الاطلال

I am going to sleep as I listen to this beautiful song by Umm Kulthum.

I just had a conversation with my good friend, with whom I used to share a flat along with 4 other girls back in 2006. It was at a time when I had started my second Masters degree and this degree was very important to me because I mainly did it in order to qualify for a PhD degree. I was not sure I'd get accepted into the PhD program but I sure as hell was passionate about my Masters degree and I made sure I worked hard for it.

Tonight I was telling my friend how I have been feeling recently. I have not been very happy and I have been feeling sad over a few things. There's always this lump in my throat... And tonight I've just realized that I lost my gloves that I adore and paid so much for. I've been losing many material (and expensive) things. I don't know how the hell I am doing that... I am angry at myself. And I'm angry at everyone. And I'm angry at the world.

It is much easier to give up. And I don't believe in giving up. But sometimes I feel tempted. What she said to me in response touched me deeply. She told me that I should remain strong and hold on as I submit in less than 6 months.

"Do you remember how you used to write your essays? Do you remember how you used to get excited about being the best? You used to have the drive. You were such an inspiration to all of us girls. I came to study with you in your room just for that. Do you remember how much it meant to you to do a PhD? You worked hard for it. Don't forget that."

I didn't know she thought that way about me... I was moved by her words.

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
- William Wordsworth

Last night, I acquiesced to this desire, to dream yet again. I closed my eyes and it was some day in June. I began on the balcony of our chalet, on an early morning, looking over to the sea, as the sun had just come over my face, and the breeze fluttered through my hair. The light outside was bright and golden and the beach was made of sand, rocks and pebbles - they were small and big, in all shades from gray to brown, stretching in all directions. There were people walking, some swimming and some sat smoking and talking in the sun, and children played around the sprinkler. I stood there waiting for my little friend. We got on our bicycles and rode down on the concrete. That day, I saw beauty.

So nostalgia has her way with me. That's life, I tell myself.

 " فمن خلالِ الدمعِ يا حبيبي

أريدُ أن تراني

ومن خلالِ النارِ والدُخانِ

أريدُ أن تراني ..

لنحترق .. لنبكِ يا حبيبي

 فقد نسينا

نعمةَ البكاءِ من زمانِ "

من شعر نزار قباني

يا حبيبي تعالى إلحقني شوف إللي جرالي

This is a beautiful rendition of the original song "Ya Habibi Ta'ala" by Asmahan. I dare say it is better than the original. At least for me.

And now I shall close my eyes and drift into a faraway place of dreams.

It is four in the afternoon. I sit in near-silence at my desk. I open the curtains, and look out, straight ahead, at a soft, gray day. The naked, dried branches of trees blanket the layers of red-brick buildings against a leaden sky. This day reminds me of a day six months ago when I had returned to London, on a September, and it was yet another gloomy afternoon. But there was a bit of sun behind a veil of clouds. I could see it. Today, not so much.

And on the windowsill is a pot of fresh coriander, a dried rose and scented candles. I close my eyes and smell this bouquet of scents. And all that comes to me is the tender promise of something beautiful...

Last night, I stood by the window and observed an empty street. It was still raining lightly, falling against a background of still, white houses... What was I looking for? I don't know. Maybe it was merely trying to find something new in a street I had come to know very well. I thought about how it would feel to be on the other side. There, standing outside in the rain, and looking at this very window, and wondering what stories it hides.

I thought of my own mistakes, weaknesses, fears - and my intermittent feelings of sorrow. I thought of how I could make right the wrongs that I have committed again, towards myself, towards others. But mostly, towards myself. I thought about how much we, humans, expect from each other and how much we fall short. I thought of that afternoon in September, the air so magnificent, the breeze so delicate, and later that night, the sky ablaze with stars. This is too much. I return to the sofa overwhelmed...

I feel that I want to pour my heart out here on my blog but the words fail to come out. I wish I could. All I know is that... Tonight I feel very alone. I just want a friend. I want someone to talk to. And I have many but not tonight. They are all busy; and those who are not, already have a heap of problems to deal with that my own little woes pale in comparison. I am even ashamed to present myself to them as someone with problems. And maybe they are right to consider me and my problems silly. I have everything so what's my problem? That kinda thing...

One insignificant thing I can mention here... This morning (most likely) I lost this little caramel-colored pouch I carried around in my handbag that contained my vitamins, my anti-histamine, some other meds and cotton buds. I don't know where I left it or if it fell from my bag. But I find it very odd. Only because it's something I'd usually notice. Anyways, this is not at all important.

It is one past midnight and I can see through my window that most of the city has gone to bed by now. And I am here cleaning up my studio. The lights are dim and my music list is playing randomly. This song comes up and I don't even think I like it that much but it makes me smile. Tonight, it makes me smile.

Fields of Gold in the voice of Eva Cassidy.

I am tired. And when I say I am tired, it is not the kind you can fix with a few nights of sleep. It is the tired that comes from the horror of knowing that you can not go back and change anything in yesterday. It is the tired that comes from the agony of not knowing what tomorrow has for you. It is the tired that comes from the pain of knowing that I did nothing when I could have done everything. It is the tired that comes from the fear of not knowing the difference between fantasy and reality...

لماذا

Nizar Qabbani is one of my favorite poets. He was the first poet I ever read of my own volition. I would go with my neighbor L to the library at the end of the street. It was quite an old library, built in 1946 and its interior had this rustic feel about it. The floor was wooden and the chairs were quite old, old enough to squeak at the slightest move or adjustment in one's seating. And on most afternoons, a few rays of sunlight would escape through the windows and line the floor. And we would sit there, L with whatever book she'd chosen, and I with my Nizar Qabbani book of poetry. It was the year before he passed away... And I would wonder to myself, where is my Nizar?

This is a song (of the poem) I enjoy listening to. It is not the full song and it features the voice of Taim al-Hasan (and a tacky video mix from some Egyptian film) as he recites Nizar Qabbani's poem لماذا from the Syrian series on the life of the poet himself.

What happened to you again, O my heart?
What trickery are you engaged in this time?
Yesterday, you were soaring into the sky like the prayer of the pious;
Like the light of the stars, you are falling down again.

-Rumi

Back to London

I'm on my way to the airport as I write this... A few days ago my grandparents threw a party in celebration of fifty years of marriage. My grandmother (yes, the one who had the stroke) sat while my grandfather, my uncle, my aunt and my mother stood behind her for a family photo. And then we, the grandchildren, joined. I think it is amazing what these two people, my grandparents, have accomplished: a beautiful family. My grandmother breaks my heart, in a way that I feel like sharing the same bed with her and listening to her tell me bedtime stories as in the older days.

I have been in Lebanon since April. I came back to Lebanon because everything went wrong and I needed to get back home to get better... And today I return to the same city, to London that I left last April, hopefully better and stronger and ready to finally complete my doctoral studies. I am filled with motivation and strength but a part of me feels broken for leaving behind many loved ones but most importantly my beautiful mother. She is the home I have in Lebanon. How I shall miss her and need her...

I think as I get older, I grow more sensitive to the cruelty of time. When I was five years younger, I had the heart of an eagle. I would travel and roam around without having to look back - only because I thought I could always come back and things would be the same. But after my grandmother had her stroke and my father discovering a not so common defect in his heart, more like a ticking bomb, and after the passing of many dear ones, I feel this strange fear of loss.

I was back in London at the station and you were there. I ran towards you and threw myself at you as I always would. But you pushed me back. "Who are you?" were the words you said. "It's me handsome. It's me." But you couldn't recognize me. That light in your eyes was gone. And it was as if we, our story, had never happened... I touched your hand but you pulled it away. And just like that, you walked away from me. You walked towards another lady. She looked exactly like me only she wasn't me. She wore my skirt and held my bag. You took her in your arms and played with her hair. And then you took her by the hand and disappeared with her into the crowd. I stood there and I couldn't move. Right then and there my heart stopped. I had died.

And I woke up. I was back in my familiar room and under my cream sheets. I took my phone and hurriedly wrote a message to you. "Saba7 al kheir" I wrote. "Saba7 al ward" you wrote back.

I smiled. It was only a nightmare.

I have walked through graveyards only a few times in my life. But each time it became more apparent to me that love stories are hidden amongst the tombs that mark these graves.

The dried rose petals, the withered jasmine, the burnt candles, all scattered over tombs that rest upon cushions of green. And then there is that one leaf rustling in the wind, breaking through the silence that wraps these graves.

And then in the background, there are the trees, that grow above the church, paying heed to the callous eyes of death. And there are the names that no longer are, and the stories that have ceased to be, some over here and some over there, some even carved into the stones...

I used to love Christmas when I was a little girl. I loved helping my mother decorate the tree and I enjoyed waking up on the morning of Christmas to find gift boxes under the tree. I believed that Santa Claus existed and I would try my best to stay up as late as possible to intercept him. But I couldn't. Those were the days when I was young and had a healthier sleep pattern.

This year my mother asked me to put up the tree - something which I had little interest in doing. But she said she was tired and had been complaining of backaches. What is a good daughter that doesn't do her mother this favor?

So, despite my lack of enthusiasm, for the first time in nearly a decade, I decorated the tree. I spent a whole evening and a few hours the next morning trying to create the perfect Christmas tree.

But meanwhile, it occurred to me that I felt quite uneasy about December, about Christmas, about the red and green and gold, about fairies and angels and dwarfs, about church bells and Christmas carols, about the lights and contrived festive atmosphere, the gifts and the food, the laughter and the noise.

Have I become a bit like Scrooge?

Dad this is the song you used to sing for us in the mornings when we were kids. I loved waking up to your gentle voice. I miss you, always...

I recently caught up with an old friend of mine from school and neighbor from the old building where we lived. I remember she was my main competition in our English Literature class and we were always trying to score points with our teacher. But we were also good friends but cautiously so, in the belief that it was best to keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

It had been some time so we proceeded to recall the good old days and what books we were currently reading. We moved from one book to another author and then to another poet and then to our vast and rich heritage of Arabic literature that we vowed to (re)discover and in depth. A must. And then we were back to our dear William Shakespeare. We began to exhibit our prowess in how much of Shakespearean literature we knew by heart. And I remembered...

...the first time I decided that I wanted to fall in love with Shakespeare. It was after I'd watched Marianne (played by Kate Winslet) in a scene from Sense and Sensibility recite the following stanzas from Shakespeare's Sonnet 116:

Love is not love / Which alters when it alteration finds, / Or bends with the remover to remove: / O no! it is an ever-fixed mark / That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

I don't think that at fourteen I really understood the significance of such a sonnet or the rest of his sonnets for that matter. But I was smitten and so it was the first sonnet that I'd decided to memorize; after I finished the film, I went into my room and repeated the sonnet until I could recite it by heart.

As I watch this scene again, I am taken back to that evening. How time flies. It feels like yesterday although a decade and a half has passed. I think I do understand the sonnet better today than I did then. And the scene too. How in the pursuit of love Marianne was convinced that it was (the unkind) Mr. Willloughby for whom she had traveled very far and with whom her happiness rested when all along her happiness was with the honest and loving Colonel Christopher Brandon. It was only a matter of time before she'd realized it - and she was fortunate he was still there to have her. Life is funny like that.

Sleep is a reconciling,
A rest that Peace begets.
Doth not the sun rise smiling
When fair at e'en he sets
Rest you then, rest, sad eyes,
Melt not in weeping
While she lies sleeping,
Softly, softly, now softly lies sleeping.

This weekend between morning walks and early dinners, I talked to him about home. He told me that he was able to adapt anywhere and everywhere but that he longed to return to the one and only home, to where his mother lives, to where his ancestors came from, to the land, to the Watan. And his words reminded me of my father because this is what he has always taught us. To long for and belong to the land.

I struggle heavily with the notion of home. And I shall not pretend otherwise. There are times when I feel like a flower in a garden, only I am bending in the other direction. A friend of mine studying psychology once told me that we are forever stuck in our childhoods. I don't know who said it or if it applies to everybody but sometimes it does to me. I sometimes think I am still that little girl in the Watan I once knew in my childhood - it is now but a memory. My father used to always say that the Watan for him was this triad of the land, the wife, and the family.

I am all by myself aimlessly wandering around this large mall and I look around me and observe the Britons and foreigners that surround me, and I wonder if they, like my father, know very well the word Watan...