An Arab Woman Blues - Reflections in a sealed bottle...

A. came by . He said : " I am concerned . What is happening to you ? ". He sat down . Lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply . "Do you realize that your writings, your paintings, your poetry , everything about you has become so depressing." He ranted on ... "Come on , snap out of it , it is not all bad ...". Meanwhile , a song was playing on the local radio station : "There is death around me I scream , no one hears me... How can I sing when I have no voice I want to sing for those who cannot sing I want to sing for those who have forgotten how to celebrate... Who is it that wages war in the name of Man and declares it in the name of God when they sold God long ago. Who has turned this earth to a desolate place and keeps stabbing it till the stabs reach the Soul ... There are wounds ... and the worst wounds are those of the Soul I want to sing for the people who have no one I want to sing for the children who wer...

The other day , I received a book of drawings. Children from 191 countries contributed to it with their drawings. The title was : "the world as I see it ". I looked at each and every single picture . Some of them were colorful and happy and others depicted blood,war and dead bodies . I wanted to see what Iraqi children contributed . I searched the book carefully and I found nothing . Not even a trace of a crayon . I remember during the sanction years against the people of Iraq , pencils were forbidden . Children had stopped drawing during those years . At least those who were able to survive the embargo. I closed the book and closed my eyes and asked the children of Iraq if they wanted me to draw something in their place since they were so conspicuously absent from the 191 countries . They agreed and lent me their brushes and paint . I suddenly had a flashback. A dream I had about 6 months prior to the second Gulf War . I dreamt of a young Iraqi boy , being held by two am...

I awoke this morning with a dreadful "nightmare" . I dreamt I was trapped in some building somewhere in some Arab country - it looked like Beirut but could have been anywhere else . Three loud explosions rocked the whole building and the neighborhood . It felt like an eartquake . I looked from the window and I saw oil and blood gushing out, covering the asphalt street . Then I saw myself running towards a very "modern" building which looked like the United Nations . I walked through endless corridors to be greeted by a corporate looking secretary. On the walls were posters of war zones and UN "relief" work. I met the "man in charge". He was sitting behind an empty shiny polished desk in a dim dull room . All I remember seeing were high tech computers and several telephones. I tried to explain to him what happened . He kept cutting me short to correct my english pronounciation . I remember him telling me:" It is very important that our rep...

So it's over , so I am told . The noise of guns and bombs have been silenced to give way to naked reality and human cries . In the aftermath of war mathematics .... South Beirut : A mass of rubbles underneath which dead human flesh is rotting away . The smell is obnoxious. People scurrying around with masks on their faces with dazed eyes - expressionless - in front of the horror . Some are trying to find where their home is , would they be able to recognize it ? some are taking pictures as if to tell themselves , yes it really happened. It was not just a very bad nightmare, it really took place . South Lebanon : The earth has turned dark brown bordering on black. The grass has turned yellow, the land is scorched . More rubbles . Endless sights of devastated villages . Villages where once there was a life .Now nothing reigns but the smell of death . Nabatiyeh : Abu Zeynab is old , he has seen wars before , but from the expression in his eyes , I could tell it was nothing like ...

I just finished reading an brilliant article by Azmi Bshara about the Fake Godess in the sky - the jet that burns and maimes and deforms and kills . It hovers above your head like some politically correct detached precise rational calculated being . It is above you , objective and precise . It has an eagle view and is logical in its targets . It has a philosophy that is accepted by all - in particular the politically correct lot . Somehow it joins them in the same perception . Above it all and detached. Well am on the ground and I am not flying anywhere . I can feel my heartbeat and my pulse and when my finger gets cut , I see red blood oozing out . I hold children and lovers in my arms , I cry and laugh with them , I feed them and touch their skin . I can smell them and taste them . I am not politically correct . I cry and weep and sometimes I do not even want to get out of bed . The objective reality kills me . And I have fire flowing in my veins and I want my fire to reach the heave...

I am trying to find the right words...it has become almost an obssession..finding the correct wording to express it all. ""N and E contacted me . They asked me how I was doing - I replied :" I am going silently mad" I read Hanady Salman cry tonight on angryarab.blogspot.com. She is asking to be killed so she does not have to witness a greater horror . I join my voice to her's. This is an appeal to all vampire blood suckers : " Kill us and suck our blood ". I know that eternity is there do you know that it is ? You see I am ahead of you on the karmic wheel . I have seen it all and tasted it all. Many a times , I cried bitter tears for not having a child , now I know why . Out of love , I protected him /her from being born . Can you imagine being happy for being childless ? I am ! Isreal thank you , USA thank you . Now I understand it all. How wonderful it is to know that you will live after death . Like an utmost certainty . How can bombs destroy t...

Sunday evening , my usual torture . Trying to sleep . When I finally exhausted myself with reading , watching the news , I slipped into my bed and hugged my pillow hard , my safety island . I heard a mosquito , its buzzing kept me awake . A living life around me in this deafening obscurity. It was trapped somewhere in my bedroom. I intently listened to its buzz and decided I was going to exterminate it . I took my flip flops and waited in silence for it to manifest itself . I felt like a guerrilla fighter waiting to ambush the enemy . My flip flops were my WMDs . I switched on the lights and saw it flying somewhere behind the curtain . I attacked it with vehemence and sprayed it ruthlessly with some insecticide. I choked on the fumes , I opened the window - finally victorious . You see , I can no longer bear anything with wings . Military jets , mosquitoes , anything that flies over my head . I returned to my safety island and covered my face with my pillow and cried myself to sleep .

I remember Sundays . Sunday mornings were linked to Fayruz - the singer. Something about Sundays and Fayruz . Evenings were reserved for the occasional Um Kulthum but Sunday mornings were definitely a hommage to Fayruz . A turkish coffee perfumed with cardamom , sitting on the balcony , listening to her majestic voice . Songs of love and longings, of defiance and irony . This sunday, I could not get myself to go to the balcony . I could not listen to Fayruz . I stared at the walls and sipped my coffee silently . The silence was almost embarassing . It was a bloody sunday . Sunday bloody sunday ...

Days and nights are intermingled - Sleeping or trying to sleep at early dawn, a constant quarrel with the night approaching , something about darkness that disturbs me these days . I promise myself to lay down and switch off the light . Then I panick, a gut wrenching fear - I get up, to the pc, radio, tv anything that works and anything , anyone willing to give me news . When I do finally close my eyes , I am awakened by drenchs of warm sweat and a heart pounding , choking me ... It has been like that for 25 days . Wars do that to you . They uproot you from your habits , they metaphorse you into a being that you no longer recognize . Many a time I catch glimpses of me in the mirror and I no longer recognize myself . As if every day has left its writing on my face , deep prints . I am beyond grief - I am in a place that has no name . A visceral place that is not even concerned with survival anymore . A place I am yet to discover . Violence scares me . What scares me even more is willful...