Goodbye Jeddah...

Dear Jeddah,

It’s hard to sit behind my laptop writing to you, because all at once I feel like leaving you will to be one of the hardest things I ever have to do.

So perhaps I shouldn’t begin by saying goodbye but by thanking you…

Thank you for the best and worst times of my life; thank you for five years of laughs, tears, memories and thank you most of all for the experience. I leave you, dearest Jeddah, stronger, wiser and more inquisitive. I leave you with ever more of an open mind and a careful heart. I leave behind some of the finest people I have met, and my better halves: my family, so please Jeddah be kind to them. I can only hope when you remember me you remember a girl who loved to smile and talk, who tried to succeed at everything she put her mind to and a girl who remained faithful and loyal to those she cared about the most. I may have cursed you and hurt you, for that I am sorry Jeddah, because as difficult and closed off as you may be at times, you are still my home… and I know no other place to call home.

But Jeddah, I am ready to leave you, not to start over, but to start new; not to forget but to build from everything you taught me. I am ready for the next big move- and I am ready, all thanks to YOU.

Please don’t forget me!

Goodbye…

All my love,

Celine

The Cigarette Dance

Click. Flame. Burn. Inhale. Pause.

Puff.

Nicotine burns the body while smoke floods the air diffusing in an orchestrated dance

Defying gravity, pushing higher, further, until it pollutes the air

Filth.

But there is something there; you can trace out figurines

Like cloud spotting in fast motion… one form infusing into the next

Watch the hoops form and break

into ballerina slipper ribbons

Drag.

Repeat.

The smoke thickens into a hovering layer… the dance is almost tribal now

Bursting with more energy from each exhale

Ash.

Repeat.

Saturated movement in a satiating state of completeness

A dark halo lingers concealing light

Final drag.

Exhale.

Burn out.

Stolen Moments

Living for stolen moments means you are denying yourself the reality of living, because instead of creating a life you are holding onto empty hope that the next stolen moment will come- but once it does, you are left with a memory, not a building block.... and if it doesn't come then you are statue eroded by time. 

Letter to my unborn...

Letter to my unborn...

I am afraid to bring you into this dark world where even man is afraid of the light. I am afraid to bring you into an age of dissonance to bring you into a life filled with strife and bloodshed where more anger is being sewn.

I can shield you from the world as an infant, my dear, and hideaway my tears when I know of another explosion that shook the cities of Damascus or Beirut. I can deny that more people are dying when you ask me what’s on the news … but what happens when you grow up? Will you be another martyr in the hands of bloody murders?

 I don’t want to bring you up in a world where I have to tell you the difference between Christian, Muslim, Jew or Druze… I can’t lie and say they are your brothers and sisters, because family sticks together, not tear each other apart. How can I explain barbarism to you, how can I explain terrorism and assassinations and brutal murder? How can I explain that through God’s words, Christ’s sacrifice and teachings of prophets we have learnt nothing more than killing and separating and hating?

Forgive me if I don’t have the courage to raise you in world where a nightmare has become a bottomless reality, where we are victims of fundamentalist murders and ignorant masses...

This Arab Spring has turned into a desolate cold winter, my dear unborn… and I just don’t have the will power to wrap you in my arms and tell you, “I have brought you into a beautiful world”.

To My Arab Brother and Sister....ENOUGH!

ENOUGH!

Enough humility and shame.

Enough separation and degradation

Enough destruction

Enough pointing fingers and throwing blames and creating conspiracy theories  

Enough bloodshed

Enough tears over innocent lives that should have never been lost

Enough arming yourself and killing your neighbor

Enough instability

Enough wars at home

Enough wars in the streets

Enough talk of religious “right” and “wrong”

I have said it before, and I will say it again, while the world moves forward, we will spin in a circle, and we will continue to be bound by this destructive centripetal force so long as our ignorance shall prevail. 

Dear Syria

 Dear Syria,

I can’t believe your streets are hollow while people hide in basements and attics or flee across borders… I miss you, as I am sure thousands of your other children do.

I remember my dad taking me to Bab Touma and Kassah, where he grew up, and taking us through the streets and shops, retracing the footsteps he used to take to school and my mom showing us her university campus in Aleppo where she would spend hours finishing up her architecture projects and where she used to buy a sandwich from every time she was hungry…  I remember eating “sabbarah” after a tis’eeyeh dinner at Tric Trac café at Le Meridian hotel, then having provenceal style frog legs for lunch at the Shallal. I even remember that odd restaurant called “the Station” the best escalope of my life. I wonder what happened to that one waiter that served at the restaurant for the eight or so years we used frequent in our visits. Is he still alive?  I remember going to the monastery where my uncle lives nestled in the heart of Tellal, one of the popular market streets, attending mass with the Armenian Syrians gathered up in Sunday mass in the church just beside the monastery… I couldn’t then believe why my uncle would come back to Syria when he had the option to stay in Italy. I couldn’t believe it because I was too young to understand what it means to love your country with all its cracks and holes.

I remember standing from my grandparents’ balcony, on Baghdad street, overlooking the park  and my grandpa would just stare out into the hot summer day, polluted with diesel fuel and car horns. I miss those yellow decorated cabs with the sarcastic cab drivers and hearing some old guy in a tattered beanie yelling “JABBBASS” (watermelon in Allepo dialect) as he pulled the half broken carriage from a donkey. I miss the sound of the church bells and the call to prayer from the mosque that stood in their magnificent pride side by side. I don’t know when I will stand on that balcony again…

I am sorry for all the times I thought you did not live up to “western” standards, for making fun of you for having “Cheer up” instead of “7Up”. Forgive me for calling you backward in the face of modern society. Being unique and different was a flaw to me, now I see it as beautiful. Forgive me Syria, I was only a kid. Forgive your children who abandoned you many years ago, those who couldn’t live out their dream under a single “house” had no choice but to make a home on foreign soil…

Come back to us stronger and more beautiful. Keep your solidarity and pride. I know my parents and grandparents’ heart aches to watch you suffer as you bury your children in the land they call home. I am sorry you had to watch history take its toll on your soil once more… but I hope this is the last time. I hope the future brings you peace and serenity. I hope it restores the comradeship that Syrians once had for each other. I hope you blossom once more, Damascus you beautiful rose.

Love always,

Celine

The Start of my Day

9:23am Snooze alarm again. It always seems like a battle even with the hour grace period for Ramadan. Flip over to switch on the light. Crap my body is soar, my hamstrings especially. I flip back over slamming my head back onto the pillow that has taken the form of the side of my head. 2 more minutes. 9:28 damn iPhone alarm ringing again as I was about to continue my interrupted dream. My eyes yank open to a lit room. I tear myself away from under the sheets and put my hand on my lip. My scar is still there… aghh bikini waxing was never as painful as this upper lip tear. I remind myself to never go back to her. I slip on my ballerina slippers and check my blackberry and iPhone for any messages or emails. Nothing, except for junk mail. There are a few status updates on my blackberry friends list. Why do I have a need to do that, it’s almost become automatic. I drag myself to my beauty cabinet, and take out my hydra-moisturizer. Damn scar still hurts every time I move my lips. I continue on as usual, Vaseline Rose lip balm from London, concealer, light pink blush, mascara. Now my hair, an untamed mess of brown locks. God bless the clip, I just grab my hair into a semi bun and clip it altogether. There this ought to do it. I swing open my closet door and stare blankly at the pile of clothes. I reach for the tanned jumpsuit that my mom bought me from her trip to from Greece, Corfu to be more exact. More importantly it is comfortable under my abaya. I open my door to my maltese acting like a circus monkey jumping and turning and dancing on his hind feet. How can anyone be that jolly in the morning? I pat him on his head before I go in to the bathroom to brush my teeth.


10:05am Glasses still on, I climb up one flight on stairs. My hamstrings are still tight, I need to tell Pat. I walk into the foyer and through the glass doors into my office floor. Another week, but I can’t eat or drink in the office. It’s a good thing I remembered to put yoghurt in my purse in case I got hungry later. I knock onto the door of the kitchenette and Jalal opens the door babbling in Urdu on the phone. I give him the yoghurt and packed spoon and give him one of those “I am sorry but can you please but this in the fridge” smiles. I quickly grab a bottle of Nestle water and place it in the women’s bathroom. I am ready to start my day. I love Saturday’s for one reason only, most markets are closed which means I can catch up on my reading. I sit on my black swivel chair and place my purse and laptop bag on the mahogany desk. I look at my calendar and realize that I have four days before I know my CFA fate. My heart is suddenly in my throat and I felt queasy. I really don’t want to fail.