Days of the Pearl - أيام اللولو

Damascus

2012-01-12T07:29:00.000-08:00

i remember sitting on my parents balcony in Damascus
at night, around midnight, in the light of the moon
listening to the emptiness of the street
the occasional scurry of a cat, the distant horns of the cars fighting to get home
and every now and then, shi khna2a 3and eljeeran
letting the crisp breeze creep up my skin and raise my hairs

Seeking Sedation

2011-09-01T22:29:00.000-07:00

I've always been the patient one, the one that turns the other cheek, regardless of how much I'm being hurt...and I let it happen time and time again, and I just don't seem to learn my lesson...why?

I expect too much out of people that I can't expect that much out of...now how f-ed up is that?

Now I hate to fill this blog with meaningless whiny rants, but seriously now, what the hell? A simple "please" and "thank you" goes a long way, farther than people would think...just a little consideration, a little bit of compassion...am I being selfish? Or are they? Am I being selfish for wanting them to be unselfish? ... and to make it more complicated, are they being selfish for wanting me to be selfless?

I'm realizing it, more and more, that I feel like I lost myself in the transition I tried to make when I moved back to Houston back in 2006...it's been five years and I feel like I'm going through those damn teen angst years all over again, like I traveled back in time to the days of high school drama, when all I wanted was to graduate and move on to the next chapter of my life...well now, the pages seem blank before me...

*This too shall pass*

I hope...

Writer's Block...since February?!

2011-08-19T02:53:00.000-07:00

I've been through a lot the past few months...why do I feel so empty-headed though when I come to write in my blog?!

*frustrated*

Bittersweet Moments: RIP Rose Bajjali

2011-02-07T22:05:00.000-08:00

A woman who was very dear to my heart passed away a week ago. Tante Rose Bajjali was born in 1927. She and Uncle Raji (may he also rest in peace) had seven children, 17 grandchildren and five great-grandchildren. Tante Rose made amazing stuffed squash and grape leaves :o) I would know because I had the pleasure of practically being raised as one of the grandkids. You see, my parents and the Bajjali family have been friends for over 25 years. My brother and I always felt like we belonged with the cousins. I love that family so much that I do consider them my second family here in the States. Especially since we don't have any family members here.

This past Thursday, Tante Rose was laid to rest. After an extremely emotional memorial service and funeral, family and friends gathered at her son's home. Ironically, as sad as that day was, the mood in the house wasn't. Please don't misunderstand...it was clear in everyone's eyes that the family was mourning a huge loss...

...But I remember at the service that it was noted by many that Tante Rose left behind a legacy. Legacy. That word stuck out in mind the whole evening as I bustled with my aunties to help them prepare food and tea and coffee. As I watched the cousins sitting, hugging, laughing, joking with each other and their elders. I felt like I was on the outside looking in but I was still apart of the bittersweet chaos. I saw this Legacy before my eyes and it was truly a beautiful and overwhelming feeling that just pulled at my heart. I marveled as I saw Tante Rose's face in each of her daughters' and her son's and her grandchildren. She really hadn't gone - she is alive in each one of them.

I spent the rest of the evening with the cousins reminiscing and teasing the younger ones that couldn't remember me. The somber mood slowly turned into an upbeat, lighthearted one. It was as if Tante Rose's spirit - like I saw in their faces - was there and kept everyone else's spirits high. She always smiled. She had grace. She doled out comfort to everyone. I never really expressed it...and I don't know if the cousins know this...but I always found such comfort in her hugs when she'd greet me. I only got to see my grandmothers on vacations overseas every 2 or 3 years. I think I've seen Tante Rose more times in my life than my own grandmothers. I really enjoyed seeing her, talking with her, seeing her smile.

I know I am in no way related by blood, country or religion. But I, for one, will miss her greatly. Allah yerhamik Tante Rose...may you rest in eternal peace. I hope to see you on the other side one day.

It's been a while...

2011-01-22T11:27:00.000-08:00

I haven't posted a word in the past 7 months. Ironically enough, I used to find solace in writing either here or in my story Pearl Nights. I escaped my reality. Then my life took a series of unexpected (or were they?) twists and I fell so deep into a depression that it seemed like nothing could revive me. I've wandered aimlessly in the past few months, searching for myself all over again, re-evaluating my life, trying to figure out what it is I want and slowly but surely stitch and mend a broken heart.
I'm not sure what I'll blog about these days, Life seems rather bland. We'll see... minshoof...

New Life

2010-05-31T22:13:00.000-07:00

I carefully cradled his fragile neck in the crook of my elbow and gently leaned back into the couch cushioning. He was a fussy hungry little fellow but an absolute angel of God. He weight perhaps eight pounds at most. Velvety ebony hair dominated his head and extended past the nape of his neck. His skin was soft as silk, warm like a summer night. He smelled of formula and fresh cotton. His breathing quickened as he heard me gently shaking his bottle in my other hand. His eyelids barely opened, allowing me to get a brief peek at dark eyes, the color of wet stone. As I neared the bottle tip to his mouth he fought a little until he finally latched on. His face would wrinkle and crinkle as he stretched his neck and his back to get into a comfortable feeding position. He suckled hungrily, as if he hadn't eaten in hours. I watched him drowsily open and close his eyes.

What a beautiful creation, a true blessing from God. He was barely seven days old. I remember when his mother first told me she was pregnant. And anxiously from afar, almost living vicariously through her, I waited for him to come. And he was finally here. I couldn't believe as I held a new life in my arms. Oh God creates such beautiful creatures...and infants, babies are the most valuable. They are born with a promise. A will to live and survive...and allow us adults to laugh and cry at their sweet innocence and ignorance. Oh but are they...?

As I turned the bottle a little to remind the little one that there was still another half ounce he had to finish, he fussed a little bit. I made sure i didn't move so as not to disturb him...and then he did something. His small action absolutely took my breath away, I felt an anxiety attack coming...all because this beautiful baby boy reached and grasped my pinky finger and squeezed tightly...as if begging me not to let go of him, as if pleading to keep nourishing him with love. My breath caught in my throat as his eyes opened and he looked right into my soul. And he allowed me to understand a mother's love...

I hope one day I can experience this again...with my own.

Bless you Rayoona khawaja...I love you and your parents dearly...I hope I can show you this post one day...God keep you safe from all harm and grant you a healthy fulfilling life ahead of you.

Purgatory

2010-05-27T11:45:00.000-07:00

I know that Purgatory is rooted in early Christianity - according to Wikipedia, it "is the condition or process of purification or temporary punishment in which the souls of those who die in a state of grace are made ready for Heaven."

In Islam, some Muslims consider hell may be a temporary place of punishment for some. On the other hand, some Muslims believe that hell is just hell and souls are doomed their for eternity.

I appreciate the definition of the subject at hand as "the condition or process of purification." I feel like God puts us in a variation of Purgatory at different times during our lives. Some can call these tests of mental and spiritual strength. Others may just call the way Life works as Fate and Destiny. Which is fine either way...

But whatever you believe in, I think that the whole point is to have Faith the when Pandora's Box opens a up more of a can of whoop-ass on you, you try to contain it. "Internalize" it, as one person has said to me. I took the analogy further and said...try to find another box for Ms Pandora and throw things in there one more time with more breathing room.

Find yourself and count your blessings. Purgatory is a temporary state of mind. Whether you believe in the Hereafter or not is really up to you. But make sure during your time in "Purgatory", make decisions so as to ensure that when you are on your death bed you will not regret and you will not feel any guilt.

And that's what I'm going to do.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Worth"

2010-05-06T06:53:00.001-07:00

She gave life. She is a wife.
She is a mother and she is a friend.
She is a sister a survivor to the end.

Appreciate her, we don’t dare.
Ask her worries, we don’t care.
Wipe away her tears, they are invisible as air.

She works cooks and clean.
She laughs, helps comfort, and hides her pain.
When you struggle she pulls you through

All this is she and what do we do?
Complain and create a mess.
Provide stress and leave her feeling depressed..
Push her away and ignore her advice.
Tell her she is nothing without thinking twice.

I want to understand something. Call this my rant to men. Not "AT" men - "TO" men and not all of them. I really would like to know how you feel about the poem excerpt. And perhaps I'm in a vulnerable state and that's why I'm posting...but I'm actually okay with putting myself out there right now. And a question I would like to pose here is this:

"What is the role of a woman in your life? What is her purpose?"

(any woman: a sister, wife, aunt, mother, etc...)

Can you apply an amount of 'worth' to a woman? To a girl? And what do you base this amount on? Why is it so 'messed up' for a woman to think of herself as a partner in another person's life? I'm not sure I mean a perfect equal to the man. I think there is a difference between 'partner' and 'equal.' By 'partner', I mean simply that. Someone to share Life with and work with to create something bigger than the both of you. a

And then what? (وبعدين؟)

2010-03-18T13:41:00.000-07:00

So...wake up and go through the morning rituals of teeth brushing, hair washing, dressing up...and down, or perhaps dress back up? Style hair into a desirable coif and ruuuuun out the door as you realize that you wasted more time than you thought on picking an outfit for the day. But for what? For whom?

Arrive at work with a smile which is shortly shot at with dagger glares from everyone else who dragged their feet into the building that day. And then it starts. The phone shrilly rings. A 5-minute notice is considered an advanced one. Wait, the boss just glanced at me...did I do something wrong? Stay on your toes Tinkerbell, this is going to be a long day.

But then go home and try to relax. AS IF.

What do you do after this? وبعدين بقى؟ When does it end? What is the purpose? To feed what? Needs or desires? You live your life working so you can live to continue working. Granted I'm just over a quarter of a century old, but even I can recall a simpler time in life. When I say that, my elders laugh and say I don't know what I'm talking about. But the fact of the matter is, that I really do. I remember when going outdoors and playing was encouraged for children - not walking around the mall trying to look cool and flashy with the latest designer jeans and purses while wasting cell phone minutes. My God - cell phones? I'm so attached to mine and I despise myself for it. I miss writing research papers at the library - yes, does anyone remember that building filled with hundreds of books, millions and millions of words just waiting to be lapped up by eyes thirsty for knowledge. Now the answer to any child's question is "Why don't you Google it?"

Once upon a time...كان يا ما كان (Part 2)

2010-01-15T08:13:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time...كان يا ما كان continued...

It was that course, however, that ignited an insatiable hunger for poetry inside of me. We began the semester delving into pre-Islamic poetry, known as Jahili poetry (الشعر الجاهلي), 'poetry of the period of ignorance.' Professor Samer Ali drowned us in various forms of poetry: romantic (غزال), boastful (فخر ), wine poetry (خمرية), and satirical (حجة). Jahili literature is based on a common pastoral-nomadic lifestyle. It wasn't rare to read about love for a camel or craving the freedom found in the desert. Okay, now wait, hold on...I know the camel sounds a bit strange, but hear me out. When a poet expresses his love, he isn't necessarily speaking about 'romantic' love. Surely there are different types of love in the world. Love for life, love for mothers and fathers, love fore, dare I say it, siblings! Love for music, love for anything that can stimulate your mind and instill in your heart a quivering humility and feeling of gratitude to some higher being that you posses 'it', whatever 'it' is.

Regardless of how far and fast one's imagination can and will run with a feeling of love, let's be realistic here: it will end...somehow, somewhere, eventually. (Yes, it was a literature course, not philosophy, I swear.) Something that everything in this material world has in common with everything else is that it all has a beginning and an end. This blunt realism slapped me in the face when I finally understood it reading some of the poetry. Reader, I'll have you know this: I am such a romantic idealist, that it can be revolting, even to myself. As blissful as life may be at times in my own little bubble, I still manage to burst it and recreate it by putting a positive spin on any situation. I kid you not, I have had people, who are very close to me, tell me that I appear to be irresponsible because of how I handle Life. But I digress...

One of the most famous and tragic stories of forbidden love in Eastern literature is that of "Majnoon Layla" - but it came about long before Shakespeare's "Romeo & Juliet" (some dare to say that Shakespeare was even 'inspired' by this ancient tale!). Various versions of this story exist all over the Eastern world - variations from India and Iran, even further East to China.

Qays ibn al-Mulawwah ibn Muzahim, was a Bedouin poet. He fell in love with Layla bint Mahdi ibn Sa’d from the same tribe, better known as Layla Al-Aamiriya. He soon began composing poems about his love for her, mentioning her name often. When he asked for her hand in marriage her father refused as this would mean a scandal for Layla according to Arab traditions. Soon after, Layla married another man. When Qays heard of her marriage, he fled the tribe camp and began wandering the surrounding desert. His family eventually gave up on his return and left food for him in the wilderness. He could sometimes be seen reciting poetry to himself or writing in the sand with a stick.*

But the poetry that has been preserved as his - it just makes me wonder why is it so difficult that those words of love can no longer be expressed? There are so many versions of this story of star-crossed lovers - why is so easy to write about yet so hard to actually attain? Why is it so wrong to strive for such a passionately innocent love - why is considered unrealistic? Yes, it is unrealistic to believe that it will last forever. I will agree to that. However, why is considered unrealistic to believe that it actually exists? It must have...no?

* Layla & Majnun - Wikipedia

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays

2009-12-24T06:42:00.000-08:00

To all celebrating Christmas, I wish you a very Merry one...
To all the little children anxiously waiting for Papa Noel, be patient! :)
To those celebrating other holidays, I wish you the most joyous season this year with many more to come...

Merry Christmas

Feliz Navidad

Joyeux Noël

Fröhliche Weihnachten

Buon Natale

...انشالله ينعاد عليكن بألف صحة وسلامة

عيد ميلاد مجيد

My sincerest wishes always,
Pearl

Once upon a time...كان يا ما كان (Part 1)

2009-12-15T13:38:00.000-08:00

My first exposure to Arabic literature was in my high school years. The first book I read was 'Men in the Sun' (رجال فالشمس ) by renowned Palestinian author Ghassan Kanafani (غسان كنفاني)(1936-1972). This account of three Palestinian refugees is one of the most famous works of modern Arabic literature. My teacher, Ms. Bates, had assigned the book as summer reading. I was going to Damascus that summer, so I figured I'd just find it there instead of buying it online. The funny thing is, at the time, I didn't realize how political of a work it was - after all, I was 16 and just trying to learn my mother tongue. I swear, dear reader, I had to visit perhaps ten different bookstores before I found it - and each person I asked had a nervous look on their faces as their eyes darted around our surroundings at the mention of the book's title. As each store owner quietly told me he did not have the book in stock, I'd give a disgruntled "hmph!" and walk on to the next store...or I'd roll my eyes at the next employee that had to whisper to his boss. I spoke out by the time I had reached the last store, "For God's sake, how can you expect to be educated if you don't carry any books!!!"

So, you can only imagine (and laugh at) my surprise when I started actually reading the book with my aunt that summer. As I read aloud, and as my aunt would translate some for me, my eyes would widen and I would gasp...! (I learned my first Arabic 'insult' in that book too! It's a very rude way to call someone stubborn - تيس (literally, it means 'goat')). Anyhow, it's a beautifully written, heart-breaking story about what some people will do to start their lives over or provide for their own families. I later found out that Mr. Kanafani was allegedly assassinated by Israeli Mossad.
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There was another story by Mr. Kanafani that I was to read but could not find it that summer: 'The Return to Haifa.' Yet, three years later, during my freshman year at university, I was pleased to find that I had another chance to read that work in my Arabic Literature class. I felt like such an authority on Ghassan Kanafani and his works.

The most wonderful time of the year...or is it?

2009-12-10T08:13:00.000-08:00

Growing up I always enjoyed the 'holiday season.' The hustle and bustle in shopping malls, in schools, in restaurants. Cold weather and Christmas lights always put me in a quiet and content mood. I loved delving into the chaos that ensued between Thanksgiving and New Year's.

I considered myself very lucky. I was able to celebrate the 'American' holidays in addition to the Muslim holidays of Eid el-Fitr and el-Adha. I was given the honor of wishing so many more people 'Happy Holidays.' My eyes would tear up happily at the call to prayer for both Eids...and I would also tear up upon hearing about the miracle birth of Jesus, another prophet. Good God (Lord, Allah, Yahweh), you'd think I was an absolute nut! :) I appeared confused to either 'side', which didn't make sense to me - why is each celebration so exclusive to its own people and/or faith?

I understand that this is not the case always. Again, I'm speaking from the perspective of someone that was raised for much of her life in the States. The last time I spent a Eid in Syria was when I was 5 years old. And that was a bittersweet celebration - my maternal grandfather was killed in a bus accident a week or so into Ramadan. The family held a small dinner 'party' and we exchanged gifts so that we, the children, wouldn't feel too much of sorrow that the adults were feeling. After a few years, I reflected on that holiday (ironically, it's one of the memories that sticks out the most), and I understood why my family still celebrated Eid the way they did. The reason encompasses the whole purpose of fasting during the holy month of Ramadan - 'Count Your Blessings.' And we had much to be thankful for, though we had lost Jiddo; we had each other, we all had our health, and with each kid my aunts had, our family kept growing (cue 'awww' sound effect).

Nowadays, as I've matured, as I've become more educated, I understand why and how Christmas has turned into such a commercial holiday. Some say that Christmas is no longer about Christmas. And I can understand that. All the advertisements by a variety of vendors to sell their holiday products, the hostility in the department stores to find gifts, and the nagging to open up the 'asked for' gifts on Christmas Day. What's the point in a gift if you've asked for it???

However...and this is a big 'however'...All those seemingly superficial images of people frolicking in their holiday attire and feasting on turkey and crrraaanberry sauce (does anyone remember that insurance commercial with Little Richard? ...never mind lol), do have some truth to them. I'm not necessarily condoning hoarding food and gifts nor am I defending the cheesy and redundant advertisements...but the images we see (or hear about) are portraying what we should be thankful for. Maybe I'm oversimplifying it...but break it down: clothes, food, a warm bed, surrounded by friends and family, wishing each other well.

This year I am grateful for my family. Last holiday season proved to be a very trying time for us. And this year, I can thankfully say that we are truly blessed to have each other and our health. Though there are thousands of miles between us at the moment, I still feel content that right now, it really is the most wonderful time of the year.

Welcome

2009-11-25T12:20:00.000-08:00

I started writing in a journal when I was around 10 years old. Just keeping an account of my daily activities. Then when I hit my teen angst years, my writing became more...shall we say, 'cynical' and very emotional. But what teen isn't a drama queen? But the drama wasn't necessarily the kind that 'normal', 'American' high-schoolers go through. It was more of an inner struggle that I experienced - I was lost betwixt and between two cultures, two societies. Why was I viewed so uptight and prude? Why did I think my friends around me were 'bad' and 'daring'? I was a minority and didn't even know it. To this day, I laugh and claim that I belong on an island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. I still believe I'm a minority.

I created my first blog when I was a sophmore in university, trying to tackle 'real' issues. But again, as I matured, I realized that what I personally thought was 'real'...was not. It is 2009, it's been three years since I graduated. And the girl (woman? whatever...) I am today laughs when she thinks of how far she's come. Granted, I'm not the brightest, nor the most rational person, I think I've done well.

So here I start again. Well, I've started writing a story titled 'Pearl Nights', so I'm exploring my authoring skills. And here I'll let my mind be a little less organized.

Welcome, Bienvenue, Benvenidos, Meet Ahla w Sahla :-)