi-product of this process is a maintained, protected fusha language, used to write the quraan itself. in fact, Magmaá Al Lugha al Arabeyya, which is the institute established to protect and maintain the arabic language, takes any confusions back to the quraan, which is considered the ultimate reference in linguistics, grammar and conjugation.

but the speed at which ammeyya is developing and changing, borrowing and lending, is very high. this is a bi-product of freer expression in literary arts.
a movie writer could come up with a meaningless word, and coin it to mean something in his movie. the movie gets seen by millions, and within a few months, his new term has become part of the language. granted it's not taken seriously, but people "get" what it means.
for example, in the movie "Ismaéleyya Rayeh Gayy" (Ismaeleyya back and forth), the egyptian actor Mohammed Henedi says, "Nefsy fe Kamannanna" (I want Kamannanna), then a song kicks off about wanting that Kamannanna. That word means nothing, but through the song, you realize that it refers to all the intangibles that he cannot afford: more than one girl, a million dollar house, etc... So the audience left the movie house saying Nefsy fe Kamannanna. Now, imagine a situation where a crowd of young people gather at night, with no particular plans on how to spend the night out in cairo. they call each other. they finally get frustrated with the indecision. so one goes, "Yanni nefsak fe aih bezzabt??" (what do you want exactly?)... very seamlessly, the other would respond, "Nefsy fe Kamannanna" and both would laugh at it.

The tension between Fusha and Ameyya is the tension that exists between any two vehicles of media in our modern times. it's the same tension say, between Radio and the Internet. One is less relevant to the users than the other. Granted, you turn your radio from time to time, to fill a void, or fulfill a temporary function, but it's the internet that you use on a daily basis, and feel lost without. so it's an issue of relevance.

It's really interesting to have read the five categories of Arabic speakers, because it makes sense to me. it's not a top-of-mind division that i wake up and the morning and say, yeah, i know there are 5 different categories of native arabic speakers out there. but when i read about it, i acknowledged it.


If you write a letter to a friend, do you write it in fusha or in colloquial?
It depends. If you wanna sound like yourself, you write in ammeyya (colloquial), but it's challenging for most people because we aren't used to writing it at school. so to me personally, it's more tricky, specially with the spelling, because it's very subjective how you write something. for example, would you dismiss the Qaf letter and replace it with a Hamza, or would you write out the Qaf knowing that people will make the right pronunciation?

My mother and father corresponded in letter writing when he used to work in saudi arabia. actually it was a mix of telephone calls, recorded cassette tapes, and letters.
in the letters, there is an obvious switch between fusha and ammeyya, depending on the specific emotion expressed by the phrase, as well as how comfortable the writer was with expressing that emotion."Habibty we noor einy..." it reads both fusha and ammeyya in arabic (fusha, using the exact same letter, no tashkeel: "Habeebaty, wa nooro ayny") The reader makes the call on how to read it, and it's usually in ammeyya. sometimes the writer uses template fusha expressions in certain parts of the letter, because it's a custom (or lack of creativity): "maa hobby wa qobolaty" (with my love and kisses)... he doesn't write "bahebbek we baboosek".

When there was a fight that happened one day between the two of them (in the same house, no more long distance), mom opted to express herself in writing to resolve the conflict. She wrote the whole thing in fusha. i think she decided to do so because it's smoother to read, and therefore, there would be less confusion about what she meant. It would also give her a more authoritative percieved voice.


When you went to school did they teach you to write colloquial as well?
no, but the education in subjects taught in arabic is all in colloquial, even in the arabic language itself. the teacher would read a passage in fusha, and then explain it in "Yaani..." unless again the teacher is trying to be percieved as a firm authority or an expert.
We had inspectors come from time to time, sent by the ministry of education, to check on the teachers' performance. These guys always spoke in full fusha, with both the teacher and the students. that made them more distant, and certainly gave them the pedestal they meant to look down on the rest of us from.


And given that illiteracy is still a major problem in a lot of Arabic countries, don't you think that, for illiterate people, it is sometimes confusing that the only way of writing 'good 'Arabic is of such high standards; that it makes people insecure?
again, it depends on the salience of this matter to the illiterate person.
i imagine it would be intimidating for someone who plans to start reading and writing, who thinks about her own illiteracy in contrast of the "previliged literate others".
and this is not even class specific; some higher ups made it without knowing how to read and write, and they still get cornered about it. for example, egypt's alfa belly dancer, Fifi Abdo, used to join this entertainment show during Ramadan extensive entertainment programing. the show was charades, so it involved reading the name of the film she would act in silence off a piece of paper. while all the other actors and actresses read the film title and went straight ahead to act it away, she always had the judge whisper in her ears after pretending to read the title. cut to the present actors and actresses gossiping about it in whispers. of course fifi didn't give a damn about it, because she reckoned that her millions would buy several arabic language institutes.
my impression is to an illiterate person whose education is not such a big bother, she wouldn't allow the matter to intimidate her that much, because it's more likely than not she's of a struggling social class, and has a lot of other challenges to keep her busy. but again, i think it all depends.


Do you think it's wrong if a writer uses a 'bi-imperfectum' 'illi' and 'dilwa'ti' together with allathi, 'alan, inni uridu ann, etc?
I think everything depends on the context of the work presented. with reference to the plays and literary works i mentioned above, it should be a matter of choice, rather than incompetence. meaning, the author needs to choose to switch between the two modes of the language depending on what perception she wants to trigger in her audience.
think of it like art: when picasso went to develop cubism with other artists, he had already nailed down realism. he knew how to paint and draw to an impressive level of accuracy. and then he decided to tear it all up and switch to absract form. same, in my opinion, should apply to writers. you need to master your tools before experimenting with them. otherwise it would be haphazard and tasteless. but of course, it's not like we have a ton of picassos out there.


Do you mix it up sometimes?
I actually tend to mix english with ammeyya, due to my foreign education and living abroad. sometimes it's just easier to plug a word in in whatever language it may be.
but if i'm talking to an audience that doesn't know english, i am aware of that and make sure to make my words all ammeyya.
i rarely write fusha poetry, but i find more beauty in writing it than in writing in ammeyya to nail down that delicate emotion i'm trying to communicate. fusha, to me, is indisputably more powerful and elegant than ammeyya.


Do you ever use a dictionary of colloquial Arabic?
The only time i have run into one was in the back of a Lonely Planet, translating from english to street egyptian ammeyya. But i don't personally use it. i wouldn't need it.

Delivery

so the deed was done, and a child was born. nurse lifted her by the ankle and smacked the butt three times to make sure she's alive and kicking. little did she know that a smack like that could change fates and make her, the baby, smack, a world traveller, smack, a belly dancer and , smack, an account planner. she, the nurse, heard the baby cry, and let her rest in her crib, then retreated to the other room to receive a call from her then-husband, who asked her when she was coming home. "I just had a delivery," nurse said. in the meantime, mommy and daddy were kissing. doctor, all washed up now, was sipping on his well-earned tea back in his office, smiling to himself with pride that he did it again. nurse had to hang up, and go back to the incubator where babies about an hour old or so were left to breathe a little, and get familiar with their toes, while a picture of grandpa Atatürk was watching over, making sure they were all alright.

The Girl Who Does Yoga

I thought it was the strangest name to a song. Little did I know.
This compelling desire to write usually comes from a Yogi girl. Something about her makes her muse-material.

There is a lot to learn from a Yogi kind of girl. She's self-indulgent, in a good way. She loves her body, and wants to bridge possible gaps between that body and the mind in charge. She thinks, a lot, and while seemingly over social, she keeps an introverted blog, or at least a careful record of where she's at. Not in a grocery list kinda way. What I mean is remarkable, and not so remarkable, moments stand out. Life doesn't just drip through her fingers. Yogi girl knows how to breathe. She knows how to reflect.

Yogi is sensitive to people's perceptions, not in a superficial way, although she arms herself with make-up if she has to. Her attention to what people think, though, is much like a surgeon's attention to a patient's blood pressure before operation. It's introverted, wise, and careful. The only point where Yogi and surgeon part ways is when he allows his readings to dictate everything he will do next, while she may willingly walk out on whatever the fuck people think.
She's done her own math ahead of time.

For whatever reason, having a Yogi in a boy's life is a full-time challenge, because he has to keep up with her, unlike that other woman. The other woman is easy to satisfy, and a little yes-baby will have her set for a while. Our boy thinks that Yogi is great in bed, but putting up with hours of scrutiny is a heavy tax to pay for that. When making love, the other woman's moans strip her naked in every way. Yogi makes love with her brains on.

Yogi is having organic food for breakfast, and that's not because she's being a picky eater. It's because when she was on her explorative trip around countries of the less developed world, she felt closer to people there, because food was their common lingo. It felt genuine, and they felt more like her kind, save pointing fingers that she's the rich tourist around. It bothered her a bit then, but she'd give up anything now to have a moment of that again.

She lives with an orange tree
The girl who does yoga

The Gap

- We won, do ya hear me? We won!
- What do we do now?
- Huh?
- I said, what do we do now?

It's pretty darn ironic that i could draw the connection between my pitiful career and that of a president-elect. For while he stands there counting the ways of relieving economy and making a better tomorrow, i sit on my mac, doing more or less the same. I think up ways to promise people more out of a tagline they are already familiar with (and, dare i say, oblivious to). We're both fluffing and bluffing. I herd the sheep to the barn where he is pacing. Suddenly, we've got our hands full with too many of 'em clueless sheep to feed.

We have that one biggie in common: the gap between thinking and doing, planning and delivering, promoting and producing. We got real good at one thing, it would be sweet to forget the other. But son, the other's here to stay, coz the numbers don't add up, and those sheep ain't going nowhere.

Self-Proclaimed Celebrity

I am the guy who cut the turkey.
Into thin slices so that everyone could eat up,
And be full and thankful
On Thanksgiving.

I am the guy who studies genres of music
So that the next conversation
I'll be able to chip in with my two cents
That Sergio Mendes was ahead of his time

You know that guy who retreats to a back room
To kiss a girl? And not flinch
While others walk in to claim their coats?
Yeah, I am that guy

This guy here, the crocodile
With a big mouth, and legs that don't go too far
And a head barely above the water
The pretentious thinker of the puddle

Red Lights

Today i did my first amsterdam touristic round, from hitting the red-light district to going to coffeeshops. it's been two and a half months since i moved here, and i have been living quite a safe Dutch life. So i took the opportunity of having a typical tourist friend over, and we walked around the old quarter.

It's a strange feelings you get when what you'd normally classify as taboo becomes perfectly legitimate and popular, and right there under your nose. Looking at the girls in the windows struck me with a seesaw of lust and disgust, desire and pity, lingering and escape. that puzzling pendulum of temptation.

A dialogue went on between me and my friend Craig (visiting from colorado) about whether the smiles the girls wore were genuine. Doesn't take a genius to figure that red-light girls will make you feel wanted and desired to lure you in, make you feel good about yourself, do the transaction, then move on. but part of me could see a difference between one smile and another. Maybe it was just my illuded self that made me think that i caught a couple of them really smiling at me. The desire to be attractive, and hot-girl-approved, made me think that it must be the beret i was wearing that made me stand out to the girls from the sea of all-british hooligan-looking men gathering outside their windows, dripping with drool and urging with phrases of excitement.

A lot of the girls were on their cellphones as they waited for a real man to take the leap from spectator to client. Some lit their cigarettes. Some were very chubby. some were very old but nevertheless unwilling to give up their throne of seduction to the young skinny girls of these days. Craig kept making excused to make another round in the district, as we killed time waiting for his girlfriend coming from Paris by car to contact us.

The girlfriend and her friends arrived seeking joints. and joints they got. i was on the verge of joining in when i finally got back to my senses realizing that my body was as unfamiliar with these drugs as an elephant with french caviar. So i braved one good ol' english tea cup to sip on while the rest took their journey to the other side. craig wouldn't let me be until i accepted a small piece of space cake (vanilla flavored). theoretically this is supposed to kick in 2 hours later. i waited for something to happen, but apparently the portion i ate wasn't big enough. i guess now at least i can check it off the list of all the things to do before i die. whatever

Encounter

You know it when you're writing... what? four months later? that something extraordinaire has happened.

something that makes your fingers tap.
and your mind race.
and your voice vanish.

such a familiar feeling, my friends. Had it once back in the day in 2003. And now, unexpectedly, it happens again. You walk down a bar to meet a stranger at some corner of amsterdam. you eye her and completely feel connected. telling stories is for the mere formality of acquaintence, but you know-you know-the person, without her saying a word.

how is that possible?!

so familiar, and yet so different, that she entices an opportunity in my mind. "I suggest you take me into your life," i said. "Take you into my life?" "Yes, pull me out of the system and into the world of happyhippie." The thought was honest and impartial, but a kiss at that moment was crowding the back of my head. It would have crowned all the sparking magic. Snap! You can't demand one when she can't help you in that sort of thing. But all you can do is sit there watching, praising the gods for refining a smile so simple and so honest. Thank them for resurrecting this bond from another life.

Apprehensive

Travel days are just different. Turning in bed sets the mood for the rest of the restless day. You have no option but to get up and face the music. Your stomach turns. Your mind is racing because you don't wanna hit yourself later for fucking up that one tiny detail that will trigger a parade of serial fuck-ups. You'd better get it right, mister!

So you pack your bags with two years of your life, praying to heaven that some clerk at a counter will not put any further hurdles between you and the airplane. But you know very well how it's gonna go. "Sir, you're way over-weight." You think, "I only ate a bagel this morning." "That's gonna be $100 per suitcase."

You should be ready for that, but good luck maneuvering a carry-on full of books, weighing at least 45 pounds. Let's practice... You'll lift it as though it were a feather pillow. Immerse it deep, deep into the darkness of the over-head compartment, so that no one drags you out and forces you to ship it cargo. Breathe. Put a shining smile on your face, and go on reading the bargain book you bought at Barnes and Nobel. Give that air of sophistication, until the drool of your inevitable cross-Atlantic sleep gives you away.

Wake up to that stupid transit terminal, where the layered vocals of all your hommies yelling at their brats will mark your gate with shame. Possible banging of some aluminum pots may occur. It will bring you a few hours ahead of time to the bitter reality of being home all too soon. Tafeeda and Ferial are probable names to prepare yourself for; don't expect any lookers here. The agent boarding this flight will NOT be happy.

This plane, heading from Zurich to Cairo, will suffer. Mischievous hands will tamper with the AC, lights and oxygen masks, and window shutters will be snapped shut, even though the sun is pretty welcoming outside. Devote a special prayer that no one will take their shoes off. And bear with me while we survive the landing applause.

You're home. Now you can really breathe.
Cross that out.
Don't inhale too much. You're back in Cairo.

Tomorrow

I'm sitting here to summon my words. They seem to have existed all along for nothing else but to foretell how tomorrow will unravel... The few seconds where the bus inches from its Chinatown platform, and the wait for the clock to strike four announcing that she's on her way to see me.

In an alter reality, she would pick me up, and we'd drive home together, excited to toss our worries aside. She would spiral into me on a couch, while we watched a movie we were not really watching. There would be silence and caresses. There would be frizzy hair and flushed cheeks because of the heat, and a curious little dog pacing outside the room.

There would be no bus ride back.

Subway Chances

"daakat, fa lammastahkamat halaqatoha, foregat, wa kunto athonnoha la tofrago"
this is transliterated arabic for an old saying, which means:
"it got tighter, and when its rings choakingly sealed up all the way, they let loose, and i thought they couldn't possibly loosen up"

that's what you say when you feel that things couldn't get any worse, any drier, any less forgiving. you remind yourself that this too shall pass.

today i ran into a woman i fantasized about for 10 years.
i ran into her on the subway.
in new york city.

i was supposed to be in bed, but they were showing the apartment i am staying in to a potential buyer. so i had to get out for the hour. i had the option of hanging out downstairs in the lobby, or going to barnes and nobel, but i decided not to put off my dental check up any further. i wanted to go to one of those free clinics. i got dressed and walked to the Lincoln subway station.

i didn't fuss about missing the train that just took off. i waited. things come around for those who wait.

i stepped into the car and there she was, even if it's only in my pathetic perception, the perfect woman for me. this woman of 28 has been to the middle east and knows my hometown. she speaks my language like a cab driver.

she's a delicacy. a beauty, with her fair blond hair, blushed cheeks in need of no make up. her light blue green eyes keep a look of innocence and curiosity. her style-- she had dressy pants and a shawl thrown over her shoulders, earth colors and an over-used messenger leather bag. an unexpensive yet classy look that means she's an approachable human being, not a specimen of corporate tyranny, not a glossy cover girl.

i remember watching her once, 10 years ago, eat at the Yachting Club in Giza. I dedicated the scene to my memory, so that i would replay it to myself should i need to remind myself of table manners. i recalled it three days ago at jean georges in Colombus Circle.

i drew her in charcoal once for my art class, and i hit myself for ending up with a distortion of her beauty. it's very hard to draw people you obsess about or know too well. you get subjective. you think you're doing them justice but you end up spending too much time thinking about them (and not about the canvas) to get a decent resemblance.

i had to count till 10 before i summoned up the courage to ask if it was really her. the train was moving, and i couldn't possibly know what stop she would get off. but she stood there, her back to me, as if waiting. what was i to lose? a little bit of self-inflicted humiliation if it wasn't her? i'm over my adolecsent hesitations. here goes...
"Excuse me," i called with the un-original phrase so that she would turn around. she looked at me puzzled by this stranger.
- "Are you Sarah Havens?" i asked
- "Yes?" she answered with a confused look. how could you know my name, stranger?

i explained the coincidence, and that i worked with the international office back in 98, at the American University in Cairo, where she was once a student.

- "So you moved here and now live in New York?"
i said that i was leaving end of June or early July.
i noticed that she glanced at my lips twice as i talked. good news.

- "What do you do now?" i asked her
- "Actually, i'm a lawyer, going to work." she smiled at the boring idea of a desk job.
when i asked what kind of lawyer, she said that she was just a "baby lawyer". i later googled her, and realized that she is representing several Yemeni detainees in Guantanamo bay. http://nymag.com/news/features/17337/index3.html http://www.fotofest.org/guantanamo/galleries.htm

she gave me her card so we could meet again. i thanked the gods, and made a mental note it was 50th street that she got off.

the hopeless romantic in me had to smile at the incident. I'm now left asking myself, why did this happen? Pure coinsidence that i had to get out of my place at that hour and take that very train, and that very car? Chance that this is the icing on an appetizing cake i have been savoring for a couple of weeks now: a good place to live with no rent money to pay, a new job with a good salary in Amsterdam, going home after 2 years of not seeing family and friends, adding new pieces to my portfolio, being treated to the most expensive restaurant in new york ($380! was that real?) ?... all this coming after a year or so of a bad break up, unemployment, sleeping on people's floors and facing rejection from companies and friends time and again until i grew numb.

When i finally made it to the dental clinic, they told me they only treat children. I was not one bit disappointed. the train ride was worth every second.

(written May 2008)

Basata

It's an early rise on the coast of El Aqaba gulf. The wind is urging the sea to brush against the feet of those who were careless enough to sleep on the beach, away from their shelters. Bamboo huts were never meant to be as tempting as a blanket of stars. The sun will make sure that sleep is not king today, because this is a place where dreams take place in the waking hours, and not the other way around.

Someone is playing the flute somewhere. It strips today off the calendar and throws it where time is only a triviality. There are no snakes here to be teased, but if a snake were to exist, it wouldn't have danced much differently from this bronze eternity, who commanded the attention of every male under the blazing sun. Rumor goes that her dance brings the waves curling back to shore, and without her, there would be no ebb, nor tide. No one can hope to see more of her legs than what she has allowed through the fragile linen she's folded herself twice within. It is her way of mourning the crimson moon, which drowned deep under many years ago. It happened when Moses decided to leave Egypt, and negligently split the sea apart without paying much attention to the repercussions. The old moon's color seeped through the fabric of earth, and into the sea bed. She made sure that everyone would call it the Red Sea, and share her mourning while she kept the Earth turning, uninterrupted by the loss of one of its two original satellites.

(written March 2008)