It’s autumn. Every autumn, memories rush back. So many memories of when we were just kids preparing to go back to school. Those days just before.

I remember the streets of my hometown and how they looked with the changing colours of the leaves. How the streets were bustling with children and their parents buying pens and paper, school bags and lunch boxes. I remember my mom. When she used to take us to the store to buy new shoes – black shiny shoes. I remember our school uniforms – how every morning, my mom would have them laid out for us on the radiator to keep them warm and cozy. I remember standing in front of the mirror in our old bathroom and me giving my mom such a difficult time as she tried to tie my hair up for school. Despite the cold tile floor and crisp air seeping in through the tiny window in the corner of that bathroom, my mom would do my hair up and undo it again, and again, until the annoying perfectionist in me was satisfied that it finally looked just right. I remember waiting for the school bus. The old bus driver and his grey moustache. And a few years later, his son and his black moustache. I remember our packed lunches, two sandwiches, one with Italian Mortadella and the other with Nutella. 

Every September, I remember the details. And every September, I wish I had savoured every one of them at the time. How simple everything was. And how innocent.

أيلول

صرنا بآخر الصيفية وبلَّش الخريف. رح يصير عمري ٣٠ سنة وبعدني كل سنة بس يطل شهر أيلول بحس كأني رجعت بنت صغيرة. كل ذكريات هالفترة بترجعلي. بِتذَكّر هال كم يوم قبل ما ترجع تبلّش المدرسة. بِتذَكّر ألوان الشجر يلّي كل يوم لون اوراقها بيتغيّر. بِتذَكّر امّي وقت كانت تاخدنا عالمحل تنشتري سكربينة جديدة للمدرسة، سكربينة سودة ولميعة. وشنطة وتروس وجورد. بِتذَكّر بكفيا والمكتبة يلّي نشتري منا قلامنا ودفاترنا. بِتذَكّر كوستوم المدرسة يلّي امّي كانت تكون محضرتلنا ياه عالشوفاج كل يوم الصبح. بِتذَكّر امّي عم تربطلي شعراتي قدام مراية حمامنا العربي (يلّي كنت موت رعبة منه بالليل ما بعرف ليش). بِتذَكّر اديش كنت عذبها لأنّو في خصلة من شعراتي بالنسبة لالي مش بمحلها. بِتذَكّر  نطرة الاوتوكار وكيف الشوفير يبقى يقول “لِزّو لِزّو” تكل هالولاد يقدرو يساعو. بِتذَكّر ساندويش المورتاديل عطلياني و ساندويش الشوكوماكس يلّي عطول تبقى مقرقدة. بوقتها هالاشياء مش كتير كنّا نحبا لأنّو كان معناتها انّو خلصت الصيفية وبلّش وقت الجد. بس هلّأ بس استرجع هالتفاصيل بحس بِشعور دافي كتير. ادّيش كانت حلوة وبسيطة هالايام ونحنا ما كنّا منتبهين

It’s proving difficult to write about today. Not because there are no words to say. Not because there are no women that come to mind. Not because there are no thoughts or emotions to express. But precisely because there are too many of all of those things and more, making it difficult to do this topic justice. A few scattered thoughts from my lens may just have to do. 

Today I’m thinking of the woman who persevered and succeeded. My mom. 

Today I’m thinking of the most full-of-life woman I know who was widowed at 41. Life as a woman after that became almost irrelevant. عيب. 

Today I’m thinking of the most elegant woman – the ambassador of Deir el Qamar in Ain El Abou. Her grace and resilience. 

Today I’m thinking of the woman who travelled to Turkey on foot to escape the famine of World War One. My great grandmother. 

Today I’m thinking of the woman whose partner no longer sees her as a woman. 

Today I’m thinking of the “bossy” woman who started her own company before turning 30. 

Today I’m thinking of the “unpleasant” woman driving a public bus. 

Today I’m thinking of the woman whose parents are forcing her to find a “suitable” husband. 

Today I’m thinking of the woman who’s “too old” to be single. عنّست. 

Today I’m thinking of the woman who is “too sensitive”. 

Today I’m thinking of me. And my “attitude”. 

Today I’m thinking of every woman who has felt the hardships of being a woman one way or another. Whether you’ve been called aggressive for speaking out. Whether you’ve been called slutty for showing cleavage. Whether you’ve been physically, mentally, or emotionally abused or had your opinion simply disregarded. It’s not easy. 

Happy women’s day indeed but I look to happier ones ahead.

Ever since my trip to Lebanon this Christmas, I’ve been feeling uneasy. It’s always been painful to leave home after the holidays. Even after 18 years living abroad, the moment I hear “taxi’s here” as I start to roll my suitcases out the door, I feel my heart sink. Every year, it hurts. But this time, something felt different. Something still feels different.

This time, when I arrived in Dubai, I felt a sense of relief. I felt secure and safe and wasn’t looking back as I have in the past. It felt good to be back. It felt comfortable.

I haven’t been watching the news. I haven’t been keeping up with current developments back home. When I try to, I realise nothing really ever changes. It’s the same news about the same expired political regime. It makes my stomach turn. So instead of stressing over something I feel I have no control over (unless I choose to dedicate my life to it), I retreat to my comfort zone. I get up for work on weekdays and enjoy meaningless brunches on weekends. Comfortable. Easy. And relatively stress free. 

But somehow, this comfort zone is starting to close in on me. It’s that split second when I allow myself to think “oh well” and “nothing changes anyway” and “why stress”.. It’s that feeling of resorting to the comfort that I am privileged to have rather than “stressing” over the devastating situation back home. It’s the indifference. It’s dangerous. It’s ordinary.

Seeing pictures of my home covered in snow for the past few days reminded me why I’ve cared so much over the years and why we are anything but ordinary and so should be anything but indifferent.

Happy Friday. Sending my love from Dubai to Beirut.

.من وقت ما نزلت علبنان بالعيد عم حس بشي غريب 

أكيد ولا مرّة بحس حالي مبسوطة أنا وفالّي بعد العطلة وأكيد ما بنبسط اترك عيلتي وبيتي وضيعتي وبلدي. حتى بعد ١٨ سنة غربة، كل سنة من دون استثناء لحظة يلّي بيوصل التاكسي – “اجا التاكسي” – تياخدني عالمطار قلبي بيقشط. احساس بيزَعّل وببكّي وولا سنة بيهون

.بس هالمرّة غير. بس وصلت على دبي لقيت حالي ارتحت. وهالاحساس بالراحة خانقني

ما عم اقدر احضر أخبار عن لبنان. ما بعرف شو عم بيصير. وكل ما جرّب، بلاقي انّو ما تغيّر شي. بعدو البلد عم يتعذب تحت سيطرة (مش سلطة) ناس (مش ناس) عفّنو وطلعت ريحتن من زمان. بعصّب وبطَفّي وبعمل مشروع “برانش” سخيف بس عالقليلة بِسَلّي وبِنَسّي والحياة بتكمّل طبيعي

.الاحساس بالراحة مفيد وصحّي عادةً بس وقت يبلّش يشبه ال لا مبالاة بصير مؤذي وخطر وما بيلبقلنا.

.منيح يلّي تلجت هاليومين تارجع اتذكر ليش هالقد لبنان بيستحق انّو نناضل كرمالو وما ننساه قد ما كنّا بعاد ومرتاحين

.صباح الخير بيروت

I’ve just turned 29. Woke up with a sneezing fit as usual – good to know some things don’t change.

As I was making my coffee, I found myself trying to remember what my birthdays looked like in the past years.

I remember my 19th very well. I was in my second year of university and I had just turned “legal” in Ontario, which meant I could celebrate my birthday with drinks – without having to hide them.

I can’t seem to remember what I did for my 20th or 21st birthday but I remember my 22nd – probably because there was a boy involved. I remember my 23rd in Lebanon with snow everywhere – my happy place.

I remember the childhood birthdays so vividly. It was always raining. It was always indoors at our house in Lebanon and somehow this house could fit around twenty kids and their parents if not more. And when it was time to sing happy birthday and cut the cake, all of the twenty kids and their parents would gather around the rectangular birthday table filled with everyone’s favourite food: pain au lait with jambon and butter, pain au lait with Italian mortadella, pain au lait with tuna and mayo, pain au lait with halloumi cheese, pain au lait with everything really. Croissant au chocolat, cheese, zaatar, and plain. Jello, which explains the red stained lips in all the photos. Popcorn. Hotdog rolls. And much more. The one time I wanted to do something different for my birthday, I invited my friends to an indoors swimming pool because I wanted to swim in February. We still ended up back at that rectangular table with the glorious birthday spread and I haven’t willingly gone to an indoors swimming pool since.

Every year for the past 10 years, I’ve spent my birthday with people I love but every year I’d wish I could spend it with my entire family as well. This year I can almost say I have. With all five of us under one roof, I couldn’t ask for more. Or maybe I could ask for a little more. All five of us under our roof back home having a busy pain au lait-filled birthday and this time with some wine to keep up with the red stained lips in photos. All while it rains vigorously outside of course.

Day 10 of my writing challenge

This is something I feel so strongly about that I might start writing a book about it. Although I could never do it justice, not the way my father can.

We grew up to countless stories about my father and his three brothers from back in the day. How they spent most of their childhood and teenage years in boarding school while their parents worked and lived abroad. How my great grandmother Maryam cared for them on weekends and questioned them on what the Sunday mass sermon was about in an attempt to find out if they’d gone to church or not. How she brought them traditional home-cooked meals to the steps of their school and at the risk of being bullied for their grandmother’s old-fashioned ways, they ate quickly as she watched them endearingly. How winter and summer vacations were bliss because they got to see their parents and how bittersweet and redundant these days became at every goodbye.

My dad has been writing memoirs about his childhood for a while now and I know that a compilation of those will make for one of the most heartfelt reads. I imagine it as a book – a story of four boys and their journey throughout life.

Boarding school. War. Basketball. War. Death. War. Love.

A six year old having to care for his younger brothers.

Children getting spanked for peeing in their undies.

Boys turning into men a bit too early.

I imagine it as a story of life in its most extreme and passionate forms and I’d love to see it finally come to light.

Day 9 of my writing challenge

“Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
Which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday…”

“Words of wisdom” – These were the first words to come to mind.

Maybe because I revel in the fact that one of the greatest writers of all time comes from my home country.

Maybe I am fascinated that a man born over a century ago had such a brilliant forward-thinking mind.

Or maybe because I can’t think of more fitting words of wisdom for our generation in this part of the world – especially my home. Where every day is a struggle to erase the rotten and expired sectarian divide marking our parents’ generation and seeping its way into ours.

I think Gibran Khalil Gibran’s intention was to address parents when he wrote this but don’t you think that the appropriate audience is in fact the children themselves? The younger generation? Isn’t that where authentic change lies after all?

.أولادكم ليسوا لكم
.أولادكم أبناء الحياة المشتاقة إلى نفسها, بكم يأتون إلى العالم, ولكن ليس منكم
.ومع أنهم يعيشون معكم, فهم ليسوا ملكاً لكم
.أنتم تستطيعون أن تمنحوهم محبتكم, ولكنكم لا تقدرون أن تغرسوا فيهم بذور أفكاركم, لأن لهم أفكارأً خاصةً بهم
.وفي طاقتكم أن تصنعوا المساكن لأجسادكم
.ولكن نفوسهم لا تقطن في مساكنكم
.فهي تقطن في مسكن الغد, الذي لا تستطيعون أن تزوروه حتى ولا في أحلامكم
.وإن لكم أن تجاهدوا لكي تصيروا مثلهم
.ولكنكم عبثاً تحاولون أن تجعلوهم مثلكم
…لأن الحياة لا ترجع إلى الوراء, ولا تلذ لها الإقامة في منزل الأمس

Day 8 of my writing challenge

I’ve not written for a whole week because nothing I was writing felt good enough. I struggle with many things but this is one that affects me the most because it triggers other underlying insecurities like a lack of self-confidence and a fear of failure. There’s not much to be said about it other than it can be quite paralysing. Sometimes, all it takes is to think less and go with my gut. Other times, it just lingers in the background until it doesn’t.

It’s that feeling of guilt when you’re given praise – do I really deserve this? When are they going to find out that I’m not actually smart? It’s that feeling when even though you’ve worked hard, you feel like your achievements are not as remarkable as people might think. It’s when you feel like you’re somewhat of a fraud, an impostor.  

It was a slight relief when I came across the term used for this haunting feeling and discovered that it had a name and was an actual concept that had been identified and studied.

“Impostor syndrome”. Whoever coined the term couldn’t have come up with a more accurate one to describe the feeling.

Day 7 of my writing challenge

I’ve always been the person to be embarrassed of my music playlists. I was never the “cool” kid who knew the “cool” songs. When I was a teenager, I even tried to force myself to listen to the bands and songs that everyone was listening to but it wouldn’t take long until I’d find myself secretly listening to my Enrique Iglesias cassette on my yellow radio with so much guilt.

I’m a bit more confident now at 28. I think. A part of me is still worried you’ll judge me. I’m still no point of reference when it comes to music but I’ve decided my favourite genre of music is the one that sounds good and makes me feel something. Whether it makes me feel like I’m on top of the world or makes me want to cry over a love story I can’t even relate to. Whether it makes me want to take a shot of tequila and dance or makes me want to curl up on my couch and write. When I hear something that makes me feel, I look for it and add it to my playlist. For this reason, my playlist is such a mix of everything and anything that makes me feel and, in my opinion, sounds great!

The 10 songs that I’m loving right now are definitely not all new or “in” but each one of them makes me feel something. Happy. Sad. Nostalgic. Pumped. Just something. 

1. Kifou Hal Helou كيفو هالحلو- Khaled Mouzanar, Nadine Labaki, Tania Saleh, Tatiana Taran (from the film “et maintenant on va où?” “وهلّأ لوين؟”
   
   2. Hashishet Albi حشيشة قلبي- Khaled Mouzanar, Nadine Labaki, Tania Saleh, Tatiana Taran (from the film “et maintenant on va où?” “وهلّألوين؟”
   
   3. Romani – Kryder (feat. Steve Angello)
   
   4. Head & Heart – Joel Corry (feat. MNEK) 
   
   5. Spanish Eyes – Al Martino
   
   6. She (tous les visages de l’amour) – Charles Aznavour
   
   7. Someone New – Hozier
   
   8. Nana Triste – Natalia Lacunza, Guitarricadelafuente
   
   9. Dancing In The Moonlight – Jubël (feat. NEIMY)
   
   10. Shayef شايف – Adonis أدونيس

Day 6 of my writing challenge

You can ask Mark what he did but here it goes:

1. Stimulating conversation.

2. The smile.

3. I never thought this would be one of them but definitely to be able to make me laugh.

4. Athletic (and still smell good after exercise).

5. A certain “je ne sais quoi”.