Prolific Immigrant

I box twice a week and do my absolute best to make every single class. Short of there being a natural disaster like a flat tire or exhaustion from the donation of blood, I get to class as a nod of respect to my word and to my coaches.

Approximately three weeks back, I was lazy and considered not attending class. Lucky that I went because that evening was the first one in a week that I slept like a (bad ass boxing) baby.

After finishing class, I had to walk through the weight area (hia, fellas!) to reach the change room. The first thing I saw was a man in a wheelchair. I’m not sure of the specifics of his paralysis, but by the atrophy of his arms, I think perhaps that he was once a partial quadriplegic who slowly regained the use of his arms. He was strapping one arm into the weight machine very slowly.

I didn’t catch anything beyond that because I’m not a complete idiot and didn’t wish to stare. Only people who smoke hashish would have stared. Or so I hear. Also, because over the course of the two seconds I used when I glanced at him, something caught in my chest, made its way to my throat and then exploded. I had started to cry.

As I am drenched in sweat by the end of class and usually look as though I forgot to take my clothes off before stepping into the shower, no one could see tears streaming down my face. I quickly bowed my head and ducked into the closest washroom. And I cried. And cried. And kept crying, weeping actually, because I had lost all control.

Boxing for me is a luxury I love to indulge. Truth be told, I don’t think about the healthy dimension it adds to my life – most important for me are that it attacks all of the stress in my life, kicking the shit out of it, and as equally important, vanity. Boxing makes my arms pretty and keeps my bottom fitting neatly into a size six jean.

(And on that note,

Dear Anna Wintour,

You recently plastered across an issue When Size 4 is too big: a curvy model’s struggle to fit in. You, without your carbs, are a sad and unhealthy creature, and I pray that you will soon be force-fed hamburgers, fries and much chocolate cake for your support and spread of such a devastating body image for the sisterhood.

Bite me,
Maha)

All I could think was how I had nearly not showed up because I had been tired. I had been tired and had considered not attending class, and instead taking my lazy self home and relaxing, while there is this amazing and incredible man who can barely move, who can barely make the smallest of movements, fighting and struggling to do just that, at the gym, busting his ass because he has to. Neither for vanity nor stress, but out of necessity.

He did it.
Repeatedly, he does it.
He makes it to the gym and fights his own body in order to rise above the paralysis one millimetre at a time.

I am still struggling to understand why it affected me as much as it did – even writing this has me near tears. I think, partly it’s because I am beyond expression moved by his strength, which outweighs my own, and also because somehow that little window that opened and let me look into his life was one filled with hope.

Before walking out of the washroom, I knew that I had to start getting to class for a different reason; out of respect for this man’s personal fight, because where he does not have the luxury of lazy, then nor should I.

I try my best not to take for granted anything, but mobility wasn’t something I had noticed before this day.

Now when I move and walk, and I am impatient walking behind the elderly (not to be confused with a slowpoke who still needs to MOVE IT), I check my impatient b!tch self and remember to respect all aspects of what I have, including the luxury to move freely and quickly on my own two feet, Alhamdulilah.

Consider doing the same.

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Photo courtesy of one amazing Antitude.

Originally published 09/12/16.

Several years back, Alisa & Ryan were married at Lake Placid. Baby Jane and I stayed at the Trail Head’s Inn in the Bigelow Room, then owned and run by a young couple from Australia.

By circumstance, I ended up with our room all to myself. The room split into two areas, one side of which was the ‘Adirondack sleeping porch,’ once a balcony with an old, squeaky and washed out grey wood floor and a very thin steeply sloped wooden roof. The railing of the porch was a faded white painted wood, and all open areas of the balcony covered with a thin fine green mesh.

It held a queen-sized bed with white bed coverings & a duvet, a small old and worn rug purchased from a Moroccan market, one forest green reading chair, and a beautiful antique cherry wood night table.

This room sat on the opposite side of the entrance from where the family lived, and so was completely silent. Due to the height of the balcony, I couldn’t see anything but the forest’s tree tops as I sat on the bed.

It poured over the course of the night and into the next morning, leaving me drenched in the aroma of rain falling through trees. Nothing existed beyond that space, and I was immersed in overwhelming peace. There wasn’t a feeling beyond the rain, whose misted cool breeze seduced me beneath the duvet far into the early afternoon.

Eventually, I said a humble thanks to God for such a perfect morning, and tip-toed my way across the frozen porch and back into reality.

One evening, my uncle decided to run out and pick up some movies. Fool that I am, I decided to join him though it was freezing cold.

And slippery.

I linked my arm through his because he’s a big strong man who would block the wind from my face, if I positioned my face just so behind his shoulder and let him lead. I didn’t foretell that the freezing cold would turn my uncle into some sort of a deaf guy who had to run rather than walk. And I’m sure I mentioned it was slippery, but just in case I didn’t: It was fkn slippery.

Standing by the side of the road, in sub 30 weather, with ice wind in our faces, my uncle took the unilateral decision to bolt across the street while screaming “I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me fast. And when I run I feel His pleasure.”

Which could have been a lot of fun, as I would have responded with the Chariots of Fire‘s theme song, only it wasn’t, and I didn’t. Because I was too busy trying to loose myself from my uncle’s hysterical bicep grip, after which the jaws of life were fashioned.

As soon as he stepped off the sidewalk and on to the street, I slipped and my feet started to scramble and fail me into an upwards position. I kept calling his name, at one point looking up at his face, distinctly noting that he was smiling. In hindsight, I believe his face was just frozen.

It was a strange subtle fall committed behind my own back, with my knees going quiet and my feet suddenly both behind me instead of being properly beneath me. Obviously, I blame my uncle.

He was running. With me attached to his arm, bumping along sideways because I couldn’t pull my feet up fast enough. I was also 23, so it’s not like I was a small child where this sort of thing could go unnoticed. (Couldn’t he tell he was dragging my full weight?)

As I was being dragged across the street, I kept repeating “I fell,” but my uncle was ignoring me and smiling that crazy frozen smile and just running away from nothing.

Thanks God, he stopped running when we reached the other side of the street rather than heading straight for the movie store. After realizing the trauma he had inflicted on my knees, he ceded full film choice control my way. Then he bought me a cheeseburger and an ice-cream.

Residing in Dubai, I imagine that sooner or later, he will give one of his gorgeous daughters sand-burn as he runs across the street for a kebab.

Fin.

Naively, I used to believe that the answer to this question was simple until I met several who – though winning Spelling B’s in their own environment – spelled ‘truth’ very differently than myself. And what with my being the center of the universe, imagine my distress.

There are situations where a grey representation of fact is more well-intentioned than a black and white one (i.e., your partner tells you that before they met you, they had a short-lived one week fling, when it was in fact a one-night stand). Not my concern are white lies where we stretch the truth in order — really and truly — to keep safe the feelings of a friend (i.e. say, when your friend asks for a comparative analysis between her and the ex’s new girlfriend).

Also of no concern are the lies we tell our ovary and sperm units at any age, and for which we all get a free pass. Admittedly, this is in fact the only time I myself hide my coward’s ass behind the ‘I lied because I didn’t want to hurt them’ excuse.

More to the point, I have been curious about the lies that shatter foundations. The lies that are so grotesque in their weight and telling that they cripple us when their factual truth is revealed after the lie has run its course (as for those of you foolish enough to believe otherwise, please note that: every single lie eventually runs its course. We shall all be found out. All of us). For the sake of this article, keep in mind the c.nty example of a married individual having an affair and then lying about it to their partner. Add to this another layer: the sexing had was unprotected.

So then, why do we tell the kind of lie to which I refer?

I finally figured this out when I smelled someone else’s bullshit, and realized that the only time we lie this sort of a lie is when we are assholes.

It’s that simple.
We lie about the situations and realities that would shatter worlds to hide something we know to be unacceptable to or grotesque in the eyes of the person to whom we are lying. Be it motivated by shame** or because we know that to tell them the truth of our behaviour would mean an outcome not of our choosing (read: their reaction won’t go according to our own game plan).

Behaviours that are not shattering or morally repugnant or to be ashamed of have no need for hiding.

Ergo, behaviours that are shattering or morally repugnant, or to be ashamed of have a need for hiding within the construction of a lie.

And so we, the liars, apart from being degenerates who behave in ways that require hiding, then go on to commit an equally odious act: in our cowardice, we rob others of their right to be fully informed and aware of the kind of trash they will / will not allow into their lives.

Humans; what a bunch of assholes we all are.

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**The caveat here is that there are some situations where a lie, associated with societal “shame,” must be kept in order to protect the physical safety of the liar. And to those of you running around yelling that “shame” is a horrible thing, then fu-k off you and your ignorance. Part of our social malaise today is that c.nts are not ashamed ENOUGH of their morally repugnant behaviours.

Note 1: Instead of lying, invoke the 5th.
Note 2: Re above Note 1; it can be argued, very strongly, that an omission of truth, though it does not directly contradict the truth, is in fact equal to a lie. Such as when you have an affair but your partner never poses directly the Q: Have you had an affair.

Variation of above originally published 09/09/08.

I was at a stop light watching a child who couldn’t have been older than four years old.

She was holding on to her father’s hand and hanging, legs and arms limp, then swaying, pulling, dropping her bottom back and her feet up, but never falling, occasionally looking up at her father and laughing in that way which only children can manage so casually.

The honest one that comes from deep inside their tummies.

She believed that grip was the only thing in the world she required to make her happy and safe.

I watched this little girl knowing that my father is the wall which protects me from the winds, the floor which protects me from the mud, and the roof which protects me from the rain. Once we become parents, the onus rests squarely on our shoulders to be the protectee rather than the protected. Recently, I have wished and prayed that I possessed the ability to be the reflection of this to him, but I could not; as his daughter, I will ever be swinging on his hand laughing.

Selfishly, I sometimes wish I could pass before my parents as I am incapable of understanding a world without them. And I guess this is where Faith kicks in strongest. Today, my parents too are children hanging and swinging from the hand of God…which is where I will eventually be, once they have crossed the bridge into Truth.

I love you, baba.

RIP Poppa Lloyd Wilson; may God’s embrace and mercy be all that our collective imagines it to be, multiplied by a million.

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Comments closed.

An interesting conversation has been brewing and cross-cutting among all of my girlfriends these past few days, in which the following is injected: “….yes, feeling beautiful comes from the inside, yada-yada-yada…I totally get that. I know I’m beautiful and no one can mess with that. BUT F*CK, can’t he just say it out loud? Like, there’s nothing worse than a man not telling his woman he thinks she’s smokin’. It places such a huge dent in me when he doesn’t say it, when he doesn’t acknowledge it, and it’s actually starting to turn me off because I don’t care if he stares at me, I need to know he loves what he’s staring at. OUT LOUD, already.”

Did you catch that boys?

This isn’t about her knowing she’s a hottie (that’s the inside part), but rather, it is about her confirming (yes repeatedly) that you, the man she digs finds her a hottie.

Crystal clear is the memory I have of the first man who ever told me I was beautiful. At university in sweats, runners and a t-shirt, with my hair a mess, I walked past this dude while he was working the bar at Oliver’s on campus. He pulled me over and simply said “I just have to tell you that I can’t stop looking at you. You are so beautiful.”

I stood dumbfounded.
No one had said that to me (except my momma) prior and so to hear it from a man set off an avalanche of squees and near nauseau throughout your WebMistress.

A feeling that has not subsided; a feeling which happens every single time I hear those words from a man, but most importantly, from a man for whose attentions I am vying.

That goes for all women I know; the ones who just started dating their men, and the ones married for 10 years. Even though every single woman I know has an unbelievable reserve of self-awareness both in terms of ability and beauty, each one of these women – myself included – also has a natural inclination to insecurity with regards our looks because we exist in a culture that places so very much emphasis on a woman’s beauty (and know full-well about the male inclination to visual.).

It seems that recently, there is an epidemic amongst the women I know, and one which is centered around their men not engaging these simple words or these simple acknowledgements.

Gentlemen, and on behalf of the Sisterhood: tell your woman out loud that you think she’s hot, because if you don’t, another man will and he will get big points (since the off-set of you never mentioning it actually works to heighten his comment).

If the reason that women like it and so appreciate your attention to detail isn’t enough of a reason for you, then let me break it down and make it all about you instead: When you tell your partner she’s gorgeous, it will turn her on. (Women? We’re selfish that way; maybe you can relate.)

Right. So for your edification, take a read through this article and note that: She needs to hear out-loud from you that you notice her and admire her. And, chose words like “sexy” or “beautiful” or “amazing”; women like words like this because they are bigger and make it seem like you really are thinking they look incredible at that particular moment. Stay away from bland and generic compliments like “you look nice” or “you look fine.” And one compliment that most women really don’t like is “you look cute”; she is not a puppy, she is a woman.

Sidebar: To the women who would say that the above is a slight to women, and women don’t need a man’s accolades to feel good. And to those idiot self-help writers who tell us that everything must come from within or else it is meaningless. You are lying liars who lie and exist in a perpetual sea of self-delusion.

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Originally published 10/08/06.

Editorial note: The following has been drafted on the fly via berry. Pardon the mistakes and the non-coherency if I am a little all over the place…it is an inspired piece (thank you, Clay!).

I have been watching women fight for women’s rights since the day I knew how to watch, because it started with my momma.

Recently, there has been a surge in this fight for women’s freedoms. Specifically, it has been about our (female) right to choose.

Abortion. We possess the right to choose whether we will or whether we will not. The refusal to stand for a Government (or anybody else) that attempts to tell us we can not make this choice.

When the prohibitions against forms of hijab in some parts of Europe came to the forefront, very few ‘feminist’ sisters said anything. In fact, some of them actually nodded in agreement with this prohibition, arguing that the prohibition is a means to ‘free’ women.

Sadly, very few drew the correlation between a woman’s right to choose what she ‘aborts’ from her body, and with what she chooses to cover her body.

But they are both choices, no?
And last I checked, we defend the female right to choose, not the female right to choose what only some of us see fit.

Choices that affect a woman’s body. Choices that affect society. Choices that are extremely private.
C.H.O.I.C.E.S.

And yet, amazingly, there has been very little blow-back from self-proclaimed ‘feminists’. (Or have I managed to miss it? And if I have, then please post links here to those organizations or individuals so that they receive the necessary accolades.)

Don’t get me wrong. I am turned off by both the niqab and the burka.
But I will support and fight for any woman’s prerogative to choose how she covers her body.

Additionally, and to the core of me, I loathe abortion.
But I will support a woman’s right to that choice, and I will fight for her right to make that choice in a safe environment. And I will stand next to her and protect her should she choose accordingly in a hostile environment.

I have zero tolerance for the sisters among us who actively engage in furthering only their idea of what a ‘free’ woman is. If you fight for rights, you best be fighting for rights for all, even if you don’t agree with it.

So then, this begs the question: Where do we draw the line? (e.g. How far do we defend this freedom of choice; is it ‘anything goes’?)

Naturally, I have a few ideas that are developing still, and I would really love your input to help along this development. (Keep comments clean and respectful of all opinions, please & thank you.)

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Originally published 10/07/19.

.1. I was walking down the street last week thinking how lovely and homey Ottawa smelled…just like my perfume Miss Dior. I also noted how gracious fellow pedestrians were in giving me much girth as we crossed paths.

I later discovered that “Ottawa” was in fact my purse, inside of which my perfume had decided to make like a suicide bomber.

As I pedestrian myself around town, people continue to give me a wide girth and so I have taken to yelling “MY PERFUME EXPLODED IN MY PURSE” as I wave.

(I am too lazy to pull out a new purse instead. Besides, Miss Dior makes me happy and I believe, considering that it has soaked through my purse, also a little high.)

.2. I was recently excited to note the “Fluff” option on my dryer, especially as it was my first time using a dryer for clothes rather than for my curls.

Immediately, I imagined my Treehouse filled with very very fluffy towels and clothes and maybe even shoes, in to which I would launch myself every day upon entry into the Treehouse.

So I Fluffed my towels; one hour cycle, then a second hour cycle, and finally a third hour cycle exponentially confused every time that they were neither drying nor fkn fluffing. (I am the reason the environment is dying.)

I called my friend and demanded “What’s UP with my dryer? It’s not fluffing! Should I call someone? I think it’s broken. It’s definitely broken. I’m calling someone.”

And later “Who do I call?”

My friend calmly explained that the fluff cycle doesn’t in fact dry anything. (Uhm. So then why is it on the machine we call The DRYER, right? My question exactly, Mr. General Electric.)

Apparently, Fluffing comes post the Drying cycle. You dry, then you fluff. I don’t understand either because I am on strike and demonstrating in front of The DRYER every Saturday between 9 am and 10 am. I have a placard which I made myself, but only because my friend wouldn’t help.

.3. I was just at a grocery store where I had to pay for my cart. WTF?

After battling with one of the carts and miserably losing the war (which consisted of me pulling, pushing, kicking, and trying to turn the cart around, while my Miss Dior purse slipped down my arm), I conceded that there was some conspiracy amongst the carts. They didn’t like me. “It’s the perfume”, whispered someone inside of my head.

And then a woman appeared, plunked a quarter in to a secret slot (I could not see) and slid the cart out as though it were covered in baby oil.

Obviously, I did what any normal person would do and stood around, creepy-watching other people remove cart after cart as inconspicuously as possible. Only…I’m not very inconspicuous because I tend to smile and say ‘hi’ a lot.

I’m pretty sure at least one woman almost punched me in the throat because she thought I wanted to thieve her quarter.

As such, I don’t recommend watching people and their quarters because clearly, coins make people angry.

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Originally published 10/09/17.

“You have to pick them before the birds do in the morning.”
“At 10?”
“In the morning…earlier, Maha.”
“9?”
“No.”
“It’s the weekend, ya seedo. The birds have to sleep too because they’re flapping a lot and they’re tired.”
“Birds don’t get tired the way we do. So how early do you think?”
“SEVEN?”
“No.”
“SIX!”
“One more try.”
“YA ALLAH! Fiiiiive?!”
“Around then. We have to come down here after salaat el-fajir and pick the figs that are ready or else the birds will have them for breakfast and you’ll have to wait until the next day.”

And so it was in this way that seedo convinced me to plop out of bed at the age of four, one year less than the time staring back at me from the digital clock in our room. This was the year that the tradition was born and though I became older and the small details changed, the ritual itself would remain for my summers in Gaza.

In my ruffled pink and yellow nightgown, he would carry me out of bed and sit me next to him on the green sofa in the living room while drinking his coffee. Leaning on him, I would slip my feet into my babooj and wait quietly while the aroma of his turkish coffee ran past me and we listened to the whisper of Qur’an through the tape recorder. We never spoke during this time, my grandfather leaving me to waking and I to his coffee.

Coffee he sipped from a treasured cup because it was the perfect size for my little hands. Daily, he handed it to me so that I would have the last sip; the sweetest and the thickest part of the potion were mine, a secret we never let outside of our early mornings.

I would clutch the cup in both hands while he placed his hand either on top of my head or on my shoulder to gently led me down into the garden and out to the fig tree. (I was so worried I would drop and break the cup that if it were a person, surely I would have suffocated it with my protective grip.) In his other hand, he always carried the same ornate bowl.

At the tree, he took the coffee cup I so carefully handed over and placed it on the window sill. I never saw him bring the cup inside and so believed it to be made of majic just for him. Unlike the other cups, this one sat alone, not a part of a set I could ever find no matter where I searched in the house.

Lifting me carefully to where the ready figs hid, seedo would always wait patiently as my small hands struggled to grasp and pull free each one before letting them drop on to the soft ground.

We ate the figs while seated on the front steps of the house, never sharing them with anyone. Every morning that summer, he would take me back to bed and tuck me in, kissing my forehead and letting me sleep until the house’s natural order woke me up. He never left me awake, instead sitting on the bed next to me while I held one of his hands in mine, hands that remain the softest I have ever touched; little cushions brought together for comfort and safety, kindness and protection, I would keep pressing on the insides of his hands until I fell asleep behind my own back.

When I broke the seal and went to Gaza for the first time after he was done with this world, I said hello to everyone and then immediately went to his room. I turned on his short-wave radio, tucked myself into his bed and cried myself to sleep.

When I woke up, I went looking for the coffee cup and the ornate bowl, found in a box inside of which he kept only a very small number of his most important posessions. Among them, all of the letters my mother wrote telling him about me as a baby, his eldest an eternity away with a new child of her own.

These letters I stole without the knowledge of anyone, letters it takes me hours to read because my Arabic simply isn’t good enough. But I have them in my drawer, written on soft paper made softer with the humidity of Palestine and time, serving as gentle reminders of seedo’s hands.

Allah yirhamak, ya seedo.

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Originally published 10/07/08.

 I loved him ferociously.  Else, I would have never stood inside of a thorny bush to spy on him.  Maybe I would have done this and thought it normal if my emotional development had been retarded at the age of eight, or if I had water on the brain, neither of which is the case (though some would argue the contrary), and so really, I must confess that I loved him severely ferociously.

I was going to surprise him with a birthday cake and a belated gift, because he had just come back from a two week holiday during which he had his wallet stolen, and days before he left for his trip, he and I had forgotten that we were broken up and we behaved based on that forgetfulness, and so I believed that the words uttered then (“I love you and miss you”) meant “I am yours forever and, like, ever, and p.s. I have castrated myself in honor of this love.”

Lunatic that I am, I decided that I would hang the cake and gift on his front door as it was a Friday night which he usually spent kicking and smacking at his friends in a kick boxing studio.

But alas, that was not to be.

Instead, I pulled up just as an alleged girl walked up the stairs and allegedly walked into the house comfortably and naturally / allegedly, clearly having been there so very many times before.  So I kept driving (to circle back), believing maybe I had mistaken him for the alleged female…that he had managed to go from very little hair to very long hair, and grow breasts since we last saw one another. My imagination is riddled with potential.

My choice was clear; pay a random stranger to knock on the door and pretend they were looking for someone (clearly not there) and then report back to me as to who was inside…or stand in the rain, inside of a bush, while my feet became muddied and as I held my breath and tried very hard not to blink because blinking was very loud.

Naturally, the “just go home” option was nowhere in sight because my mind was screaming He just got home!  We were together days before he left!  ERGO! He was with her when he was with me the day we forgot we were broken up! This rain is really going to fuck up my hair!  He is a lying liar who lied! This rain is really going to fuck up my pedicure, too!  He told me he only turned the ‘special stars’ on for me!  Why are bushes so leafy?  Why don’t I carry binoculars?  Is my mascara waterproof? Is my hair going to get tangled, and am I going to get stuck in the bush because of the tangles?

Recognize I was not at all worried about being caught because really, I mean, if someone had offered me the Invisibility Cloak, I would have rocked the shit out of that cape and perched my, on this occasion, clinically insane ass inside of his house to confirm that I had in fact seen a woman enter. Also, in my invisibility cloak, I would have probably started throwing random objects around his house.

Because I am clever, I decided to get a little closer, and so I left the bush and  shimmied quickly and stealthy-like along the wall in full and plain sight, then dashed across this lawn to hide behind a tree.

Because I am clumsy, my right flip flop dashed much faster than I across this lawn and so suddenly, I wasn’t merely a crazy person, but rather I was also half barefoot in plain sight behind a tree 1/3 my size.

I stopped to contemplate flip flops or barefoot?, but didn’t to ponder normal or insane?.  Really, I was thinking I was some Smooth Criminal and that this behavior was acceptable.  (The people with whom I shared this tale never questioned my sanity either, except for one, only she doesn’t really count because she’s an adult and adults are smart like that.)

I decided to return to the trusted bush so I removed my flip flops and ran for it, as any Smooth Criminal would have done.  Back in the bush, I found the perfect viewing spot for the crazy; I stood, like a torture victim water dripping on my head, legs bent at a 27 degree angle so I could look through this one perfect spot and see nothing.

Because nothing was precisely what I was staring at – I was merely waiting for the body or bodies to make their way from the kitchen to the living or dining room.  What I was waiting for was confirmation that I had in fact seen a second party enter the premises and this creature was of the female persuasion.  I wasn’t interested in seeing them do anything or stare at them like a sad little mime as they watched television; in that moment, I just really wanted and needed confirmation.  And within a few minutes, I received the confirmation.  First he walked into the dining room with a plate and a glass, and then a long-haired woman followed with the same.  The ‘special stars’ were a romantic edge; I knew this and so had no misunderstandings about the nature of what I was seeing.

The moment I saw, I sloshed my bare feet out of the mud, and said my thank yous and good byes to the trusted bush.  I walked barefoot back to my car, took out the cake and the gift and gently placed each one beneath each of the front tires of my car, and drove over them before continuing directly on to my best friend’s house sopping wet, broken flip flopped and hearted, and with terrible hairstyle and fucked up pedi.

My best friend wiped my tears, wrapped my hair in a towel, and fixed my flip flop, all the while as in shock as I about the news…the news that he was with someone else, not the news that I was a crazy person Smooth Criminal.

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Editor’s Note: Since the night in question in 2007, Miss One Female Canuck has neither returned to the scene of the crime nor has she attempted to bushwhack. Furthermore, she has not since driven over a baked good and wishes the “he” of this story only the best in everything and hopes “he” finds the truest and most fulfilling of loves.

Originally published 10/03/04.

 I have been working on developing my World View (WV) and doing my best to make it coherent both in my head and to those I love, and naturally, to anyone who will listen such as the dude on the corner yelling at me asking me if I am a sinner who fornicates…and to whom I am considering giving my url.

This WV is a set of principles by which I try to live my life in the best way possible. Naturally, and as one would expect, it has been shaped mostly by the values instilled within Islam. I finally labelled it a WV sometime over the course of the last two or three years. This happened during a time of struggle when I was trying to make sense of something that was non-sensical; applying the principles to my own behaviour when forced to make my way through the maze of a foggy sense of betrayal.

Always, my primary concern was to ensure that my behaviour was not a reaction to the actions of another, but rather behaviour which was a reflection of my WV. Also, that I started from a position of trusting people and believing their intentions were good, no matter the outcome. Naive, yes, but gentler and softer and kinder than the alternative. I fought against the urge to react as a meanie, when dealing with a meanie; to react as an c0cksucker, when dealing with one; to react as a bully, when dealing with just that. Unfortunately, at a few days after the turn of the Year of (your) Lord 2009, I lost site of this.

Over the course of a couple of years, and in different circumstance, I had given too much; I had stretched myself so thin on several occasions that my snap-back, when it did finally happen, was severe and extreme. A precise moment in January 2009 was not the only catalyst, but rather the one which broke the camel’s back.

I reacted in kind to an action. In fact, it was not ‘in kind’, but rather ‘in extreme kind’.

Why did I do this? Because I had had enough. I had had enough of being kind and good and understanding and forgiving and gracious and trusting, and receiving nothing more than junk trash from some people around me. I did this because I was sick and tired of opening up my heart and making myself vulnerable and then being hurt. I was sick and tired of people recognising the goodness and the trust and taking advantage of it.

I did it because I was hurting and I needed to self-preserve. Because I believed then that sometimes, what people deserve isn’t a warm and fuzzy hug but rather a beat-down in order for them to wake the fk up.

More importantly, I did it because I had lost site of my WV and the fact that a huge part of who I am is someone who is in fact kind and good and understanding and forgiving and gracious because that is who I am proud to be, rather than someone who behaves in this way in order to receive the same in return. (Since the later is a fraud and frauds give me hives.)

When I lost site of my WV, I became a different creature, and it was in fact Mama who pointed this out to me. She told me that something about me had changed over the course of this last year – that I had become vicious in my response to people and suspicious of their intentions and that is not the way she raised me. I had lost my inclination to forgive and be understanding and Mama was disappointed in me. This conversation was with respect to a woman I love and admire and hold in the highest regard: Aalya.

In that moment, sitting across from my mother, something broke inside of me…and at the same time, something greater was solidified. What broke was the Mean Girl, and what was solidified, inshallah was the girl I have always fought to be. (And I will tell you honestly that writing this is making me extremely emotional.)

This was my wake-up call, and the hurt I inflicted on Aalya remains at the top of the list of My Three Worst Blowbacks from my ten month trip down C.nty Lane Blvd. I was cruel and suspicious, and brutally self-centred with a woman I dearly love, a woman who has never ever once in our relationship hurt me, and who, in a moment of complete and total self-delusion and destruction, I could have hurt beyond measure.

I couldn’t sleep that night because I could see again. I could see that somewhere over the course of the past ten months, there had been a shift in my mind’s eye view which affected my behaviour and which led me to believe that I deserved to stop giving, because I had given enough, and now people owed me.

Imagine.
Imagine the self-importance I felt for ten months.
This was me, and I was an Up-Her-Own-Bottom Mean Girl. Oddly enough, I was not conscious of this at the time, instead chalking it up to other people getting what they deserved after I had allowed them to take from me for so long.

I started to only focus on what people gave me from that moment on. In the instance of Aalya, I forgot about our history and every single time she had held me tight until I didn’t need to be held anymore. I had become the very thing I have hated since I can remember – entitled. Worse still, I was mean – and let me tell you, my friends, there is an unbelievable capacity within me for cruelty, which I am convinced is the flip-side of being extremely sensitive.

Where Aalya was concerned and through my sense of sh!t eating entitlement, I couldn’t see that I needed to give her understanding, patience and time. I needed to give, but instead I took in a most callous manner.Ultimately, inside of that moment, and on an epic level, I failed a woman who I loved dearly. My behaviour was both devastating and shameful; she, however, had enough grace to forgive me.

I lost site of the fact that I have always prided myself on how open and engaging I am with everyone; that I have always been happy to say ”I would rather love hard and be hurt hard than love in shades of pale, to not be hurt as much.”

I lost site of the reality that what should be my only concern ever, is my own behaviour, rather than the behaviour of others, and that made me a judgemental and undoubtedly insufferable b!tch.

I lost site of the foundation of my WV: that I believe in the essential goodness of people, even when they have hurt me, and I work hard to understand them and forgive them and still love them, even though I may choose to no longer have them in my life in any formal capacity. I do this because I believe that we are not born with the intention to hurt, even though we are all guilty of being hysterical fk-ups at different moments in our lives. And if we are lucky, then we have friends such as Aalya who will forgive us.

At the end of the day, I have to believe that anyone who has hurt me didn’t come into my life with the intention to hurt, because I do not believe, can not believe, refuse to believe that we are born into sin and pain and anger.

To those of you who would take advantage of this sort of thinking and to anyone who believes there is a greater Power, then understand that one day we will deal with a greater Judge than another human being could ever be, and our behaviour and the consequences of that behaviour come full circle and we will be held accountable for taking advantage of goodness and kindness. And, so, as my own eating of humble pie has taught me, gentler, kinder, softer was always the better route, anyway. Deviating from that path at least afforded me the opportunity to solidify this very belief.

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Image courtesy of Gen Pren.

Originally published 09/11/20.

By ‘One’, I mean her very own personal British Special Air Service Officer, their motto Who Dares Wins. I found Mine in Beirut – he is of the Air Troop variety, flying out of planes, a.smashing things and people, and then somehow super-leaping back to the airplane.

I nicknamed him ‘Killer’. Only I didn’t tell him about his nickname, for fear that he would parachute into my hotel room, ‘Killer’ me, and then leave without a trace. (He’ll know now that it’s on here; Hi Killer!)

How to meet and nab an SAS Boy for yourself
Obviously, you will need to be located in a war torn region. Look for the boys jogging and smiling as bombs drop around them; quite likely, they are of the SAS variety.

If you are really adventurous, hang out near cubby holes where ‘insurgents’ (but only those defined as such by the lucky few not belonging to The Axis of Evil) hide and make chai.

If you are not too adventurous, there’s always the internet café of said war torn region. Spy the only boys who are reading neither the news nor the most recent updates titled Where Can You Hide Today?; they will be wearing shorts, t-shirts, sporting a tan and using a British tongue nearly incomprehensible. If you listen closely, they will make subtle ‘vrooming’ sounds as they move their mouse. #notaeuphemism

My Own SAS Boy and I met in the business centre of his hotel (my hotel sat across the street with a sick internet connection). I didn’t know how to work the computer, he helped me manage and we got to chatting. He had seen me the night prior – a memory I do not hold – when I was lost and asked him if he was Australian. In my proper defence, I was told that we (Canadians) were to be hanging out with them (Australians); I saw a blonde, heard an accent and so approached. Very simple equation if ever there was one, little did I know the level of treachery I had committed when I asked a Brit – an SAS one, to boot – if he was an Aussie.

On the physical size of The SAS Boy
They appear ‘small’ (please don’t Killer me) – My Own being perhaps 5’9”, but they’re packed with strong fibre goodness which allows them to take out a man thrice their height and ten times their weight. Upon great reflection, I do think the compact nature of the SAS has to do with the agility required to leap tall buildings and propel oneself from planes, landing squarely in cubby holes 10,000 feet below.

They are, for those of you interested in knowing, rock hard. I threw random items at Killer and they bounced off as though hitting a brick wall. Eventually, Killer asked me to stop being a child and to stop throwing random objects at him. I mumbled and pouted and he finally let me throw one final tire at him as a farewell to the activity of throwing.

On the character trait of The SAS Boy
Focussed.
Determined.
Alpha.
Male.
Fear-LESS.

These are not Boys with whom one should mess about. While walking around Beirut with My Own SAS Boy, I can tell you that I felt very safe. Very safe, indeed; the safest, in fact. There’s something about their line of duty that makes them radiate an aura of complete and total blanket safety (unless, of course, you’re their target). I guess that would be: because they’re trained a.smashing killers.

The word ‘hesitate’ does not exist in their vocabulary, and for that they are to be admired, as it runs into all aspects of their lives, not just the physical embodiment of their ‘work’. Case in point: Within moments of teaching your BlogMistress how to work her computer, Killer asked to take me for a coffee. Right then and there on the spot. (I thought: If I don’t accept, he may Killer me…and so I accepted.)

After coffee was over, he asked to take me for dinner. Right then and there on the spot. (I thought: If I don’t accept, he may Killer me…and so goes the rest of the story.)

Nothing stands in their way and if an SAS Boy wants something, he does what is needed to make certain he gets it. And this I mean literally; nothing stops them, neither physically nor mentally — it’s a pretty spectacular thing to watch as it drips from them and engages all aspects of everything they do and touch.

On the nature of conversation with The SAS Boy
You will not be surprised to learn that among one of the first lines of conversation I had with Killer was
So…do you ever wonder if what you’re doing is wrong? and then
So…uhm…will I, like, one day be sitting in my living room in Palestine and you’ll fly through a window and Killer me MEANING you may one day get wrong orders MEANING have you ever wondered if you’ve already received wrong orders MEANING have you ever Killered anyone who might be innocent?

Lucky I that Killer has a sense of humour and answered all of my questions, even if it was a mere “I really can’t answer that!” which I think is code for That’s The Line That Wins Most Chicks. But I’m relentless and he nicknamed me ‘Unnie Ot’ which is Canadian to the British ‘Honey Pot’. I stared in wonder and confusion, looking for a translation on the wall, the floor and even the window as I had no idea what that was. Nowhere was there closed captioning for the British Hearing Impaired. (Stupid, Beirut.)

Killer was nice enough to finally tell me that ‘Honey Pot’ is a term of endearment used to describe someone who can pull secrets from people very easily. Upon hearing this definition, I smiled and asked: So, was it you who caught Saddam? And have you Killered anyone? And can you fix the World Cup?

On the reliability / loyalty of The SAS Boy
Apparently, SAS Boys have to be at the ready at the drop of a pin, throw of a hat and wiggle of a bottom. They all have a special beeper that, when it beeps, they have to meet at a certain location, are given their orders and then flown out. My Own SAS Boy was riding his motorcycle when he got beeped; he had to leave it and his keys with his friend so he could fly to Beirut within two hours. This would mislead one to believe they are unreliable to anyone but Her Majesty. As I can attest, I’ve had Mine since 2006 and we have not yet lost touch for any extended period of time. In face, he has always been kind and pinged a Hello email and if we are both in London Town this coming fall, we shall hang.

I have already secured the following from Mine, as he graciously accepted the responsibility should the need arise (and to which he is beholden until I drop dead). If ever I am in a state of terror and I need to be saved, then he shall do the saving. Because if we’re talking true loyalty, it never hurts to have that loyalty come from a friend who knows how to disentangle a b*mb, make one, crash through a window, leap off a building, outrun and outfight most all other men, make ‘vrooming’ noises as he uses a mouse, ride a motorcycle, and look good in a suit. (I knew you’d agree.)

P.S. Specifically, he is of a ‘sabre squadron’ skilled in parachute insertions (HALO, HAHO, static line etc).

Because we tend toward a relatively self-involved perspective wrote the girl with a blog about herself, we all too often read that people come into our lives, and inflict pain upon our lives in order to help us grow.

Not surprisingly, very little time is spent on appreciating the times when this entry of others into our lives is to help them grow, to the perceived detriment and pain of our selves.

Perceived because if we don’t believe that everything happens for only the best of reasons (even when we never find out what that good reason may be), and if we don’t believe that our well-being is contingent upon the well-being of all, then we shall forever remain inward looking and only ever perceive any hurtful experience as one of pain on our person, full stop.

Now. Imagine embracing a world where we accepted — without bitterness — that we will sometimes be shredded and traumatised and disengaged and beaten down so that someone else’s heart may grow and be protected and cared for and loved?

Even more difficult to swallow, is that the person learning at your expense may be the person who did the shredding and inflicted the trauma?

Essentially, a world where we didn’t make our pain only about our growth alone, but rather about the collective growth of humanity. (Not being responsible for it, but rather open to it completely and totally.)

I can hear you yelling at me. And I get it: because whytf should someone else’s growth come at the cost of my own pain? Here are your choices — decide for yourself:

A) Wishing someone ill — which breeds resentment and bitterness and fills your heart with poison and you become annoying and no one wants to hang out with you.

Sidebar: I have in the last year afforded myself a general rule of three days. Three days inside of which I can engage in, roll around and cover myself with every sh.tty, hurtful, disgusting thought I can find. It is not pretty, but it is satisfying, and it most definitely unleashes The Crazy (to my closest and dearest and Best Friend In The Whole Wide World). And after I ask her to add to that list and I indulge one last time, I then bust my ass to move into the following scenario.

Or…
B) Wishing someone well — which breeds love and warmth, in general. Just look at the hippies, who are often so v happy, and usually v well dressed.

Or…
C) Being indifferent (which, in case you haven’t guessed, isn’t sexy) — means being a sloth of spirit. It means not taking the time to think and to consider and to engage. And when given the choice to expand or shrink your heart, why wouldn’t you choose the former, even if it means doing the extra leg-work, Sloth?

People wank on about altruism always, but very few people understand that within this concept is a weight which we must share with grace (and for which we should not require the exchange of funds).

Crazier still is that we may never know how our pain helped someone else. And yet, to be closer to altruism, we must choose to accept this possibility with open arms. Even when we are drowning within our pain.

Repeatedly, I have written that the choices we make define the overall essence of our character. The logical extension to this is that such choices represent our world view (i.e. you choose not to eat meat, then your world view is of a vegetarian / vegan; you choose to support war for profit, then your world view is of a degenerate c.nt, etc.).

If our world view is an altruistic one, or if we are aiming to make it an altruistic one, then we must at some point accept the above flip-side to our pain. Undoubtedly, it is not easy — least of all when we are choking on the muddied swamps of hurt — but it is definitely a standard worthy of pursuit, but only for those of us interested in self-improvement and evolution.

This morning I was seated next to a baby bundled up in a blue snowsuit and singing Frère Jacques. (The baby, not I.) My trip into work made me revisit the following High Security Incident that transpired many years ago.

Aged four and while in kindergarten, my teacher had us sing Frère Jacques. When done, she asked me to sing it alone and in front of the whole class.

I remember this as though it were yesterday. I smiled and began while clapping and swaying.

Beaming with pride (because I was the only one who was singled out), I sang at the top of my small not-yet-grown-to-size lungs:
Fray-row Jaack-uh!
Fray-row Jaack-uh!
Vous lay vous!
Vous lay vous!
Suh muh leh mateen-ah!
Suh muh leh mateen-ah!
DING! DANG! DONG!
DING! DANG! DONG!

I remember distinctly because I still sing these exact lines today.

Teacher asked me to stop singing and told me I was “wrong”, to which I threw my 1 inch fist into the air, palm facing her, and declared “Like hell I am, Teach! ALL POWER TO THE PEOPLE!”, only it came out “why?” and I began to cry.

Amidst the great confusion and my young black civil rights tendencies, all other pink, white, olive and brown babies located within the same room followed suit and also began to cry.

The over-emotional one of them – a little Whitie from Poland – ran over and hugged me (I often wonder what’s become of him whose name I can’t remember; he was my bff and on to the freezing cold ground we would place our 2×4 towels side-by-side when it was time for the teacher to have a cigarette break nap time. Bunch of fat babies laid out like beached dwarf whales, forced into REM).

Anyway. I was an Arabic baby and we’d arrived in Canada that same year. My mother tongue was Confused Arabic and the Teacher should have recognised that my effort was enough instead of singling me out for a “wrong”.

To my “why”, Teacher never responded and I stood dissolved. Until now, I don’t know the proper lyrics to the song and I’ve created an auditory block whereby I don’t hear those proper lyrics even if they’re being shouted directly into my ear. Worse still, the incident is – I am certain – the cause of my mental collapse re lyrical ability, something of which I was reminded this morning.

Nearly 32 years later, I stand by Suh muh leh mateen-ah!, if for no other reason than the empathy shown by the little White Polish one.

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Aside no 1 re children’s songs: I used to sing London bridges falling down, rather than London bridge is falling down. The true lyrics I swear to you, I only discovered while in Dubai this past December when my baby cousin Ahmed sang it to me. I was stunned as I had no idea it was only one bridge rather than all of the London bridges. Brilliant, yes?

Originally published 08/01/25.

I learned that whenever I opened up my heart and made a decision based on love and hope, I almost always made the right decision, even when the result was a painful one.

I learned that one of the greatest challenges to our selves brings with it the greatest benefit to our lives and those we hold dear: looking at our actions, owning them, holding ourselves accountable and responsible at every turn and at every choice made.

I learned that an individual’s character hinges on their ability to accept this very responsibility for their actions.

I learned that patience is truly a virtue and to one which I’m not naturally inclined.

I learned that the only people who are scared to “loose themselves” are those who don’t know who they are to begin with.

I learned that anger and resentment breed bitterness that changes every aspect of who we are and how we live.

I learned that everything is a choice.

I learned that in love, there is no room for pride…and where there is room for pride, it is not love.

I learned that the amount of respect you show others is a direct extension of how much you respect yourself.

I learned that walking on a crack in Crack won’t break anyone’s back but my own.

I learned that ending a conversation with “we agree to disagree” is quite possibly the best way to end a conversation with family.

I learned that forgiveness of an action does not equate absolution of that action.

I learned that when living honestly, you can live more in one day than most others do in one life time.

I learned that I am an optimist.

I learned that to be of sound mind and body are the most profound of blessings and it is these we most often take for granted.

I learned that starting from a position of fear, defensiveness and self-pity is just another excuse for one’s paralysis.

I learned that if you really want it, you may have to spend the rest of this life fighting for it…and that’s perfectly acceptable.

I learned that parents will suprise you, after they have gotten over their anger.

I learned that at the outset, no one needs to earn my trust because I give it freely; but when it’s lost, it’s lost entirely.

I learned that except for my facing God, absolutely everything in my life is up for change, if you can convince me.

I learned that when you shake someone’s hand, you need to take off your glove if you’re wearing it, stand up if you’re sitting down, and take off your sunglasses if you’re wearing them.

I learned that life goes on – usually stronger and bigger and warmer – no matter the trauma to our hearts.

I learned that evolution and dissent posed by one against themselves is a sign of a healthy mind.

I learned that f*cking things up once in a while is good for you because it teaches you, in no uncertain terms, of where you don’t want to be and therefore where you need to go.

I learned that the perfect shade of red nail polish doesn’t exist.

And…I learned that kindness is the currency of human interaction and no one likes a cheap bastard.

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Image from ImgSpark.

Originally published 08/01/18.

It’s 2011. I can’t fkn believe that we are still taking about this sh.t, that it is still surprising to some, that studies have to be done to confirm it,  that it hasn’t earned more attention, that it isn’t being fought harder by both men and women. Please read, share, and share, and share, and share.

When my matrilineal grandmother – teeta – died, found in her night table drawer was the most important photograph she’d carried with her throughout her life.

Teeta came from what remains one of the oldest and richest families in Jerusalem. My great grandfather was a man I never met, but about whom I still hear many great stories, both in terms of his incredible business mind and generosity to his children and community.

Apart from owning much of the farmland in Jerusalem, my great grandfather also owned much of the downtown core where the family home still stands, now a famous hotel, along with 56 shops remaining, both of which are on the same street as that of The Church of The Holy Sepulchre. Weekends and summers were spent in Ashkelon, once known by its Arabic name: Al Majdal, where teeta swam every morning in the pool surrounded by their orange groves, and rode every evening as she was a trained equestrian.

My great grandfather was a very pious man and when he died, he wanted to make certain the following two things happened: (1) That his children worked hard to ensure their own children were well taken care of; and, (2) That the community would benefit from his riches. For these reasons, his will indicated that for the duration of the lives of his children, they would receive the rental fees from the shops in the Old City, as well as any money generated by their farm lands. When the last of his children die, all of this money was to be funneled directly into the social welfare system for the needy (specifically: for orphans).

Although he spoiled his children, there was a limit to that grace and he taught them well that obligation and responsibility began with one’s family, and spread to the community.

It was a lone and particular photograph of teeta and Saa’da – meaning ‘happiness’ – which was found in her night table after her death. Saa’da, an Arabian horse, was gifted to my grandmother by her father.

A black and white picture of my 12 year old teeta with blond hair, fair skin and hazel eyes. She wore a white dress, white socks and white shoes to match the white horse, perfectly groomed they both stood. Saa’da was sideways facing, looking at my grandmother, who was staring directly into the camera, filled with mischief, happiness, pride, and a million secrets ready to burst out of her as soon as the picture was taken. The energy of her leapt out of the photograph, and one couldn’t help laugh – not just smile, but actually laugh – when they saw the beauty of her youth, which is in so many ways, one of the purest of art forms gifted us by God.

When I was younger, I didn’t much pay attention to the relationship between teeta and seedo until the summer she had to go to the hospital. Seedo hardly ate, hardly slept, would spend his entire day next to her in the hospital – and when she came home, I remember standing at the top of the stairs as he held her hand and gently and patiently walked up with her, half-way stopping and bending his head to kiss her hand and tell her that the house had been filled with darkness in her absence. After 50 years of marriage and seven children, they still liked one another.

When teeta died, seedo stopped living, and died shortly thereafter.

As deeply as teeta loved her life with seedo and her children, she would occasionally tell me about Saa’da, and about the freedom of riding her. There were no rules for her while she was with Saa’da, neither obligation, nor consequence in the endless hours she’d spent with her.

Teeta had very strong opinions and was a force to be reckoned with when she wanted something; anything she pursued, she did it with justice and not a shred of selfishness. She ran her house with equal amounts of iron and love and her children and husband worshiped her for this. Being the first grandchild, I always remained a novelty and had access to secrets and stories the others didn’t.

She was a free spirit, teeta, this being so obvious in that photograph with Saa’da. This spirit was dulled and fragmented by the hardship of war and occupation, that wouldn’t allow her to visit her childhood home in Ashkelon from 1948 – 1967. All of the land we still own, but the farmland is no longer workable as when Israel became, they placed a ban on the watering of farmland and so my family’s orange groves died, except for the few trees that stood beside the swimming pool. These same trees still stand today, but the orange groves never rejuvenated.

Access to water, when manipulated accordingly, is more deadly than a bullet.

More importantly was that teeta’s own brother was murdered by the IDF in Khan Younis, after the nationalization of the Suez Canal. Awakened and pulled from his bed, alongside all of the men in the neighborhood, my great uncle and teeta’s brother in law were among the first to be lined up against a wall and shot dead because they were young Palestinian men and that made them a danger; pre-emptive strike the essence to the actions of the State of Israel.

Later, she would have to endure the imprisonment of her husband for nine months, as he was deemed a political threat. Worse still was that her youngest boy would be taken to jail for being a part of a protest and while in jail, beaten so badly that he walked out a man with epilepsy. Today, he would tell you that he is blessed to have walked out at all. These memories are the fabric of my mother’s family; my family.

The smile on teeta’s face as a young woman always told a story far removed from the pictures themselves and the surroundings within. Eternally, there was something happening behind her eyes, always standing out from the rest of the men and women in the pictures. Even though it was until the day she passed that she had a strange mix of innocence and naughtiness, pride and humbleness, the young woman who once pulled you out of your reality and into her photograph was lost after 1948.

It’s only as an adult that I understand the seduction of Saa’da. It is innocence in a distilled form, and freedom in the greatest sense. Not as entirely real as teeta or any of us ever imagine it to be, but when captured in a photograph, the feelings and representations are encapsulated, frozen and melancholy. Where we often lack perfection in every day, we find it in the stories we tell and the pictures we hold tightly.

It was no surprise to her children when they found a photo of Saa’da but none of themselves, as Saa’da was teeta’s lament for freedom in all of its varied forms.

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Originally published: 07/11/13.

Recently, Dee (a reader) was generous enough to share her experience with me, asking how I know. How do I know when someone will be a good friend? How do I know to whom we should grant entry into our lives for the long haul? And, how do I know when it’s done and how do I let it be? The following has at its core my response to her, but has been fleshed out here in greater detail.

I often wish there was a simple formula for this, but sadly, human nature makes this impossible. Barring a few very distinct spaces in my life, I walk into every situation with as big a heart as I can muster, a willingness and openness to hurt, allowing myself to bring people into my life full throttle.

Reality is that many — if not most – people we meet will behave in rubbish manner eventually, be it on purpose or otherwise. I know that I have; inevitably, I have let people down without even knowing it, and I have deservedly mourned their friendship.

All relationships, platonic or otherwise, experience the ebb and flow of growing pains. Sometimes you will be hot, otherwise not. In such circumstance, I tend to shut down; I don’t generally keep friends with whom there is a violent ebb and flow (lest the relationship is long distance). Because I take a suck and I pout and I have high standards, and I am not interested in lowering my standards to meet the less of another.

The flipside to such openness is that you will be hurt at the hands of some of these people. That acknowledged, worth the pay-off are the collection of a few breathtakingly exceptional people into your life. At the end of the day, everyone else is just icing on the cake, and icing can be sloughed off with the proper knife.

In terms of when do I know a friendship has run its course? Let’s instead focus on how we know when a friendship is a keeper. It’s when both of you make the effort to support and place time of value into the relationship. It’s when the levels of time and energy being put into the relationship are equal, the caveat being that within a friendship, we have to give for the sake of giving and the pleasure of it. To a limit (because “chump” is a very hard look to pull off); when we start feeling as though we are being taken for granted, bring it up and address it. The keepers are those who hear it, action it, and make an effort not to hurt you in that same way again.

The thing is, we should never be scared to step away from people, because the hurt associated with a painful friendship / relationship of any kind far outdoes the possible loneliness we may feel should we step away. This should be among our standards for all relationships both romantic and otherwise.

Ultimately, with so many people in the world, we should be placing our energy and love into the hands of those who appreciate and reciprocate.

As for those who are no longer in our lives, we have to do our best to shake off the film of gross which accompanies any ending, and instead take away only the good memories, appreciating the moments shared because inevitably, even the for-sh.t friendships held your heart accordingly then. Which means that they should hold a place in your heart always now, even if the friendship itself has lost its will to live, Otherwise you are doing a disservice to someone you once held dear and that’s fair neither to you nor them.

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Photo from ChicagoNow.

Within the Quran rests utter indivisibility between faith and good works. (This is a critical point in Islam, and it differentiates religion from secular humanism.)

To grow within Islam, one must nurture and develop both of these aspects within the self. It is perhaps during this most important month for Muslims that one can see the reality of this. Were you to walk through the streets of any Muslim country, you would be met with the following…

Homes have in their front yards placed tables and tables of food, doors opened for anyone who wishes to step in and break fast at that location. There are no questions asked and no fees imposed; no one cares if you are fasting, no one knows how much money you have in your pocket, or what your name is and no one asks if you’re a Muslim.

At all mosques the world over, local Muslim families donate food and drink (or money to this end) to feed those who choose to break fast in the mosque. Although this takes place in all mosques across the globe, it is perhaps in Saudi Arabia felt most profoundly because of the sheer numbers involved. At ‘Masjid Al-Haram’ – where the Kabaa is located – nightly, at least one million Muslims break fast together in the Masjid over dates and milk, then pray maghrib (the 4th prayer of the day) together before they sit together to chat, ending their time together praying isha (the 5th and final prayer of the day).

This serves as only one example of the message of unity in community repeated and so deeply rooted within the message of Islam.

Precisely because we’re not here discussing secular humanism, this then must go hand in hand with faith. For Muslims, this ‘unity’ is the reflection of God Himself. From Him everything comes and to Him everything returns. Every. Single. Thing.(1)

This unity may be better expressed as the ‘Oneness’ of God, within which rests a deeper message for those interested in hearing and reflecting: the Oneness of humankind.

Malcolm X’s penetrating gaze saw and articulated it best: ”During the past eleven days here in the Muslim world, I have eaten from the same plate, drunk from the same glass and slept on the same rug — while praying to the same God — with fellow Muslims, whose eyes were the bluest of blue, whose hair was the blondest of blond, and whose skin was the whitest of white. And in the words and in the actions and in the deeds of the white Muslims, I felt the same sincerity that I felt among the black African Muslims of Nigeria, Sudan and Ghana.”

“We were truly all the same (brothers) — because their belief in one God had removed the white from their minds, the white from their behavior, and the white from their attitude.”

“I could see from this that perhaps if white Americans could accept the Oneness of God, then perhaps too, they could accept in reality the Oneness of Man — and cease to measure, and hinder, and harm others in terms of their differences in color.”

As already mentioned, within the Quran rests the utter indivisibility between faith and good works. Further to this, and important to Muslims (of no consequence to those who are not) is that ”faith should inspire righteous deeds, which, in turn, should nurture a more profound experience of faith, which should incline one to greater acts of goodness, and so on, with each a function of the other, rising in a continuous increase.” (Even Angels Ask, Jeffrey Lang, 35-37.)

As Lang goes on to describe, following are some examples of universally recognized virtuous acts:
Showing compassion. (2:83; 2:215; 69:34)
Being merciful. (90:17)
Forgiving others. (42:37; 45:14; 64:14)
Being just. (4:58; 6:152; 16:90)
Protecting the weak. (4:127; 6:152)
Defending the oppressed. (4:75)
Acknowledging wisdom. (20:114; 22:54)
Being generous. (2:177; 23:60; 30:39)
Being truthful. (3:17; 33:24; 33:35; 49:15)
Being kind. (4:36)
Being peaceful. (8:61; 25:63; 47:35)
Loving others. (19:86)

The one glaringly obvious link between all of them is that in order for us to commit them and grow in virtue, we must bind ourselves – via these acts – to others. Our own sense of self is directly linked to humankind. For a Muslim, humankind is further linked to God. (As stated earlier: Within the Oneness of Him is the Oneness of humanity.)

To understand this more deeply, extend this example to the famed Sufi perspective on love: one does not truly love until they call to their other by calling to themselves.

Essentially, one does not experience the fullness of love until one can see through the eyes of their lover and vice versa. Taken further, that means bringing into one’s own heart the pain and happiness and struggles of their partner. Experiencing love as the Oneness of the two, may be the fullest and deepest way to experience the love shared. No doubt challenging, but the rewards one-thousand fold gratifying.

For those who believe, raise your stakes this month and keep the above list with you – remind yourself to be patient and to make your heart bigger. Do it for yourself, for your faith, and for your community.

The bigger your heart, the warmer your community, the better you will be. Always remember that your relationship to God is empowered and strengthened by your relationship with humanity, and vice versa.

To those who don’t believe, do the same, only for the sake of your brothers and sisters in humanity. Whether or not you believe that God exists, you can not deny that community remains…and community is a reflection of you. Render it healthy and find relief within the space you’ve nurtured.

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(1) So then the obvious question becomes: Why not cut out the middle-man (God)? As with everything, this is an option, obviously. But, for Muslims, the ‘middle-man’ is an inherent part of the equation. I’ll try my best to articulate how Muslims view this particular circumstance:

(a) One has the choice to either
Believe in the existence of God, thereby entering into a relationship with Him

Or

Not believe in His existence, thereby not engaging in that relationship.

(b) As a Muslim, you believe that God exists.

(c) This very belief naturally turns you towards God and makes you party to a relationship with God.

(d) The relationship with God is strengthened by your relationship with humankind, and vice versa.

Whereas a secular humanist would erase God from the above equation, a Muslim chooses to engage in that relationship instead.

The following example will make sense more to a Believer than a non-Believer because it presupposes the existence of God, but I’ll throw it out there anyway: An analogy to the relationship between wo/man and God is the relationship between child and parent.

That both child and parent are, doesn’t necessitate an engaged (if any) relationship. For the relationship to be it’s most successful, neither one of these parties must have their backs turned to the other, but rather they must embrace one another and live out the fullness and potential of the love shared and found within that relationship.

Muslims – at least my understanding of Islam and how I try to live my life – perceive the relationship between themselves and God as precisely this sort of a relationship. Furthermore, Muslims believe that God is always facing each individual, but the choice to reciprocate that rests solely with the individual in question. And as the Quran clearly states, there is no coercion in religion and so the movement to face God and enter into that relationship is one that must be done entirely by the freedom of choice possessed by the individuals themselves (and in fact, interestingly enough: the Quran indicates that most of humankind will turn away from this very relationship).

Originally published 07/09/16.

As with the months of Ramadan past, I usually take this time to focus on faith matters. To present a slight logic to the ordering of what I will post, I think it’s best to start with the very core of Islam, the basis, the foundation upon which everything else is built. Essentially, it is the entry into Islam: the Shahada (rhymes with ‘armada’).

Unlike most other traditions, the entry into Islam is quite likely the simplest. It is the articulation of a few words in front of witnesses (two at minimum, I believe). This is the formal way, because I would argue that in keeping with the essence of Islam, one can be a Muslim in their heart quietly, before articulating it aloud.

This, I believe is because of a Muslim’s unhindered relationship with God – so, for example, Muslims are judged not on the outcomes of their actions, but rather on their intentions. The underlying message being that whereas wo/man – for the most part – judge what they see, God alone judges by what no one else can see: the intentions in one’s heart.

Another example of this is that there does not exist within Islam the concept of ex-communication. So, you see a man who professes to be a Muslim but does not pray, does not fast, does not pay zakaat – then you as a wo/man may not be the judge of him. You never possess the power to say: “You are not a Muslim”.

Furthermore, Muslims have neither clergy nor confession. There are both male and female scholars who dedicate their lives to extrapolating from within the Quran and the traditions of the Prophet greater expressions and laws for Muslims, but they are to guide, rather than to serve as God’s representatives on earth. No one has a more direct ‘line’ to God, no one speaks in God’s voice, no one forgives in God’s place.

Each and every single individual has – should they choose it – a direct line to God. When you turn towards God, that’s your open source. Period.

Back to the Shahada, which is rooted in the Arabic verb ‘to testify’. For the longest time, people would represent the Shahada as comprising the following two statements:
“La ilaha illa Allah” / “There is no god but God” &
“Sayidina Muhammad rasool Allah” / “Muhammad is the prophet of God”

Recently, I’ve been engrossed in reading more about this in order to widen and deepen my understanding of my own faith. I came across a very interesting concept, which I think deserves further enquiry. The idea being, there are in fact three parts to the Shahada, as follow:
“There is no god”
“But God”
“Muhammad is the prophet of God”

…and the more I think about that, the more it makes sense to me. Because this entire life is about choice. The ebb and flow of us is so greatly rooted in the cause and consequence of our choices – a charge from which no one is free and serves to speak equally to the beauty of the human condition as it does to the root of its greatest struggles and pain.

For most of us, we are born into a tradition that we never question. We are born Muslim, Jewish, Christian, Buddhist, Hindu, etc. and most of us live our lives passively reflecting the choices of our parents but never actively choosing which one suits us most, which one moves us and resonates most deeply within us.(1)

Based precisely on the above, I think to understand that the Shahada is in fact three-fold, is critical. In this way, it becomes the expression of a choice made based on critical thought and from a clean slate. It is to toil, before you conclude. It is to struggle, before you believe.(2) In any situation (not solely faith oriented), the freedom to choose and the choice made are perhaps the most empowering expressions of one’s self.

So, to those of you who believe, then I say: constantly renew your faith. Challenge yourself; you already know what your core is, and confidence comes from that awareness. You know your principles and your values and your ethics, and so you should harbour no fear in facing challenge. To those who are scared they might lose themselves; you will only be lost if you never knew yourself to begin with.

What will happen is that you will grow from this challenge, as I have seen myself grow over the last several months and I hope, Inshallah, for the rest of my life.

For those of you who are uncertain, the chances that you were born into one tradition or another is much more likely than not. And so you I applaud because you have already made an active choice that is fully and completely your own rather than one imposed on you by environment. May you too continue to challenge yourself and may that journey always be a safe one.

****************************
(1) According to the US Census Bureau, approximately 85% of the world’s population has one tradition or another. The other 15% defined as agnostic, atheist, secular humanist or ‘none’. Half of this 15% category define themselves as ‘theists’ but non-religious.

(2) Here, I think the key is to search for something – be it a tradition such as Islam, Christianity, Judaism or the absence of one, such as agnosticism. Seek what’s out there, find the one that stimulates and resonates and moves you, and then pursue further knowledge in order to satiate the original desire born of the search. I did this in my early twenties and have been doing a great deal of this in the last perhaps three years. It is exhausting, but the rewards of it and the confidence stemming from knowing yourself is truly immeasurable.

The image presented above is Arabic Islamic calligraphy of the Shahada.

————

Originally published 07/09/14.

Daily, ask yourself about:

Your life: How you lived that day.
Your knowledge: What you learned and how you applied it.
Your money: How you acquired and spent it.
Your body: How you used it.

Right. Well, maybe not daily, so how about bi-weekly?

Whichever, try to make it a habit and always forgive your mistakes and your trip-ups, and then make certain to work away from whatever you’ve recognised as hurtful to yourself, this environment and others. Remember: we are only human and we will always make mistakes, no matter their devastating stupidity.

I have a very simple rule of thumb (that I don’t always follow, but I try…): Behave in a way about which I can tell my children, and/or in a way that I would understand from my children. Here’s hoping that my ovaries shall not remain unused.

Barring perhaps two moments in my life, there is very little that I would be ashamed to share with my babies when they’re older. Granted, some stories would need much more context setting, but there’s nothing I can think of that I would willingly hide from them.

Even though I don’t yet have children, I believe a parent represents – quite literally – the world to a child. The poorer the behaviour of a parent, the more difficult it will be for the child to engage in a healthy environment. I could be wrong, but I don’t plan on testing the theory out on my kids. (Note: This has nothing to do with genetics or “access”, but rather everything to do with obligation, ethical standard, self-awareness and determination.)

Often times, our obligation to ourselves falls to the side and we behave in ways that amount to emotional and physical self-mutilation. When you throw a child into that mix, something should change about how we live our lives and how much damage we’re willing to inflict on ourselves and inescapably, on those for whom we are responsible and to whom we must answer.

Take on the responsibility even when you’re not facing it just yet. Become the person you wish to be for the sake of the fat baldies you’ll one day stare at in fascination and wonder as they poo and gas themselves into surprise and hysteria.

———-

Image courtest of smarter(dot)com.

A variation of the above originally published on 07/06/18.

I have vivid memories of my childhood in Gaza. After supper, at around 3 pm, my seedo (grandfather) would go to his bed to nap while listening to the radio station ”Voice of Peace” anchored somewhere in the Mediterranean. I never knew – and still don’t – much about the radio station, but that it was seedo’s favourite and so I would lay next to him smelling him  (because I was a v creepy child) and holding his fingers while we listened and he slept.

I could stare at and play with his hands for hours because each one of his fingers and palms was very soft and puffy. I would push down on different parts of his hands with my little ones and watch as his skin filled out again and became just as puffy. I’m sure he pretended to be asleep, just to provide me with the comfort of poking his hands without making me nervous or scared. (Though these feelings he may have experienced every time I entered the room.)

When seedo and tata (grandmother) visited us in Canada, he would take the OC Transpo and go downtown to walk around the core of this City. I went with him once, only I was sixteen and so didn’t spend as much time with him as I should have; I noticed he would get off the OC Transpo while saying “Cheerio” to the driver.

The drivers liked this, while my angst-ridden, annoying, and self-righteous teenage self only thought about the British occupation of Palestine and fought the urge to yell “Cheerio is not who you are, seedo!”

As an adult, I have come to appreciate that Cheerio was every bit a part of him as his puffy hands.

Seedo was a principal until the PLO started and he was asked to run their Khartoum office being their representative abroad. He left the PLO shortly thereafter on account of disagreeing with their politics and returned to Palestine.

He returned to schooling and was elected the representative of all teachers and principals across Palestine, and finally ended his career as the head of the Red Crescent in Palestine. When he retired, he opened and ran a bookstore, this a rarity in Gaza. He used to bring me a different book each day and a pretty pen to match, explaining that knowledge and the pen were the essence and the beginnings of Islam and that I should be proud and cognizant of both in my life.

Today, this has translated into a fetish for both pens and books; neither electronic planner nor Kindle for this girl.

Of all the places I could be, I most preferred being in that bookstore. I would sit near seedo at his desk with a book and a smelly eraser that I snorted like a hardened cocaine user. They smelt pretty, like him.

Seedo would close the store at high noon when the sun could burn holes in his customers. He and I would walk to the souq to buy vegetables and fruit before going home for supper. After praying asr, he and I would head back to the bookstore taking usually an hour to walk the simple ten minutes. He would walk me past the coffee shops and introduce me to all of his friends every single day, sometimes sitting down for a sweet mint tea and a game of sheesh-beesh or chess.

The rest of the evenings in the bookstore consisted of me sitting by and listening to the conversations of politics and religion that inevitably ensued when the bookstore’s four extra chairs were filled with my seedo’s four best friends.

When something monumental was said, seedo would turn to me and ask me if I understood; where I didn’t, he would take the time to explain the concept until I could explain it back to him and his friends. Infinite patience, this man had.

I wish you could have met him, but he’s been away now for nearly nine years and on days like today, when the weather is humid enough to make the pages of my book moist and the air salty, I miss him and his soft puffy hands.

Ramadan kareem and cheerio, friends.

———-
A shadow of the above originally published in early 2007.

And I responded with the following email, which I thought to share with you, spelling and grammar mistakes well intact. Enjoy.

As per Ramadan – I would LOVE to!
- ‘Ramadan’ is the name of the month (like October or November) and the Muslim calendar, like the Jewish one, is a lunar one. As such, and unlike the Gregorian (Christian) calendar, the dates are never solidified, but rather shifting, so the beginning of Ramadan precedes its last year’s beginning day by 11 days.

Say Ramadan 2009 began on August 12, then Ramadan 2010 will usually fall on August 1.

- In Islam, there are 5 pillars of faith:

(1) Declaration that there are no gods but God and that his final prophet is Muhammad (which, intrinsically also means that as a Mulsim, you must believe in all prior Prophets beginning with Abraham, and including Moses, Noah, Jesus (peace be upon them), etc., and also believe that there are over 250,000 Prophets who came down to mankind and whose names have been lost. This to me is God’s way of asking Muslims to respect all faith traditions, no matter what or who they come from since we can never be certain whether that individual (i.e., Buddha) was a Prophet whose message was lost / skewed by mankind over time);

(2) Paying an annual tax to the needy (they do not have to be Muslim and it most definitely does not have to be to a Mosque). I believe that on the highest rank of ‘needy’ is clearly indicated the orphaned. Specifically, one must pay 2.5% of the value of their *unused* assets;

(3) Fasting during the month of Ramadan, which means no eating, smoking, drinking (not even water or gum) from sunrise until sunset. No sexing, either during this same time, and if one is pregnant, menstruating or in poor health, then they are excused from the fast;

(4) Prayer five times a day; and,

(5) Performing Hajj once in your lifetime if you are able and have the money. Where one has neither, then the *intent* to perform Hajj is considered enough before God.

(The above are not to be confused with the 5 articles of Islam, in which a Muslim must believe, and are: (1) Belief in God (obviously); (2) Belief in Judgement Day; (3) Belief in the books of revelation (Torah, Bible & Qur’an); (4) Belief in God’s archangels (Gabriel, Azrael, Michael); and (5) Belief in the messengers (Prophets).)

Fasting is the only one item of the 5 pillars for which God did not give Muslims a clear “why.” The others were all explained; fasting is said to be done for Him. Full stop. To the inquisitive and curious that may not be enough of a reason – for me, specifically, and so I understand it as a means to:

(a) hone my self discipline (fasting is no easy matter – but at the end of the 29 or 30 days, you wake up and think: I can do *anything*) and self-control. Essentially reaffirm that I am the master of my body, rather than slave to it.
(b) understand that it is a *luxury* to walk to the sink and grab a glass of water when we’re thirsty. That it is a blessing to feel hungry and run out and grab a burger or a pizza or a fruit, etc. When we consider the levels of poverty and death from starvation that occur at a sick rate on an hourly basis – this understanding is unmatched and critical in a day when apathy seems rampant.
(c) In the last few years, Ramadan has served as a time to take stock of my past 12 months. I usually have a running list of actions I have committed and with which I am not entirely comfortable, situations in which I have placed myself that I was probably best not to, and improper and unkind ways in which I have mistreated individuals. I try to remedy where I can, take note and change where I can not, and ultimately take the coming year to remove influences which I believe aren’t too healthy (emotionally, physically or spiritually).

It’s a slow road and I am a slow learner who sometimes tumbles back into the same mistakes; but still, it’s a great road if you’re up for the introspection and reminder that we should strive to be in a constant state of evolution and (inshallah) improvement.

And that, sir, is your very first blip of info on Islam.
Questions?
(p.s. I LOVE talking faith matters – love love love it!)

But for the video, the above was originally posted on 09/09/10.

No one can break your heart. That’s my starting point and it’s the only honest point of self empowerment. No one breaks our hearts, but rather, we allow our hearts to be broken. (And what worth is this world if we’re not on an always journey to finding that great love?) 

This does not mean that there aren’t individuals who willingly – with creepy joy – inflict pain upon others. Like the undeniable existence of the chickadee, there too is the undeniable existence of the Meanies who enjoy the trauma and hurt they cause others.

Additionally, what follows does not pertain to those who cheat on their partners, for they are c.nty c.cksuckers. (I am v v articulate.)

Most individuals we come in contact with are, simply put: ‘Goodies’. I’m sure that if they were edible, they would be sweet and soft and buttery. But they’re people and so I we hesitate to bite them; should they find me us trying to eat their elbow, they may be misled into thinking I we are a little weird.

That written, here are my four wee recs for how (possibly) best to approach heartbreak:

First: Ring up your 4 best friends and cry on the phone without saying a word. I know that no one told you this, but this is really what friends are for. That and for buying you birthday gifts. Ultimately, no one wants to cry alone, so it’s best to ring The Girls and weep. The occasional moan is also highly recommended.

By the end of the day, your eyes will be a beautiful shade of red, and they will be super tiny and you may even have the appearance of a different ethnicity and who doesn’t love a change-up every now and again?

Even cooler is that your hair will be extra frizzy; something you can’t buy in a bottle. Your sinuses will be clear and you will have a new found respect for the capacity of your mobile to function while drowned in tears.

Second: Accept and live the Regular Pain that comes with any sort of mourning. No matter the trauma, allow yourselves to mourn for three days and wear white, or if white doesn’t suit you, make certain to wear bright colours that reflect sunshine.

Ultimately, people drop dead and we can get over it; surely we can get over anything else that’s thrown our way, n’est pas?

Avoid and do not let entry into your hearts and minds the self-inflicted Super Dooper Pain. We like to self-pity because self-help books and therapists and today’s values teach us that it’s okay to self-pity. It may even make us pretty.

Frankly, there’s nothing sexy about self-pity and it offers no self empowerment and no ability for movement, growth or self realization. When you ‘oh woe is me’ your life away, you’re placing yourself in a position of spiritual and emotional paralysis and stagnation. Stop it. Cut it out. Oh woe is you is unacceptable.

It’s meaningless and detrimental to your beautiful self. I know, because I am all about self-pity. (Honestly, I am a disaster on some days.)

If you really must, then do it for no more than three days (I’m not kidding!). Then get out and go for a long walk and brush it off. If you have a friend who is Oh woe is her/he-ing, let them mourn for no longer than three days and then pull them out of their funk and force them to take a walk. Take them to a park, throw them into a lake, from a bridge, to a café, a restaurant, a movie…whatever. Don’t let them sit at home in isolation unless you want them to fall into a state of depression. Trust, and do it gently and with the greatest love you have in your heart.

Third: Self empower your a**. No one caused you heartache. Someone may have contributed to your sadness, but that’s it. Look at you; look at your actions and ask yourself what steps you took to bring this home to you.

When you’ve seen that, then you can really work to dig yourself out from the hole in which you sit.

To me, self empowerment means that I do my best to never stand by and let things ‘just happen’. In related news, I have control issues.

Listen. If you’re the sort of individual who willingly and passively stands by and lets someone or something run amuck with your life, then you need to refocus and get perspective where you had none. Immediately. Blaming others for the circumstance of your life is a weakness. It’s a copout and a cheapening of who you are; even worse, it’s your perfect excuse to never grow.

A friend recently told me that when people invoke the “but I love him/her” clause, it causes a break in the conversation. He’s absolutely correct; it serves as an excuse to justify misbehaviour and all ensuing means of emotional self-mutilation.

Before you next find yourself sobbing and blowing your nose at an unprecedented rate while declaring “but I love him/her”, please make certain to remove that statement and replay the conversation. This exercise will force you to see whether or not the actions are acceptable on their own merit.

From this vantage point you can now open your eyes to your own actions. You’re at an impasse here and you can either choose to bemoan your state or to rectify it in no uncertain terms. If you choose the latter, then carefully choose the materials you will use to build who you are as an individual. The materials you use should be materials that will, as already mentioned above, elevate you instead of allowing you to regress.

Just remember; we can always ask more from ourselves and we can always deliver if we so choose. Nothing can come to fruition unless we want it to, and the only way to want something is to want it with an unshakeable heart filled with conviction.

Fourth: Remember that God never gives us more than we can handle…and the greater the challenge, the luckier we are. The greater the hurdle, the stronger we become. What may feel like a disaster today should be the hope that you use and on which you begin building your future.

Variation of above originally published: 07/05/09.

I originally wrote the following on Dec 6, 2006. They still hold true today, and I am reminding myself of them as much as I am reminding you of them. A few new ones have been added along for the ride.

.1. Be good to your parents, especially your mama because she’s got God’s ear.

.2. Stop complaining and before you roll out of bed, learn to say ‘alhamdulilah’. It means Thank You God. Even if you don’t know whether or not you believe in Him, just do it.

.3. Stop feeling sorry for yourself because this is one of the least attractive characteristics in an individual (I took a recent poll all over the world and 99.9% of the respondents agreed with me). It’s as unattractive as long toenails. Also, see point no. 1 above.

.4. Not everyone you meet in life is going to like you. Deal with it, already. (And if you’ve not figured it out yet, you’re not gonna like everyone you meet either, so stop being so self-centered.)

.5. When you someday have a family of your own, never leave single friends alone during any of the big Holidays. You’re an a**hole if you do and Karma is going to find you alone and crying into your sad single-serving turkey sooner or later.

.6. If you have them, don’t take your human rights for granted. For those of you whose “mood is ruined” when you hear about another People’s pain, you need to smarten the f*ck up immediately. Compassion isn’t a sport, it’s a way of life and if you can’t live it, then you’re some sort of creep.

.7. Stop envying what other people have; Envy is a disease. You don’t have ‘it’ because you weren’t meant to have it or because you didn’t work hard enough to get it. If it’s the former, then you’re better off without it, and if it’s the latter, then shut-up and start planning the ‘how to get it’ phase of your life. Also, see points no 1 & 2 above.

.8. Floss your teeth. Dentures are never sexy.

.9. Remember that nothing is ever “too good to be true.”

.10. Forgive them even when they don’t apologize.

.11. F*ck up every now and then because it’s the only way you’ll learn.

.12. Don’t discuss your intimate dealings with those who don’t tell you theirs because, chances are, they’re just not into that sort of sharing. Give people only as much as they give you in terms of confidential conversation and save yourself a lot of time (much better spent elsewhere).

.13. If you have to hurt someone, find the nicest way possible. See above note about ‘Compassion’.

.14. To the best of your ability, don’t put yourself in a position for which you’ll have to apologize later.

.15. Learn to apologize like a child because they’re among the few who really mean it when they say it.

.16. Do you want something? Then stop f*cking talking about it and start doing what needs to be done in order to get it. I can honestly tell you that there’s never been one thing that I’ve wanted badly and with every part of me that I haven’t eventually had…and that’s not because I sit at home and dream about my potential ‘if only’. (Alhamdulilah.)

.17. Be patient because one day, your time will come and someone won’t have patience to deal with you and you’ll understand what kind of di.k you really were when you ‘just didn’t have the time’.

.18. Be humble and get over yourself, already. You’ll be a lot nicer and that can only be a good thing.

.19. Remember that you’re never the exception to the rule because life will be so much sweeter when you are.

.20. When you love someone, love them unconditionally and without fear.

.21. Say please, thank you, and you’re welcome. Mean it, too.

.22. When someone calls you, or emails you, or texts you, have enough manners to respond you stupid git.

.23. There is a very fine line between compassion and enabling. That line is in fact a loving conversation.

.24. Meet Alex O’Loughlin and give him my number. Please and thank you.

.25. To quote my baby cousin: Do your best, and leave the rest within God’s hands. 

Every time you speak, he will tell you how happy he is that you called; he’ll tell you how great it is to hear your voice; he’ll tell you he’s sorry he’s not called but he’s been so busy. And then, he will ask you to call him again.

He never wants you to think ill of him, nor does he wish to deal with the potentially emotional conversation of but…just because I think you’re nice, it doesn’t mean I like you, like you, you know?, instead preferring to leave you within the delusion that he still wants you “if only.”

“If only” he had more time.
“If only” he didn’t have such a busy schedule.
“If only” he got that rash cleared up.

That’s his hook, because it validates what you were looking for: That he wanted to hear from you, and you can’t be angry with him because he was happy to hear from you.

Wasn’t he? I mean, why would he ask you to call back if he wasn’t happy to hear from you?

At the sake of sounding like He’s Just Not That Into You, well: if he wanted you, he would have made the call. Sent the text. Pinged your Facebook. Sent smoke signals. Pumped out some morse code.

That’s the bottom line with men, it’s not complicated; they’re neither complicated nor sending you mixed signals. If they’re not calling you, my love, the message is clear.

For the most part, he’s neither being a d.ck, nor malicious, but rather he’s just being dumb and avoiding the situation. It’s a v v odd male quality this, that they will throw down physically much more easily than they will have a conversation which is bordering on emotional.

Also, much of the time, he doesn’t want to hurt you. Because you’re fragile and you will shatter and when someone puts you back together, you may be missing a left b00b and no man wants to be responsible for less b00bage in the world.

Listen. I get it: it’s easier to chalk up the above behaviour to him being a d.ck than to make the inevitable links he doesn’t like me, ergo there is something wrong with me, and then to have your insecurities run around like befuddled ninjas smashing everything you believed of yourself.

And of course, ideally, a person who isn’t into you would just tell you, deal with it, and then move on from it.  I mean, personally, I become a knot of electric energy when I know someone is into me and I don’t reciprocate. If I don’t make it Clarica clear that I don’t dig them, I will be nauseous and nervous and panicked. Because I am clearly fkd in the head.

The silver lining? There’s nothing wrong with having a man not like you in the way that you may wish for him to like you. I promise: you will not loose a b00b, though you may lose a little bit of your heart in the process…but our heart, being a muscle, gets bigger the more we use it. And that, in its amazingness, should make the experience worthwhile.

Variation of above originally published in 2006.

During uni, and for a little over five years, I was the manager of the most expensive lingerie boutique in Ottawa, carrying only the best lines Aubade, Chantelle, and Lejaby. A regular bra sold within the range of $120 – $175, panties & tangas upwards of $75. I was spoiled then and I continue to be so today; last bra I purchased was a Rigby & Peller — my favourite brand — at over $200. Being the lush that I am, this is one area in which I truly indulge.

With problems like war in the Middle East, famine, poverty, the concept of globalization, the US’ potential bankruptcy, right-wing lunatic fanaticism, Enrique Iglesias and Anna K, an ill-fitting bra should not be added to this list.

First, you should know that an excellent quality bra is made up of over 120 small pieces. As such, you really should pay a little more attention to the items holding your fun bits.

Second: there is no magic size, but rather that every bra and every material may mean that you will need a different size. Any salesperson who tries to tell you otherwise is an idiot who knows nothing about either a woman’s body or the delicate make up of an excellent bra.

Generally, there are two varieties of (natural) breasts. Here are my sad pathetic attempts to illustrate them:

Whereas ‘A’ looks best in a demi horizontal cup (usually called a ‘balcony’ or a ‘half-cup’ bra), ‘B’ looks best in a demi diagonal cup (usually called a ‘plunge’ bra). The reason this is so is because the different bras highlight the natural shape and contour of your breasts.

With ‘A’, you should be working on creating cleavage that looks as though it fell out of Hugo’s Les Liaisons Dangereuses, whereas with ‘B’ breasts, you really should be working on creating a more plunging neckline feel, either which suits those days when you’re inclined to unbutton an additional button, you hussy. (CALL ME!!)

Ten Tips For Buying a Bra
The digit corelates to the circumferance of your rib cage, while the letter to the size of your breast. That said…

.1. Take your best friend, because she will tell you when your breasts are falling a little too close to your armpits.
.2. Bring a tight t-shirt to the shop. When you’ve tried the bra on, wear your t-shirt over it and make sure you like what you see.
.3. The wire of your bra should never poke you in the armpit. If it is, then you’re wearing the wrong cup size.

.4. Your wire should sit completely flat against your rib cage. NOT ONE PART OF IT should be cutting into ANY part of your breast. The wire is supposed to “cup” your breast, (hence why it’s called an A, B, C, D, etc “cup”). If it’s cutting into your breast, you’re wearing the wrong size and should move upwards on the alphabetical scale.
.5. There should be no ‘extra’ material in the cup. This means there should be no puckering in the cup. Instead, the cup should be stretched perfectly across your breast.
.6. The band of the bra should sit at the tiniest part of your back, the area directly beneath your breasts. It should wrap around your body evenly and so where it sits in the front is exactly where it should sit in the back. To confirm this size, measure the area and add 2″ — the end number is your number. If the back of your bra crawls up toward your neck, it means you need to try a size smaller number.
.7. One breast will be mm larger than the other, making a huge diffrence, and so when trying on the bra keep this in mind and adjust the straps accordingly by loosening the strap of the slightly larger side.
.8. Move around. Life your arms, move them over your head, bend over; make sure you’re comfortable in the bra.
.9. When you try on a bra, buckle it on the loosest hook and place your straps at their middle point as well. Like anything made of material, your bra will give with time, and this must be taken into account when you make your purchase.
.10. If it comes in a box, just don’t bother coming back to my blog. You need to buy yourself one bra that’s hanging on a hanger. Just once in this lifetime indulge yourself and you’ll understand my fetish.

And here’s a free bit of advice: Never let a man loose to buy you a bra on his own. Teddies, panties, garters, tangas, ok, but for the love of God, not a bra. If he must, then you have to accompany him in order to ensure it’s the proper fit, because one last time for the record: There is no such thing as a magic size.

Please share this with your girlfriends.

.1. The very first time I carried a UNICEF box, I was mesmerized by it. Proportionally, I was about the same size as the box itself, only it was — unlike myself — v bright orange. This way, when children carried it while trick or treating, people would see it and not run them over.

Do you remember the UNICEF boxes?

The first time I received it, I was staring at it hard enough to walk right past the Principal’s office and directly into an adjacent wall.

Sad monkey, I crushed my very first UNICEF box and forced my mom to tape it back together. She didn’t do the most bang-up job because as I walked around the neighborhood with my crooked tiara, wand and ballet outfit, I leaked pennies.

.2. Without argument, I made the world’s most pathetic paper Christmas tree.

Whereas all other trees were perfectly defined and color coordinated because Christians know, mine looked like I’d thrown up all over a small piece of green paper awkwardly ripped apart. 

I tried to hide it from my teacher, but she was a sadist and so grabbed it from my small hands and pinned it much too high on the wall for me to reach.

I distinctly remember being filled with rage that my tree was so ugly, while all others were so beautiful and perfect. Envy you were my teddybear bedfellow.

Inconsolable for the rest of the season, I’d stare up at my fkd up Christmas tree and cut my teacher with my small eyes whenever she had her back turned.

Though I willed it to either burn or fall, neither happened. Eventually, she replaced it with my equally fkd up rendition of the Easter Bunny: a donkey with a round tail.

.3. I was very proud to learn that many French and Spanish words have Arabic roots. (i.e. The French pantalon is rooted in the Arabic bantaloon.).

For the rest of the year I told anyone who would listen that Arabs taught the French and Spaniards their respective languages. I also lied and told everyone that I was fluent in French and Spanish, because I was Arabic and genetically predisposed to speaking these two languages.

.4. Watching Dr. Who and then talking about the episodes with my Dungeons & Dragons mates.

.5. Kabala wasn’t “hot” yet and Madonna was still a virgin, but I, yes I, your blog mistress, wore a red string. And not just any red string, but rather: a red string. Around my head.

I loved that red string hard.

Seven years old, I thought how if Olivia Newton John had been graced with a red string, she too would have tied it really tightly around her forehead and made a pretty extravagant bowtie in the back.

I was too stupid to note that I wore it so tightly, I often couldn’t blink. 

How no one thought it proper to hold me back a grade or a few remains beyond me.

Originally published: 06/07/19.

The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for you, not knowing
How blind that was.

Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere
They’re in each other all along.

- Rumi

Proper climbing, you should be flat against the wall, much like a leech, using your legs to push up and your arms merely to locate and hold on to the strategic power spots you intend to reach.

Unfortunately, I chose to climb first time ever with ass out and in a hysterical panic. I used my arms to pull myself up, as my knees locked and with my pale face pressed firmly to the climbing wall. The entire scoot upwards, I contemplated my imminent death in a plastic diaper (*harness).

At one point, both my legs may have been at 90 degrees from the rest of me, while I still jutted my ass outwards.

I mean, it was terrible.

Proper descent, you should lean back and assume a seated position. As your spotter lets the rope ‘out’ you must descend by slowly pushing yourself (bouncing gently) off the wall.

In the interest of comedy, I descended much like the way I ascended. Instead of assuming the seated position, I full throttled the starched starfish, thereby forcing my spotter to bring me down as though I were on a fishing rod. Because I was so scared, I kept bumping into the wall on my way down. With my face.

Happy weekend!

A not-so-funny version originally posted on: 06/03/24.

*****
Image courtesy of Winthrop.

There are several reasons why I don’t grocery shop on a regular basis. For your consumption, here they are.

(a) I am constantly drawn to the Check Out By Yourself area because I really like making the beeping sound.

Listen. I know that it’s not really me making the sound, but I’m responsible for it and that provides me with the only moment of control during my pilgrimage to the dairy section often buried within the darkest confines of the grocery store.

Why is the control necessary?

(b) Because I can never find a grocery cart that I can control. That girl, bumping into walls and knee-capping people with her cart? That girl, red faced and sweaty from her on-going skirmish with the bastard grocery cart? That’s me.

Of the 7,926, 832 shopping carts available, I will choose the one cart that doesn’t work. Embarrassingly, I can’t control it enough to navigate it back for another one, as I fear  that my lack of control will result in my taking out one of the creeps milling about at the entrance asking for a donation. The creeps are what some people call “children.” But, I mean, I don’t understand why we need to be so technical all the time.

Instead, I trudge along with my bastard, smashing into everything and having absolutely no direction whatsoever. I end up buying diapers because that’s where the bastard cart takes me, instead of to the toilet paper section.

(c) Another trauma inflicting object in the grocery store? The swirly thing on which you’re supposed to place the items you’ve already checked out. It measures everything by the gram and then slaps you across the face if you’re missing a piece of lettuce that once sat on the other side of the machine before you swiped it.

If you take too long, dust accumulates on the ‘already swiped’ objects and the machine thinks you’re stealing cotton balls. One by one.

Don’t ever place a long loaf of bread on the swirly thing. Or flowers for that matter.

WHY?

Because they will get stuck and they will break and split and draw everyone’s attention when you’re panicking and turning the little wheel like an overgrown rodent in lipstick, trying to access the next shopping bag that you can’t open because panic means sweaty palms.

And you may as well have dipped your hands in trans fat because that’s what it feels like when you’re trying to open the plastic bags and there’s a crazy woman behind you tapping her feet and smacking her gum while she reads Soap Opera Digest and her offspring is screaming because their hands are stuck to the on-sale frozen chicken bre@sts and the machine is yelling PLEASE PLACE PURCHASED ITEM ON TRAY and you can hear it actually giggle as the grocery store comes to a screaming hysterical halt to listen to your heavy labored breathing and the slip n slide of yours trans fat covered hands scraping away at the plastic bag right before you start blowing on the top of the plastic bag with the final prayer that maybe, just maybe, the air will magically open the bag for you. And when it finally does open, Chariots of Fire starts to play in your head and then. Then. You realize that it didn’t actually open, but that you managed to separate two plastic bags from one another and there’s still no bag available into which you may shove your dairy products and eggs are so fkn overrated ANYWAY.

(d) People aren’t friendly in the grocery store. It’s all about them and their carts and me and my bastard one. The other day, I was standing quietly in an aisle thinking about the effects of more cookies on my ass, when I got bumped.

I was literally “bumped” by a man’s grocery cart. He was about 361 years old and he decided that rather than going around me, he would just go through me. Maybe he couldn’t see me.

But surely he could hear the “Excuse me”
bump
“Pardon me, sir?”
bump
“Uh. Can you please stop…”
bump

My choices were to either throw a box of cookies at him or move. So, I moved, but while cutting him very severely with my eyes, which is something I have been practicing at home because: If I can’t be cool in the grocery store, I am going to at least be tough when facing children and the elderly.

(A not so funny variation originally published: 06/02/26)

**********

Image from StyleList.

The saying “Paradise is at the feet of mothers” is rooted in the following:

A man asked the Prophet Mohammed whether he should fight in a war. To this, the Prophet asked if the man’s mother was still alive. When the man answered that she was indeed still alive, the Prophet responded with “(Then) stay with her, for Paradise is at her feet.”

I have just come home from saying goodbye to my mother. She’ll be in the Gaza Strip for the next month, and I already miss her so much it’s almost unbearable.

There’s no person on this earth who could provide me the sort of calm, kindness, shelter and warmth that my mother can. I hate that I won’t be able to crawl into bed with her when I’m too tired to fall asleep alone…

She is the only one who knows my darkest secrets and thoughts, the only one I fear to disappoint, the only one I would kill to protect. She’s also the only one who has never ridiculed even the most ridiculous of my feelings…and she’s never once not forgiven me for the most unforgivable actions.

There have been fights, yelling matches, angry words, threats and all of the usual suspects that make up a relationship of 31 years. But. Everything I am is because of her and the mere thought of losing her, breaks me.

I don’t want this to be a sad blog entry, and so I will share a funny scenario which occurred as I was driving her to her destination earlier this day. She recently acquired a global mobile phone (for safety while she is crossing the Rafah border into Gaza) that she’s still learning how to use.

She sat in the car and explained how she was having trouble accessing her voicemail. I asked her to walk me through the steps she followed in order to retrieve her messages. When the “voicemail lady” asked her for her P.I.N. number, my mother started chattering into the phone. For a moment, I had no idea what she was doing, until I realised that she was under the misimpression that she had to say her P.I.N. number aloud, rather than actually key it into the mobile. I was laughing so hard I nearly crashed my car.

She’s an incredible woman. Not to mention an absolutely (& sickeningly so) stunning woman. This photo was taken when she was my age (her eyes are a very unique shade of pale green that I have yet to see on anyone else):

…they took this photo of me on the same day:

Read here if you’re interested in learning more about (specifically) mothers in Islam…

Thanks to my Fiery M for the inspiration.

(Originally published: 06/01/06)

Over a year ago, I moved from blogger to WordPress (here), at which time none of the comments were transferred over. I have since cut + pasted the comments of almost 400 entries, with an approximate 300 posts left.

Additionally, I have sorted through all existing comments and cleaned up a lot of the email typos so that your gravatars** are yours alone. Greatly appreciated if you would please always ensure to use your correct email addy so that your identifying image is yours alone. Thank you! (Additionally, if you see that my avatar accidentally appears next to your name, this is why. Please let me know and I will fix it immediately.)

This site has been live since 2004 and I have exactly 832 published articles. Now that I have renamed this site, and cleaned up the existing comments, I am also categorizing and tagging each post individually. Ultimately, I wish to add new tabs across the top of the page which reflect the most important categories.

With the volume of articles, I have set aside one hour each evening to complete the following:

- Sort through 20 articles, tagging and categorizing accordingly.

- Transfer the comments of that article from blogger to here.

- If the article is interesting enough, I will update it and re-publish it as current, with a small reference at the bottom of said piece to the original date of publication.

All work will be completed by September 2nd, inshallah.

If you have any ideas for the site, or if you would like to see  more of one thing and less of another, please send your thoughts my way via email: is_maha@yahoo.com

**If you don’t like your gravatar (the image associated with your email address, when you comment), then pop over here to upload a photo of your choice. This photo will appear next to each of your comments.

Comments closed.

Dear Kirk Cameron,

My infantile crush was on the cartoon character Orion Quest of Grendizer. On occasion, I find myself still humming the show’s tune, and would today argue that Grendizer far outdoes Transformers.

NERDS! WE ARE ALL CAPS DISAGREEING.

When I matured, I developed my first ever really true-and-tried-though-never-tested crush on you, convinced that I was in the throes of passionately heady and unrequited love. This, well before you found your version of God and decided that humans have only been around for, like, 17 years or something.

When mum and dad punched one another in the marriage, I decided to take advantage of the wound which had swallowed my mother whole. (What can I say? She was vulnerable, and I wasn’t v nice.)

I breached the subject matter of moving to Los Angeles (Beverly Hills specifically) and dating you. I was so mindful and devoted to this idea that I drew up a contract on a napkin and made mum sign that I would be allowed to date you when we moved to L.A. Naturally, the dating would have been ever-lasting and we would have been married. I was 13.

I would have mailed you a copy of the contract, only I have now deleted your name and inserted Alex O’Loughlin’s instead accidentally flushed it away, which begets the inevitable: What if?

Having matured, I now know that we would have been ill-fated, you and I. You, eventually calling me a terrorist, while I repeatedly asked: Why tf are you scared of science?, and quickly following it up with: MUSLIMS HEART JESUS (pbuh)!!

Right. So yesterday, my Boss Lady told me that it’s not necessary for me to say everything out loud. Something about an inside voice. Because of her encouragement, I thought to write you this letter because surely, this is one quality — ♥ing you, Kirk Cameron — which I should never hide.

Love,
Maha
P.S. I believe in dinosaurs. See you in hell!

Comments closed.

Few city nights are as sexy as a humid summer evening in Montreal. Add a little Zeppelin to this mix and you’re golden.

Here, I have always found that there is no urgency in action and no reaction that isn’t slightly languid. On summer evenings, this turns everything sensual.

More warming is that, for the most part, no one is shy in their displays of affection.

Watching couples walk by, I couldn’t help but wonder What is it that draws and then keeps people together?

I polled my friends, both male and female.

Almost certainly, all answers began with something akin to “sexual chemistry, obviously…”

When I asked what that meant, no one could go beyond the words “physical attraction, obviously.”

Beyond my immediate distaste for the word “obviously,” I started thinking about sexual chemistry. The reality is that there’s absolutely nothing obvious about sexual chemistry. That it is ambiguous never really occurs to anyone, but rather, they focus on its necessity.

And, it is most definitely a necessity. I don’t believe that anything long-term can transpire if there is no immediate and almost caustic sexual chemistry. It won’t happen all too often in our lives, it may only happen a number of times; it goes beyond visual appreciation and reaches into something much more palpable. The more urgency there is in that initial explosion, the more likely the relationship will at least begin on the right path. Where it will end is anyone’s guess.

If it were a means of physical attraction and nothing more, then we’d be drawn to thousands of individuals in our lifetime or maybe I am just some sort of good-times hooker, no one in particular standing out. No one unique and nothing sacred.

I can’t imagine that sexual chemistry is only about wanting to tear one another’s clothes off as that seems relatively pedestrian and a little bit of a bore.

At the sake of sounding like a hippie wanker (this hurts me more than you), I think what’s key is to look for a certain energy in which you want to be enveloped. If you’re any level of mature, then you should be able to read the energy of the person in front of you; if you find yourself poised, relaxed, attentive, attracted, intrigued and wanting to share in that energy then don’t let that person walk away from you. Also, don’t be a rapist.

Ultimately, it’s that energy which makes people stay together: The ability to work through one another to reach our individual as well as our combined potential. And since we can never reach our complete potential, that process is unbroken and takes the suited lovers with it. Always.

Note: I believe in deep and great true love. Deeply bitter individuals incapable of opening their hearts to the potential vulnerability of great love will likely call me naïve…a label I am quite happy to wear because better here than in their blackened and petrified hearts.

There is now a part deux to this article.

(05/07/19)

**********

.1. Would love to hear your definition of sexual chemistry (email if you are too shy to comment). Additionally, dl Natacha Atlas’ Something Dangerous and listen to ’Quand je ferme les yeux’ before any of the other tracks.

.2. Image courtesy of the incredible jeremymasonmcgraw.com

As hard as I tried, I never saw beyond the squiggles of an austereogram and for a while was convinced — like a die-hard conspiracy theorist — that no one saw anything and that they were liars all a part of the charade. Also, that they were likely v high.

I don’t possess whatever capacity is required to suspend my eyes into not focus. My natural instinct is to see something and lock on it rather than looking past it.

Which is a metaphorical way of saying: my perspective can be really fkd.

I have always been an optimist. Some would argue: to a fault. And by “some,” I mean all of my pessimist friends whom I lovingly call a.sholes behind their backs. JUST KIDDING, YOU GUYS!! CALL ME!!

Exasperatingly, I obsessively believe that perspective is the primary key to our happiness, and that 90% of the pain we experience is self-mutilation brought on by our own chosen perspective. When we are facing trying work, relationship, friendship, or school situations, but not when we are having bombs dropped on our heads. Obviously, I am not fool enough to rumble on about how Iraqis ought to see the bright side: they no longer need wrecking balls.

When we have a sh.t situation settle itself into our life, we have to decide whether it will crush us for months and maybe years, or whether we’ll only allow the pain, confusion, and anger to settle in for a few weeks before we then pick up our sh.t, walk to the other side of the situation in order to bury it with a quick “thanks much for getting that sorted and out of my life for me.”

Listen. Before any of you start yelling at me, let me state the obvious: I live a v cushy and lush life. I am blessed and exist without real trauma or pain, but this isn’t reason enough to discount my perspective (see what I did there?) because pain and hurt are relative.

That said, by no stretch does my belief mean that I don’t stumble and fall, often skipping along on my tummy like a stone across a pond. Because I do; a lot. Also, I understand how v v difficult it is to haul our a.ses up and shift perspective.

More often than not, I am in a state of internal jihad (definition: struggle, the most important of which within Islam is internal struggle to self-awareness and improvement, you stupid fkn terrorists, and sensationalist news persons who have hijacked this term) trying to find the better, gentler, kinder and more optimistic angle to any given situation within which I am swallowed.

When I can’t find it on my own, my best friend in the whole wide world punches me in my perspective to straighten me out.

Perhaps the key is to begin by accepting the inarguable reality that we are presented with an infinite possibility of platforms from which to see any given situation. Then to — with time — slowly edge ourselves away from the Heart of Darkness of our minds, to the area with comfortable cushions and a secure place to rest safely. Rinse and repeat.

While always coupling it with the humility to support others as they baby-step from one platform to another if we are inclined to sprinting.

To those of you who have dropped ‘thank you’ from your vocabulary, you are best to pay attention.

We don’t have to hold the door open for you, or the elevator, or let you move ahead even though you budded. We don’t invite you to a party or to a coffee or into our lives because we owe it to you.

..our courtesy is not a duty, but rather a means of politeness we choose to exercise.

The fk is wrong with you that you don’t know this?

At the sake of Clarica-ing: When someone sends you an invitation to any kind of a gathering and you know this person (not to be confused with a random Facebook creep with whom you never have contact), RSVP with a thank you note you rude and entitled sad-sack. Don’t ignore the invitation or pretend it doesn’t exist. Don’t “No” to the invitation without behaving like a proper human being. (Oh the drama of being polite! So. Much. Work. For such a lazy grouping.)

Thing is, someone has extended the courtesy of their home to your sad-sack self. So RSVP, with a thank you note, already. It takes a moment and it says two things: (1) You appreciate the fact that people still bother inviting you into their homes; and, (2) You have good manners. Because you know what, sad-sack? Very soon, you’ll stop receiving invitations. (If you haven’t already.)

People. For all of your ability to kind, you can be really fkn ignorant sometimes.

As most of you know, I was born and lived the first years of my life in North Africa where mama and baba were working at the time. In preparation of my daily travels, I used to lay out baba’s largest map which covered the entire floor of our living room. I would “travel” on my tricycle across the globe in that way, talking to myself and making up imaginary friends as I went and with whom I would have adventures.

Like Mark.

Mark was my friend and we met while I was in Europe. Mark was my height and he too had a tricycle. I would tricycle sometimes three times around the globe until I reached his home (Europe, any part of) where he would join me.

We went to Turkia together and made fun of the name, asking if we wanted it mashwi (grilled) or ma’li (fried). Then there was the one time we went to Amrica and met white people. They too were our height and had tricycles but we never let them travel with us. They always wanted to eat hamburgers and we wanted ma’looba. Mark was nice and never argued with me. He was also a Transformer and he was able to do magic tricks when he wasn’t saving the world.

Mark was my first crush. He was a cartoon character but I loved him anyway for his very large brown eyes and softly feathered brown hair. He was polite and never spoke back to mama or baba. That made for lovely dinner time.

We belonged to a club. Often times I would take Mark with me in my pocket – one of his hero superpowers, to shrink himself into a very small Mark so that I could carry him with me and tell him my secrets and share with him my dreams.

At the club one evening, I didn’t feel like playing with the other kids and so I sat and had a lovely grownup conversation with The Man At The Front Entrance. He wasn’t a bouncer exactly, more like a valet and a welcoming committee rolled into one.

He was black (like Sharon whom I lovingly call ‘Brownie’ and who calls me ‘Miscellaneous’) and he was my friend. He always asked me about Mark. On this one particular evening, when I was no older than four years old, we had the following conversation that shaped the rest of my life:

“How’s Mark?”
“Alhamdulilah, he says Salaam!”
“Say Salaam back.”
“You can say it yourself – here…!” and I took Mark out of my pocket.
“Salaam Mark.”
“I’m teaching him Arabic!”
“I see it’s coming along very well.”
“It is! Mark’s really smart because he’s a Transformer and he’s from EUROPE!!”
“Transformers are smart.”
“Mark has a question for you!”
“Okay.”
“Mark wants to know why you’re brown and what it means!”
“I’m brown because Allah made me brown.”
“Why didn’t Allah make me brown?”
“Because Allah made us different colors to add variety and fun to the world.”
“But are we the same? Mark wants to know!”
“We are the same.”
“So can I be brown?”
“If you sit in the sun long enough, maybe.”
“And can you be pink, like Mark and I?”
“I already am. Look…”

…and with that, my friend turned his hand over and showed me his palm which was as pink as my own.

“Heeeeeeeeeeeey! You’re brown and PINK!!!! LIKE A RAINBOW!!!!”
“That’s right. There’s parts of each of us in one another.”
“Mark says thanks for your answer!”
“You can tell him he’s welcome.”
“I will! I’m going to get an orange Mirinda, do you want one?”
“I would love one.”
“Can Mark and I have a hug?”
“Of course you can.”
“Mark loves you.”
“Please tell Mark that I love him too.”

Originally published on 07/06/21.

Dear Reader,

Oh look. I’ve gone and changed the title again.

As starting point, I would like to introduce you to the lunatic + lovely coupling which brought forth yours truly. I stood a small and already confused person between them. Yes, Arabs and Muslims often come in different shades than brown / terrorist.

This photo was taken well before these two stopped procreating forever and ever eternal and divorced, ensuring that the weight of their worlds rested squarely upon my lone and no-longer blond head. Thanks mum and dad; you’re nice.

Look at how happy and somewhat menacing these two people are; as though they’ve never had their photo taken before.** Or they were the first to procreate a small person. Upon closer inspection of the photo, I am clearly scared rather than confused. They are gorgeous, aren’t they? (**Also, I am kidding — Arabs know what a camera is.)

As those who read me on the regular already know, I have for the past while been searching for a common denominator through my writing, a place where I would comfortably park myself for time to come, a place in which this now seven year-old internets home may flourish and behave as the histrionic comedienne it was meant to be.

As I am painfully dense, this endeavor left me struggling for weeks until earlier today, when it finally sank in to just write what I know already (which is what everyone and their mother had previously advised).

A few days back, I thought I had arrived at Humour, in fact, but knew by the itch it left that something was missing still: a specificity to my writing.

Not only does the Prolific Immigrant leave no room for vague, it feeeeels 100% right.

My family came to Canada when I was aged four and still v v malleable to my parents’ will. We are Muslim, Palestinian, and I was born in Libya. Essentially, my identity is where all Axis of Evil points converge.

“Canadian” is how I have always identified. (POUTINE!! CALL ME!!) Only recently — not as begrudgingly as one might think — I accepted with open arms that though this remains the predominant character to my identity, it is by no means the only.

In reality I am all things Palestinian, Canadian, Muslim, female, liberal, and often: v v dumb.

Henceforth, predominant (not all) pieces here shall be love letters to my identity; the beauty of it, the challenges it has wrought upon my life, and the strength of character and pride which it has forced upon me even when I didn’t want it (and while I may still sometimes attempt to punch it in its hair).

Though it doesn’t take much for me to reach it, I trust that you are as excited by this new direction as I am.

Love,
Maha

Of late, I have been quite heavily and v happily wrapped in citizenship issues and questions.

I understand this struggle of immigration on a personal level and also the depth of joy it brings to those who cherish their new world; naturally, with recognition that leaving behind family, cultural and community ties are a heartbreak.

Lucky for I, my baba came to Canada not out of necessity, but rather to ensure that his daughter (me, dear reader) have opportunities which extend beyond “marriage at 18 or 19?” Grateful am I, and single still. I still remember my dad studying for his exam, and my wanting to study alongside him until I became v v bored because there were no pictures in the book.

As such, I am a soppy loser often moved to tears at the site of Citizenship come to life, and equally enraged when I note that some individuals take for granted their Citizenship cards and status. That photo is my card which I cherish v v dearly (lucky for me that the resemblance between me today and me then is obvious enough, I am not forced to apply for a new one lest this be lost. Hurrah).

A few weeks ago, my mom and I went to vote for Canada’s 41st Government. While in line, she told me how excited her and my dad had been the first year they could vote as Canadian Citizens. After casting my ballot, I stood back watching with great pride as my (age removed under threat of pain from mom) year old mum ambled her way to vote once more, and again, I was nearly moved to tears.

Right until she popped her head around and yelled from behind the voting box: “I JUST CHOOSE ONE, RIGHT?”

In related news, my mother’s turretic inclinations increase with age.

Like just recently when mama and I ran into an old friend, and my mother, bewildered, suddenly became wrapped up in an all-consuming need to remind this woman of how she really was, once a fatso. Though I tried to balance out the conversation, I failed miserably:
“I hardly can tell you lost weight”
“Oh yeahhh….I can tell. You were SO BIG.”
“I really can’t see it…”
“Oh noooo….TOO BIG!!”
“I think you look great.”
“Oh, thanks God you lost ALL THAT MUCH WEIGHT.”
“I honestly don’t really know what she’s talking about.”
“SO HUGE!”

On that note: Immigrants and non-immigrants alike, give your mummies a kiss today, please.