I'm ready

Im ready…. Im totally ready. I sinned…. I prayed. I kissed the blackstone and cried by the kaaba. I wasted infinite years in lust and indulgence. I earned some money and spent even more and more. I suppose that I was a good friend, saved some from boredom by naughty and gossipy tales. I worked, over worked, postponed work and even begged for work. I read, I wrote and I’m sure that I’ll greatly miss doing this again. I loved, I hated, I l forgave, I didn’t care, I screamed and then at last I became numb. I’m ready…I’m ready to leave. I will miss you all. I don’t know what will happen, and sorry I won’t be able to tell. Will it be a nap? A long sleep? A dream? I hope it won’t be a nightmare! You will miss me, I’m sure…just as I missed all those who went there. But where is there? Is it even a place…or is it just a different state? So many preachers shouted and warned us, but I think it should be ok. I have never harmed anyone and whatever I did was not intentional. Am I starting to confess? Too many questions will be on that day. Will I’ll be burnt for something silly I said or did, I hope this won’t be the way. Im ready…..Im totally ready. Im not running away from endless responsibilities, children to raise and bills to pay. If this is a short phase, a period, a journey, then let me reach the final stage. Am I longing to the eternal happiness? The peace of mind and everything we don’t have here and now. I had my share of laughs and a way bigger share of tears. I feel content and happy, now there is no reason for fear. I wasted opportunities, I let people down, I tried to do my best but most of the time I was lazy and lame. I loved the sea, the desert…. Do I have time to add more, I still have a lot to say. Im ready… am I ready? no Im not ready…. No one is ever ready to leave...

She told me

The goddess, the mother goddess, the productive earth, Ishtar, Ashtoreth, Astarte, Athar. The queen immortalizing a small oasis by dignity and pride. The nun still hymning in Aramaic after two millennia of Judas’s betrayal. The mother spending most of her life cooking and preparing thyme, and olive oil for her family I will not mourn her now. I will not cry again. I will not accept any more condolences. I am returning today to rejoice, cherish and venerate the goddess, the queen, the nun and the mother. In a land "flowing with milk and honey". Whose fertility tinted the dead sands of Asia in every possible green shade before kissing the salty Mediterranean, and made it the reward at the end of every barren and dismal silk road. A land whose beauties seduced invaders and crazed tyrants. where Assyrians, Amorites, Hittites, Canaanites, Phoenicians, and Arameans delicately brushed and interwove her long silky hair, before being suddenly pulled by the Egyptians, Sumerians, Babylonians and Persians, till young Alexander crossed the Aegean to tighten a Hellenistic band around her flowing tufts. The Romans intervened to make sure that Zenobia’s dark braids were plaited in their style before disappearing beneath a white veil as pure as that of the Virgin. In cities older than time, her sons chiseled life with their sweat, songs, pain and hope. She were blessed them as she whispered their stories. I heard them all, and I came today to recall them, cry them and sing them again to you, and to hail her with her endless legacies and golden glories.

The goddess Ishtar, who sown prosperity everywhere did not know how and from where to begin. Her eyes shined with pride and happiness, before smiling to allow the words to whirl around her tender voice. It all started here, in the same place where Cain killed his brother Abel with a rock. On one of these silent mountains Adam came to mourn his son, the first human to die. From his tears and pain Damascus was born. A city that grandmothered the most ancient ones, and witnessed patiently their birth and decay. A city whose name had sparkled sixty time in the bible. A city whose grace guided the Jewish traveler Saul of Tarsus to Christianity, and recreated him as the Apostle Paul in one of her streets. A city which Prophet Muhamed refused to enter, why? the truth is covered by many colorful velvet legends, one says that on the horizon the Prophet saw how beautiful the oasis city was, so he decided to stop his journey because "man should only enter Paradise once”. In a different, yet, generally accepted story, when prophet Muhamed was a young boy accompanying his uncle’s merchant caravan, and as they passed by the southern city of Bosra, he met a monk, who believed that a prophet was soon to appear among the Arabs. As soon as Bahira, the monk saw Muhamed, he realized that he carried all the signs of the awaited Prophet described in his old manuscripts. Accordingly he advised Muhammad’s uncle to take him back to Makka as soon as possible to protect him against possible enemies. The goddess sighed, and continued, she said that even if Muslims believe that Muhamed did not enter the city, they are waiting for Jesus descent from heaven onto the white minaret of the city’s great mosque. However between the death of Abel and the descent of Jesus, my city had never paused, it kept enchanting her generous people and their visitors. The verdant orchids hugging the city, showered her with flowers, scented herbs and fruits year round, as Barada river washed her slowly and tenderly. I saw kingdoms and dynasties whirling around its churches, mosques and palaces, and listened to their murmurs praying, moaning and singing. I lingered around the cobbled winding alleys, roamed the legendary bazaars, meditated in the shaded courtyards and was purified in the ancient balmy hamamms. I lost myself in the goddess, I embraced Damascus with all my senses, and surrendered to the spell of the immortal city, the city of Jasmine. The queen called, she commanded me to come closer. To cross the arid emptiness, and visit Palmyra. The “Bride of the desert”. The provincial town that woke up suddenly to conquer Egypt. The oasis that dared to oppose Rome. The booming voice echoed around Corinthian columns, archways, theaters, ornate tombs and reached her gods, Bel, Nebo, Arsu, Baalshamin in their magnificent temples. Zenobia’s eastern flair, stubbornness, beauty and wisdom glowed over the golden stones as a quick mirage and an unfulfilled dream. I traced her elegant steps around her thriving cosmopolitan city, where Aramaic, Greek and Palmyrene burbled in its markets. The mysterious queen was wrapped in myths woven by her enemies, who bestowed all their misconceptions about the east generously on her. The Roman prejudice did not expect or accept that the Regina Orientis expands her territory, so they simply crushed the magnificence, looted the treasures and dissolved her nascent empire. The courageous beautiful Queen of the East, was dragged to Rome in humiliation, while her people were scattered in the ruthless sands. The sun and heat crescendoed forcing me to leave the splendorous ruins, the shadow of the ambitious queen, and to ignore the savage screams of Rome’s mob. “But I say to you, love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who insult you and persecute you…” these prayers resonated across the rugged mountains hugging Ma’lulla. The small village capped by a sacred hallow, that has been woven for two millennia by priests, nuns and worshipers, who have been flocking here seeking blessings, before the herds of tourists who come to listen to an almost extinct language. The same language spoken by Jesus. An old nun approached me smiling and offered to show me the village, she moved calmly around the young crowds and I followed. Arabic was replaced by Aramaic, which for my ears was a strange combination of Turkish, Hebrew and even Farsi, a strange rearrangement of letters or a harsh deconstruction of Arabic words. My childish attempts to relate the sounds around me to Arabic words did not surprise my kind host. The hills guarded the monasteries which guarded the relics of the martyrs which guarded the pure faith. Ma’lulla had a unique feeling, a flair of a silent and serious religious carnival, all the ingredients of a lavish moulid were scattered around me, yet in an unfamiliar stillness. The serenity of my nun and her village made any attention given to the history or architecture of the monasteries seem superficial and unnecessary. The cool interiors, the whitish grey surfaces and the elegant icons with formal stiff features of saints and angels contrasted to the surrounding landscape of steep mountains and faraway green fields. The long black uniform caressed the stone floors, as the nun murmured her prayers and returned peacefully to a silent corner. She said too little, yet I heard and understood too much. I thanked her before disappearing again in her celestial world, a world that one hopes to reside in or even visit.

Busy, tired, short tempered and funny as most mothers, she yelled at me to come quickly, carry her heavy bags, and follow her around the endless vaulted lanes of Aleppo’s bazaar. I struggled to distribute my attention between the finely decorated entrances I was passing by and the clumsy teenagers pushing their huge carts towards me. The labyrinth was eternal, and el Khala seemed to be determined to buy everything available. She stopped at almost every stall chatting with the vendors, discussing prices, gossiping and complaining from the unusual heat. We bought hummus, olive oil, thyme, garlic, peppers, raisins, nuts and other spices that I have never seen or smelled before. She made sure that I tasted whatever we were buying, so a green olive, was followed by a dried fig, a pinch of bitter thyme was forgotten by soft pistachios, and salty cheese. She was smiling, patting my back and praising Aleppo and its surrounding lush fields, blinking her eyes in a playful manner and assuring me that Aleppo has the best produce and that no one can compete with the Aleppine women. Spinning from one lane to the other, a massive mound topped by a medieval citadel blocked the horizon, while gazing at the monument, she hurried me and said, “These are just stones, dead silent stones, the beauty of Aleppo is around you”, she laughed and added, “… and in the bags you carry”. Throughout the afternoon el khala was cooking relentlessly and recalling the history of her city, the defeats and glories, the glorious days and the barren years. Proudly listing the different ethnic groups that formed the beautiful, rich and unique mosaic of Aleppo, Arabs, Kurds, Armenians, Circassians and many other groups, who came here to trade and work, bringing their icons, spells, songs, poems and jokes. Each adding a color, a melody, a proverb to charming generous Aleppo’s. Her ringing voice faded into the noises of placing the numerous mezze plates on an endless table, that all her dear relatives and friends. Jokes danced around the table, throwing sweet happy laughs, but her faint voice was still heard.

From Cairo To Tel Aviv.....why?

From Cairo To Tel Aviv

After travelling to far and exotic destinations and exploring unknown cities Africa and Asia, I responded to an old dream. A dream to visit Palestine, a land separated by a thin dotted line on maps and by endless restrictions in reality. It was not only about crossing the borders or finding a way to reach Palestine, I had to overcome a lot of psychological barriers. Will my trip be an act of naturalization? Am I acknowledging the occupier? Am I supporting their economy by spending my few dollars there? Will my trip be regarded by the Palestinians as an act of solidarity or a traveler’s mere selfishness? My concerns kept looming as I was exploring the possibilities of the trip, how to get there? Will I be allowed in? What will be the consequences there and here? The procedures at Ben Gurion airport made it clear that this won’t be an ordinary trip, but one that involves Human rights, Politics, Anthropology, Geography and History in every single step. As soon as I was allowed to leave the airport I headed to Jerusalem, the Holy city under siege, where I was hit by its glory, the persistence of its people and my emotional vulnerability. My few days were spent in roaming the ancient cobbled alleyways, visiting the eternal monuments, praying in al Aqsa mosque and emerging in endless conversations with the Jerusalemites. Every scene in Jerusalem was dramatic, and every word was a statement, I was not a traveler moving around monuments with his camera, I was an Egyptian exploring how Palestinians live, survive and struggle in their homeland in the 21st century. The more discussions I had the more I understood that every Palestinian is making Palestine a fact through his daily actions, selling in the Bazaar, praying in al Aqsa, speaking Arabic or even being there, all of these actions make Palestine a fact and not a term circulating in the political arenas. I resisted the allure of Jerusalem and visited Bethlehem, Al Khalil, Acre and Jaffo ( which is now known as Tel Aviv) to see as much as possible of a land shreded by barb wires and UN decrees. I enjoyed the rich Palestinian collage in my short trip, laughed, complained and cried with people ruled by the Palestinian authority and others by the state of Israel. Most importantly I understood, or at least tried to understand what is happening in Palestine.

My Dubai :-)

This is my Dubai The Dubai I enjoy and the one I understand :-)

Gods shopping near the Shivs & Krishna Mandir temple, where Hindus and Sikh share the tiny space. I listened to my first Sikh prayers while surrounded by statues and photos of Lord Krishna, Ganesh, and other familiar Gods.

A touch of Persian Art on the Eastern bank of the "Persian" Gulf

Bastakiyya shaded markets, busy even at 8 am

Crossing the Creek in an Abra. A refreshing authentic experience that costs only 1 Dirham in the City of Gold.

Snorkeling while walking in Shandagha

Impressive restoration work to numerous traditional houses......

Delightful architectural and decorative details......heaven!!!

A reminder of a maritime culture that was the reason d'etre of Dubai

A SUPER spicy chicken Biriani cooked with love :-)

A Collage

The 1980s chandelier with two sad burnt, and three-exhausted yellowishbulbs. The plastic flooring with its parquet pattern, jumping in three artificial brown shades and torn in several places. The reddish coarse rectangular carpet, that appeared in this room suddenly, and I didn’t know the reason. The Chinese TV with its silly logo covered by dust. The circular glass table top laden by photo frames, silver, metal and ceramic ones that once were given as presents in birthdays and motherdays, all sleep under a blanket of neglect, the black and white photos are of people I don’t recognize, while the fading colored ones are of those defeated by time. The rectangular table carrying the plastic tray, the torch, the torn telephone index and the fresh folded newspaper. The old wooden sliding door that moans at every move. The two worn out pinkish synthetic cushions resting on the white plastic chair. I will never see them again. Never. I still remember my visits, which were not as frequent as I wish. They were short and far apart. Silence, loud TV noise or the unneeded rambling of a nurse stole the few minutes I was willing to spare. Her voice was always tender, till she refused to speak. Now I struggle to put these visits in the right and logical order. The silent phase is easily placed at the very end, but what about the previous phases, when she said so little, when she stared at the space, when she looked silently towards the noisy TV. Now I’m trying to remember everything, how she refused to eat. There was the phase of nonstop talking, this was a very short phase, she talked and talked and talked, and took me back to the 1940s, and in other visits we were in the middle of the 1960s, with her parents and her husband, all her beloved ones, who had left her alone. But there were other visits when she replied to my bland questions by a smile and “el hamdolella”, we mentioned a few members of the family, the politics, the weather and work, and for most of her questions, I had to return the “el hamdolella”. Memories have no mercy, the good ones tend to fly, while the tough ones torture you and stay. I want to escape from these visits, from the room that vanished quickly and can be only recreated by me. How many times did she say, “ yalla go back home, yalla you look tired, you have work tomorrow”? How many times did both of us stop talking, as if we realized that there is nothing cheerful to say? I used to go to meet her, glimpses of her, traces of her, but no, she was not there. But I still see her moving around the orange trees in a trousers and a shirt, with a colored scarf tied in a trendy way, moving in our farm in Fayoum. A cosmopolitan lady sitting in the fields feeding me oranges against a biblical background of peasants and beasts. That shot could have been easily taken from a Hollywood movie or an Imperialist poster. I see her shining among her guests; I was too young to remember how she was dressed, her jewelry or her hairstyle, but that can be guessed from photos. I am good at these historical collages. I prefer her old photographs without the veil; the veil does not suit her, standing like an empress, elegant and tall. Sitting by her mirror holding her long pearl necklaces, I still see her silver kohl container with its decorated handle, reflecting patterns in the mirror. This scene is my favorite; my empress is checking her jewelry, the rings always looked beautiful in her slender fingers. I have a few more great scenes, when I was young; I always had the feeling that whenever I’ll step into the terrace, she would be sitting in a sunny corner having breakfast with my grandfather. It seemed like an eternal scene, the white plates on a small table, the orange juice glasses and the bowl of black olives, cheese and salad everything is still fresh to me. Sitting with a cigarette and a porcelain cup of coffee, a rare scene that I have always recalled. Deep down I loved the fact that my grandmother never cooked, let other boys enjoy a granny’s cake while I contemplate her grace. I don’t know what to say, they say we will meet in heaven, but will she ever confess why she was silent. While everyone was trying to be in charge as she was finally leaving her home, I collapsed alone, wondering why she was that nice to me. Why did she love me in such a way, why did she scratch my heart with her gradual disappearance and painful silence, why did she taught me “unconditional love” years before I hear the term from psychiatrists.I’m sitting now shuffling my memories that seem fewer everyday. The same person who taught me love showed me how death is cruel, and now I’m that helpless kid again. I need to see her again and tell her everything, all the untold stories, all the gossip, all my problems and fears. Now, I wonder how long and boring her days have been, the same room, the noisy TV, the bad lighting and the crackled off white paint, only interrupted by very few erratic visits, of people who were always keen to leave. My whole week are barren, only these 20 minutes- visits could have saved me from these memories and such a torturing game. I mourned her many times before, but how will I ever overcome the pain. Other people left and took their fair share of condolences and sadness, but she is a different case, she shattered me and left, and took the little kid away. No one is more vulnerable than a person without memories, and these memories were all what I wanted to save. I can still hear her singing to me, but the real fear is if one day I don’t hear her voice again.

It was not meant to be :-(

The most delicious donut, Huge cacti, One Spanish missionary church, 26 stunning sunsets A deeply embedded psychological disorder, These were the results of my failed expedition to the New World. Since then I have restricted myself to three ancient continents!

The Deadline

“ where is the blue folder? It was here on the table” He screamed “What happened? Why are you screaming? Just look for it. If it was there it will still be there….. you invaded our dining table by your books, papers and folders….” She replied indifferently while moving towards the kitchen, but he interrupted “Is that the proper time to complain about your beloved dining table, I told you the folder was there, I left it yesterday, everything is wrong this week, everything is wrong…” “Have you checked your car? You always leave your stuff there?” she raised her voice so he can hear her. “The car…” he murmured, before answering his mobile…”Sure, sir….I’m sorry, …yes, I was supposed to submit it this morning, yes, I know sir, it is urgent….I’ll work on it tonight….. sure, of course…..Thanks sir, goodbye”. “These are old newspapers…..a novel…. The children’s magazines….” He kept throwing stuff across the room, while screaming in a theatrical way….”menus…more menus….. last year’s annual report…. Where is that blue folder?” “Calm down, throwing stuff and screaming won’t help”. She answered firmly, while rotating in the kitchen to perform her daily curse. “I know, I know, but please spare me your wisdom tonight…..I have to find that folder, and I promise not to leave my stuff here again….. “ he said while shuffling the piles on the table for the third time. “I hope so” she murmured absentmindedly while washing the dishes.