A Gypsy in the Desert

Egypt in Tweets

2011-02-02T13:45:00.001-05:00

Last night I went to sleep some time after hearing President Hosni Mubarak's speech to the Egyptian people (and to the world). I was laughing at him, and angry at him. Egypt's peaceful protestors want him to step down and yet he refuses and hangs on to any tiny bit of power he can have. He said he would not go up for re-election in September. The voices of many Egyptians do not want him until September; they want him gone now.

This morning I woke up to a tragedy. I stayed in bed for 3 hours, reading tweets that were scrolling quickly, almost too quickly for my big eyes to read. Then I watched footage on the live Al-Jazeera English stream on youtube all the way through brunch. I had to stop.

Here are some of the tweets I retweeted as I was reading this morning, from when I woke up to earlier in the day today. Some of them broke my heart, some of them made me laugh, and some of them made me want to scream:

@Laithyounis: What kind of leader would set his country on fire just to remain for 7 more months? #mubarak #egypt #jan25

@Themoornextdoor: Friend in #Egypt:"My friend just received orders from his state-wned company 2 go join pro-Mubarak protests" #Jan25

@Manal: My husband @alaa is now under attack by Mubarak thugs & some ppl dare to ask me to tone it down #a7a #jan25

@monaeltahawy: Please I beg of you do not say "pro-#Mubarak protesters". They are thugs. Hired thugs. Say thugs! #Jan25 #Egypt

@Amiralx: Are all those appeased by mubarak's speech enjoying the smooth transition? #jan25

@Saudiwoman: RT (translation) @waelabbas thugs were paid 500 Egyptian pounds from the national party treasury & this info from reliable source

@weddady: Dear lord! RT @BloggerSeif: omg I have someones child, I have a child. 2 yrs max, green eyes, says his name mahmoud. Tweet it for me” #JAn25

@weddady: CONFIRMED ON ALJAZ RT @Firas_Atraqchi: Hearing from different sources that #Egypt museum is under threat of going up in flames #jan25 #cairo

@nohaHMsafar: To those burning the museum; have u 4gotten where a lot of Egypt's $ comes from? TOURISM, u might as well crush the pyramids while ure @ it

@meedan: just talking with a journalist friend who was clubbed and beaten after three thugs heard him filing a story from his phone. #jan25 #violence

@ethatkamal: Bab El Louq URGENTLY needs Alcohol, Betadine, Plastic gloves, garbage gloves, plastic dishes, cotton, antibiotics, painkillers. 0122406441

@TheTruthNetwork: BREAKING [#Egypt #Jan25 #Mubarak] Suha Al Naqqash - News anchor person at Al Nile news quits because of inaccurate news reporting

@monaeltahawy: I salute the breathtaking courage of #Egyptians who held strong in#Tahrir Sq vs #Mubaraks's revenge. U fought for all of #Egypt.#Jan25

@mariamali7: Police are out in the checkpoints and are arresting people on their way home from the protests. Be careful! Please RT#Jan25

@asa_wire: Obama-backed Mubarak terrorism. #jan25 #egypt

@DarthNader: Now I remember why I never watch Robert Gibbs or anyone from the Obama admin. for that matter. Cause I'm not masochistic.

@paulocoelho: "The Alchemist" takes place in Egypt. I've been there 3 times, AND I talked to people. Tahrir Square is not a surprise

@occupiedcairo: RT @MohammedY: WE STILL HOLD TAHRIR SQUARE #Jan25 #Egypt

@NadiaE: I will not be intimidated by Mubarak thugs. Break my camera and my eyes will photograph. Cut my Internet connextn and i will use pen &paper

@halmustafa: RT @ajtalk: news of human shields moving to Tahrir Sq to protect protesters and no fire in Museum #jan25 #Egypt

I am rooting for the peaceful protestors who were attacked by thugs. I do not care if they genuinely want Mubarak or not (although I believe they are manipulated by Mubarak, myself), they are thugs who have injured over 400 people and killed a few (at least one, hard for me to confirm) as I type.

Twitter moves fast, dispensing news that is correct, incorrect, opinionated, biased, whatever - and I love it. I have never felt so connected and alive.

My heart goes out to those peaceful protestors who wanted change and took it into their own hands.

With a Gun Held to my Head by Time

2011-01-19T05:09:00.000-05:00

I don't know how long I will have internet for so I need to make this quick.

I stayed up very late last night talking to my best friend about various things: helping him with his resume, his cats, job applications, and a date he has coming up. Believe it or not, every single one of those things was emotional.

I also read more new about Tunisia, including some very emotional stories and blog post written by the internet's finest.

I was woken up around noon by the loud noises of visitors, the house, and my Dad taking my phone for reasons I didn't really think about.

I finally got up when my Mom told me that Mr. Mo, the man who has done our ironing for years, wanted to say goodbye because he needed to get back to work. I saw him and felt so horrible because I felt that I looked ungrateful; sleeping all day and staying up all night, not interacting with others. He apologised for waking me up and my heart hurt. He shouldn't apologise to me, I'm sorry. Hearing him say goodbye and telling me to listen to my parents was...not easy.

I found out why my Dad took my phone away and I haven't stopped crying since then. He was disconnecting it, so now my SIM card doesn't work. I was going to call Mr. F one last time from my phone, because God knows I won't be able to say goodbye properly in person.

I did not know this was going to be so difficult.

This is what happens when someone like me becomes too acquainted with a place. Leaving it is so difficult and when the day comes, I am a mess. I have a suitcase to repack, carry-ons to sort out, and other logistical things, but keeping a rational, controlled mind is very hard when you begin to truly understand and register that you are leaving a place behind and with it its people.

For people who have never had to move, wow, you are so lucky. Sure, you miss out on a life experience. I do not regret my life and the many times I have had to move, but this...this never gets easier. I am 21 years old and right now I know I feel the same way I did when I left every other place at those younger ages: Saudi, Oman, Mauritius... It never gets easier. I always feel a huge sense of loss and it tears me apart even if I have nothing left to live for here.

It is time for me to go and yet I would always love to have just a little more time. It's not possible. I have to leave. Having the internet and phone cut is what makes it harder. I feel like I am at a complete loss.

I don't have anything more to say right now. I want to leave, but I don't want to go through this either. This is so hard, for me and my family. Saying goodbye to this terrible place should be a good thing but it's not. Whether we liked it or not, Saudi was our home for many years. Leaving it permanently is leaving behind a friend. A friend who is insane and who needs a shitload of therapy, but a friend.

I also feel like this therapy-needing friend is a friend in need, but honestly, there are other people who can take care of it better. I just feel like I neglected my friend too much. Now that I realise it, how can I rectify this now that I am leaving? I can't. Tonight's my flight and that's how it goes.

This is how it goes. Every time, questions of how things could have been better, reflections on how it could have been worse.

Every time, tears of frustration and conflict because I do not know how to feel and I have never learnt ways of dealing with these feelings.

Every time, a huge loss.

Who Built the Garden of Eden?

2011-01-18T16:22:00.000-05:00

As many of my readers are aware, the United States is usually described as a bastion of capitalism, a temple to consumerism, and the lovechild of money and greed. I tend to agree with all of that, but then I think of Saudi and realise that it could very well share the title of Lords of Wastefulness. Yes, the land of the free and the home of the brave has a lot in common with the Kingdom. But what I will talk about today is rather unique to Saudi Arabia. Similar things happen in the US, but this has a true Arabian Gulf flavour.

In a recent blog post, I briefly stated that I sometimes felt like I was walking through a waste here in Riyadh. I can only imagine that thousands of riyals are spent forcing plants to grow in this crazy desert. As I listen to the rain pounding outside, I can only imagine that these forced gardens are being destroyed while I type here. A lot of manual labour was just wasted; work done by expatriates from the Indian sub-continent no doubt on very little money or mercy at the hands of their employers.

This, to me, is the real shame. Saudi Arabia is a rich country, and whoever the hell wants to spend money on "beautifying" the country can do so if they please. I understand that this place is a brown, dead desert and seeing things like water features and green is a symbol of luxury. I can appreciate that to an extent, even though I'd like for the money to go to other things (like, for example, education). What I cannot forgive, and I hope I will never forget for the sake of the blood and sweat that went into the work, is seeing those people being shipped in from other countries. They are gardeners for random people who usually don't give a crap anyway.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? In rows of flowers to display the wealth of this oil Kingdom.

I feel like I could write about this every day, or every time I left my villa to waste some time. Time is something I have no problem wasting, but the people who have to work on floral patches such as the one you see above...their lives are wasted.

These are people that are shipped here with the hope that they can send money back home. Today, a man we have seen working for Granada Mall is finally going to be able to go back home to Bangladesh for a one month holiday. Who knows how many years he has had to work here in order to afford the vacation and to be allowed to do so. It was the best goodbye: it was our last trip to Granada as we are leaving, but we know that he is leaving too, if only temporarily. He is probably excited to see his family. He is one of the luckier ones for this fact alone.

Most of these people live in rooms where 6 or more people sleep practically on top of each other. There is a bus taking them to their work every morning. I saw that bus for the first time a couple of nights ago and my Dad called it "the jail bus." I didn't like hearing that, even though I knew the truth behind those words. They work during the day, and depending on the job they will be working at night, too. In my opinion, that might be better - if they don't work at night, they work in the hot sun - and I know that hot, hot sun. I have seen them sleep under the shade of the very trees they planted.

Two men planted the tree, another few dug that pit.

And these trees, are they for our benefit? For the benefit of us dependents and workers in this country who barely see directly outside of our villas? People don't like to go outside, here. I rarely go outside, no matter what the season, because of the weather and because there isn't much reason to.

The compound in which I live is not the most attractive and it has very little for entertainment. You get out of your villa for the gym, the pool, or for one of the stores. You go outside because you need to get to another building. If you have kids, you might use one of the playgrounds. If you are daring, either in the desert cold, a sandstorm, or blazing heat, you might play basketball or tennis. They recently covered the basketball court - but it isn't done just yet. Guess who is employed to do that work, too.

If the construction workers and gardeners working outside all day were given what they deserved, i.e. a steady pay and a decent contract with an honest boss, I would understand the need for them to work here and I would applaud their strength and bravery to leave their families behind to work in a land that is not familiar to them. It would be difficult, but worth it - right? There are many other issues, mostly psychological, that are up for discussion, but at least their basic human rights would be assured.

The plain truth is that all of these people, whether they come to work in construction, as maids, or whatever...they are lied to. They do not get those basic human rights and they are not treated well. Someone mentioned to me that these people don't get enough money to eat as much as they need to, for the work that they do. I absolutely believe it. On top of all this, they are not treated as equals by many Saudis and non-Saudis alike. One of the worst things I keep seeing is at Riyadh's airport.

Lines and lines of men, squatting on the ground, wait for instruction as their papers are scrutinised. The airport officials make them wait unnecessarily long. When they finally get through the lines, groups of these men are herded by a representative of whatever company is hiring them. They have no souls in their eyes. The desert is already being cruel to them, as I am usually reminded by my father while I am there that these men's passports will be taken and they will become slaves to their companies.

Look at this. This is what they do for us.

I don't want to see a beautiful patch of flowers and green in this compound. The thing is, people see this pretty landscape art on the way to whatever and then that's it. Even I forget that it is there for a while. The people who worked on it were probably treated moderately well for all I know, or they could have been treated horribly. All of that is behind closed doors and I'll probably never get the truth, anyway.

What I do know is that I forget them because I want to forget them sometimes. I must not forget that they were once there and that they have left something behind. That is a terrible thing to do, a wrong thing. That's kind of why I am not ashamed to write about this when I know I have mentioned it already. Now that I am leaving, this is the last chance I have to write about this while I am still here, in the middle of it.

Tomorrow night I leave behind a land of many things I love, but so many things I hate. I am leaving behind a country that treats people of certain races and nationalities as if they are dirt. I want to give this place and its fake landscapes the finger and say, "good riddance!" but that isn't going to make me happy. What I really want to do is say a big fuck you the people who make a living off of treating domestic workers, construction workers, janitors, etc. like they are nothing.

I have never had enough footing here to make any kind of difference. I am leaving here, heartbroken for leaving behind happy memories but also leaving behind so many people who I have seen in great need of justice. But who am I to do anything? I don't even know where I could start.

This is the last picture I am putting up for this post. It describes exactly what is going on here, in my mind and in this country. No matter how pretty the flowers look, there is a big ugly thing in the front that takes up most of the frame. It is an eyesore and you don't want it to be there, but it's there. The ugly piece, whatever it is, is the reality of those workers' lives. The gardens may be pretty and it takes away from the ugly dry brown of the sand, but it cannot save the fact that they were created by people who are treated as lesser beings. They work for nothing because they are not seen as having any value whatsoever.

Who built the Garden of Eden in Saudi Arabia? Most likely a man who doesn't see his family for years, smells the sweat of other men in the room as he sleeps (and he barely sleeps), and who does not eat more than one meal a day. He has sacrificed his time and energy so that your walk to the compound's bus stop was just a little less dusty-looking. Aren't you glad?

Isn't your life so much better now?

---

A Burdened Internet Family

2011-01-14T16:58:00.000-05:00

I realise that I have mentioned my family in bits and pieces, but most of you really do not know them. Let me try and help you learn more about them, using the allegory of...the Internet.

I have two older sisters. My eldest sister is an extremely efficient search engine, like Google. Her talents lie in her resourcefulness. Ask her a question about anything, and she'll be able to find it. If she cannot find it herself (which is rare) she'll know exactly who to ask. She's a travel agent, a vacation planner, and job finder all in one. If you need something, she is definitely the person to ask, because she knows how to get all the information you need. If you are a Bourdieu person, she has much cultural and social capital!

My other sister is more like a site from the ICanHasCheezburger network. When she enters the room, she says "O HAI" and is always there with a piece of randomness to share - and she is always willing to share it with everyone! She is random, quirky, and popular. She is a social butterfly and enjoys meeting all kinds of new people wherever she goes. She is viral, like those LOLCats, EPIC FAILs, etc. as she involves herself with every person she gets in contact with. She'll pick up on what she think you'll like, and has something to make you laugh.

My parents are different. My Mom is a fiery ti piment as we say in Kreol, so I would say that she is a political opinion blog, with strongly worded critiques on current events. Despite her small size, she makes herself heard! She sticks by her beliefs and does not change her stance easily, asking many questions before either silencing you or finally acquiescing. She becomes impassioned very easily and can switch from sweet to spicy in a second!

My Dad, on the other hand, is totally FanFiction.net - if FanFiction.net weren't a horribly cheesy site with terrible, terrible writers. The reason I say this is because my Dad is one of the biggest fanboys of all time. From H. P. Lovecraft to J. R. R. Tolkien, my father loves a certain fictional universe and fixates on it like any true nerd would. He may not actually write fanfiction, but he is a display of his fandoms and obsessions. I would also say he is a Wikipedia only for the fact that his memory contains a lot of data about the weirdest of things, however his information is mostly based on the things that he loves.

So there you have it. My family, in terms of the internet. I thought and thought about what site I could be, and well, I think I am Twitter. I'm no wealth of information, nothing like that, nor do I spew what other people tell me, but I am just a person who enjoys listening and reading what others have to say or show me. I'm a receiver of information that may be forgotten tomorrow, but a few noteworthy things might remain in my memory. I also tend to speak in short bursts (haha). But, well, how would I know? Maybe you would be a better judge.

The Photography of Why

2011-01-13T10:46:00.001-05:00

I noticed that it has been a while since I have put up some pictures. I am very selective and careful in what photographs I choose to show you, my dear readers, so I am usually extremely reluctant. However, the time feels right.

I have made a point to take pictures of the compound I've lived in every summer for about 3 years. Here are a few of the photos I have taken with some accompanying thoughts:

A view of construction in the distance. 2am

Since the start of this visit, I have been unable to sleep before at least 3am. There were a couple of nights where I took medication that forced me to sleep early, but I still woke up after 1 in the afternoon. One insomniac night I went outside to look at the stars. One thing you'll know about Riyadh is that you can barely see stars due to the insane amount of construction. Right outside my villa, this is what I see beyond the trees - lights upon lights on some skeleton of a building that has been in the process of being built for as long as I can remember. If I ever come back to Riyadh, I am sure new buildings will still be under construction, causing the power in villas to be cut and the noise pollution and sand to drive people to insanity.

View of sky from undulation in wall. Afternoon.

I used to make excuses during the day to go to the small supermarket in my compound because I was desperate to get outside the villa. I would go to buy cookies, gum, or anything else I could think of. On one such trip, I looked at the buildings and noticed that despite their lackluster architecture, I enjoyed running my hands over the texture of the walls and standing within the strange pits that are part of the design. I looked up at the sky and thought...what beautiful lines! What interesting juxtaposition of textures! This is the only way this brown, dirty-looking thing could look beautiful - and it did.

Greens. Afternoon, reaching sunset.

Randomly dispersed throughout the compound are beautifully planted trees and walkways. I have never seen anyone use them and on this late afternoon, I felt very weird walking through them. Aren't they made for walking through? Then again, this is a desert. I feel weird because I know lots of money was spent making a desert look green, and not just a desert, but this compound which doesn't even have that many people in it. Also, no one walks through it, as I said before. I, personally, do not enjoy walking through a waste. And that is exactly what it is.

An empty lot. Same late afternoon.

Once upon a time, there used to be red and orange crawltubes for children to play in. One of the only home videos we had included footage of my sisters crawling through them in the hot sun. Now, the little play area is gone and all that is left is this lot, which is next to the green of those trees I posted above. Who knows what they will end up doing with this - or if it will ever be looked at again. It's very The Dragon in My Dreams-esque to me; I don't really like looking at this empty lot. I saw the red and orange pieces dismantled a previous summer and it irked me even though I only remember watching the video of its existence. I don't remember actually playing in it.

When I take photos of anything and I look back at them, the most pleasure I get is remembering what is was like taking the photograph; where I was, who I was with, and what I remember of my thought process while aiming the shot.

The best photos are the ones that give me the most vivid ideas of what was going on in my mind. I can sometimes be proud of what the picture actually looks like in the end, but mostly, I like to remember why I took the photo in the first place. I guess this is why I enjoy conceptual art so much. As someone who desires to capture moments in time before I feel like they disappear forever, it is the abstract and not the physical that I need in order to fulfill my nostalgic desires.

Computer Games, Choices, and So On...

2011-01-12T08:52:00.000-05:00

I sat down on my bed, my darling laptop in front of me, and I knew that I would be writing about video games today. I am no reviewer, nor have I ever tried. I like to analyse things, however. Sometimes, I even over-analyse! Here, let me show you...

There are many games on my computer that are left unfinished at the moment. This is due to a lack of time, but here in Riyadh, I have no excuse - especially now. All the cargo has been taken away, the house is practically empty and there is even less to do than before. My Dad and I are the only ones awake and I don't wish to disturb him because he's reading an autobiography on his Kindle. I know better than to detract attention away from a good read.

So, basically, I cannot count on anyone else to make my life fun for me. This would be a perfect opportunity to play a game! Now I need to look at my choices. The following games I have right now which are unplayed/unfinished are:

1. Prince of Persia
2. Fallout 2
3. Dragon Age
4. Plants vs. Zombies
5. Peggle Nights
6. Osmos
7. Cortex Command
8. Braid
9. Smuggle Truck (Beta)
10. Secret of Monkey Island: Special Edition
11. Diablo II with the expansion pack
12. A House in California
13. Digital: A Love Story

HOLY MACKEREL! I have many games to choose from! Why aren't I playing any?

When you have many things to choose from, you tend to not choose anything. Well, okay, let me change that sentence, because not everyone has this issue. When I have many things to choose from, I tend to not choose anything. As much as I would enjoy playing a game, I just don't know where to start. Shall we try to narrow the list down together? Well, okay, how about you just read through my process?

First of all I am going to cut a few names from the list because I do not have a mouse and I would rather sit and play a game on my bed rather than at a desk anyway:

1. ~~Prince of Persia~~

2. Fallout 2

3. ~~Dragon Age~~

4. Plants vs. Zombies

5. Peggle Nights

6. Osmos

7. Cortex Command

8. Braid

9. Smuggle Truck (Beta)

10. Secret of Monkey Island: Special Edition

11. ~~Diablo II with the expansion pack~~

12. A House in California

13. Digital: A Love Story

Playing those games without an external mouse would be terrible for my already threatened hands!

Now, let's cut out games that I do not enjoy whatsoever or that I have played to the point where I just don't feel like it anymore. This requires very little thought!

1. ~~Prince of Persia~~

2. Fallout 2

3. ~~Dragon Age~~

4. Plants vs. Zombies

5. Peggle Nights

6. ~~Osmos~~

7. ~~Cortex Command~~

8. ~~Braid~~

9. ~~Smuggle Truck (Beta)~~

10. Secret of Monkey Island: Special Edition

11. ~~Diablo II with the expansion pack~~

12. A House in California

13. Digital: A Love Story

I almost crossed out Peggle Nights, but the truth is that it is a lot of fun when I am not exceedingly frustrated by it. I've been playing it in order to achieve Ace Scores on every screen and, well...I have not been successful. It is a challenge and objective I want to conquer, but recently I have not been playing well! Perhaps I need something different. Actually, let me cross out Plants vs. Zombies, too. Although I love playing Dr. Zomboss's Revenge over and over, how about I go for something new?

After crossing out those two, this is what I have right now:

1. ~~Prince of Persia~~

2. Fallout 2

3. ~~Dragon Age~~

4. ~~Plants vs. Zombies~~

5. ~~Peggle Nights~~

6. ~~Osmos~~

7. ~~Cortex Command~~

8. ~~Braid~~

9. ~~Smuggle Truck (Beta)~~

10. Secret of Monkey Island: Special Edition

11. ~~Diablo II with the expansion pack~~

12. A House in California

13. Digital: A Love Story

This looks much better now. Fallout 2 is a game I have played over and over and yet never been able to finish for many different reasons - a weak main character, stupid choices I cannot undo, or lack of time. Set in a post-apocalyptic US, I cannot help but see parallels to my own life and certain places I have visited. I wonder what other region has a slave trade (well, practically), bright lights in certain areas and complete desert in others, with strange "cults" along the way? When I think about Vault City and how insane it is to get in, get out, or become a Vault City citizen, I cannot help but chuckle and think of Saudi Arabia. With all of its bureaucracy and visa garbage, Vault City doesn't seem so exaggerated; like a caricature. Yes, I could play Fallout 2 here in this insane place. I'll probably find myself relating to it a little too much!

The Secret of Monkey Island is a fantastic game. I remember playing the original version years ago, in Mauritius, on my Mom's new Mac - the one she received from my Dad for their 25th wedding anniversary. Isn't that sweet? I think it is. Well, anyway, I've been wanting to play this game for a while. I love Dominic Armato's voice acting and I would love to hear it. I have to be honest with you though - the older point and click game system, with the different commands and so on, confuses the heck out of me. That's why I have been so hesitant to play it - I wonder if I can handle it and find it enjoyable now! Maybe it is worth trying, despite having been spoiled by the newer adventure game systems.

A House in California and Digital: A Love Story are two indie games I downloaded for free thanks to this. I've barely touched them since I downloaded them even though they look absolutely awesome. From what I understand, A House in California kind of uses the system I mentioned before of older point and click adventure games (think Sierra). The game is used as a story-telling medium and I think you are supposed to make each of the different characters remember things about their past. It's extremely intriguing and looks fantastic on screen. I haven't even opened Digital: A Love Story and only downloaded it because the interface looks really interesting; it's supposed to make you feel like you are using a computer from the 80s. That actually sounds pretty fun!

So what should I play, in the end? The list is narrowed, and the decision is made only slightly easier.

1. Fallout 2

2. Secret of Monkey Island: Special Edition

3. A House in California

4. Digital: A Love Story

I need to narrow it down more. So, what am I feeling? Maybe that will help me figure this out. I know right now that I would like to play something with some humour. I'm bored, and I need something entertaining, but not mindless. I'd like to be taken into a new world.

As cool as A House in California looks, I don't think I can deal with a game about memory. Right now, there is a theme of memories in everything I do and, well, I think I need a break.

Fallout 2 and Secret of Monkey Island are amazing games, but I know them too well. I need something new, and refreshing.

I guess my decision has been made. Digital: A Love Story, it is! It is now open, and the first thing I can say is...whoa. It looks fantastic, and the music is awesome and ambient. Let's hope the navigation and story is decent! If it isn't, well...I have a lot more to choose from.

Move It (On Up): A Basic Psychoanalysis

2011-01-10T05:13:00.000-05:00

So today is moving day. The cargo dudes have come to take all of our boxes.

I've had to go through this many times but I cannot remember any of the previous instances. It's as if one day all of our boxes, filled with all of our treasures, just...went away. They always showed up in the next place and I never felt like I lost anything. I don't remember having to sort my things out, pack, or see the people pick up my boxes. It's all blank tape, all static in my head.

Whenever people have asked me if it is hard to move from one place to the next, I don't really have much to tell them. My shrugs make it seem to them like I have gotten used to it, or that I am not very effected by it. Maybe they think I enjoyed the process of entering a new life somewhere else, and that it is easy for me to let go of the place that I had lived in. That is definitely not the case.

I think my memory saves me from the difficulty of the moving situation. I believe that my brain forces painful thoughts into a place where it is hard for me to reach. I believe my body does it for my own safety, because it would be another set of Hellish memories for me to have to deal with.

Back in 2005 or 2006, during my International Baccalaureate years in Mauritius, I took Psychology and learned about that dreadful Freud character and his defense mechanisms. This is one of the few areas where I felt I could understand and relate to his theories, probably due to the fact that it could also be explained cognitively or biologically. Our bodies do what is best for us; what is necessary in order to survive.

In terms of Freud the Jerk's defense mechanisms, I am a subject of repression. I know this for a fact. Why else would there be gaps in time within my memory? Why is it that I do not remember things that I know, for a fact, happened?

When memories and moments of your life have been repressed, they don't just disappear. The thing is, they leave a footprint, and it's a pretty deep footprint in the sands of my mind. The events themselves may not stick, and it is difficult for me to retrieve them (if I would ever want to). However, they still effect me. The emotional imprint impacts things that I do in my everyday life.

This is why every time I need to pack things, I become the world's biggest procrastinator. I never, ever want to pack and I consider it to be tedious. Putting off the job for as long as I feel I can makes it disappear for a time, and I can remain comfortable. It was not until yesterday, the day before the movers came, that I could force myself to do what I needed to do to.

I don't only procrastinate during big moves from one country to the next. I procrastinate packing in general when it comes to packing things to go just about anywhere: when I have to leave for the summer, when I am going on a quick trip to visit family for a weekend, even to go to class that afternoon. I hate putting things in bags and suitcases and boxes. It becomes a stress every single time and I would rather do anything than put my things away.

I like my stuff out in the open. I like my clothes on a chair, not in a closet. I enjoy disorder, and I hate the idea of having multiple storage compartments in my room. My dream home and room doesn't include storage units. I seem to always forget them and now I am beginning to understand why. It isn't about having things on display - it's about keeping them out of containers. I don't want things enclosed. I even hate things like schedules and timetables, those metaphorical boxes that organise my time and life. They upset me more than I'd like to admit.

Could it be that all of these feelings, all of these preferences, stem from my trauma of having to leave one place? The ritual of putting things away to be shipped affected me enormously, and I know it. I know it even though I don't remember exactly why. This is the best explanation I have for it. Repression has shaped my life and has created behaviours that I barely think about. For many years, it has just been "my way" no procrastinate. I don't think that is a sufficient explanation anymore.

As much as it irritates me to say it, Freud had a few things right. He was awful to study and I'm glad I will never get to meet him during my lifetime (he'd be glad too, believe me) but he has given me the tools to explain why I am the way I am. Maybe if I meet him in the glorious afterlife, my swears, punches and kicks won't be so harsh.

What I am doing right now, in some odd way, is making sure I don't forget what I am feeling and going through right now. I'm sure that over the next few months, once I have gone back to the US and started my grad school life again, I will not spend time thinking about my move and how it went. That will allow me to forget and I don't want that. I've even taken pictures of the chaos that existed in the villa with all of its boxes.

Yes, my brain is doing me a favour and hey brain, thanks, that's pretty cool. However, just this once, I want to keep this memory. I want to acknowledge that right now, I am unhappy and annoyed and stressed and I will continue to be until the movers are done and gone with our boxes.

Leaving this place is significant to me. I don't want to lose any of it.

In the Name of Security, the Most Stifling, the Most Devastating

2011-01-08T14:46:00.001-05:00

For the past few days, I have been hearing about the Ministry of Culture and Information here in Saudi and how a new law has been released. It restricts people living in Saudi, especially Saudis themselves, from writing whatever they want online. Saudi Jeans has a pretty good summary of the details.

Every time I have been to Saudi, I have seen censorship. In a sense, it was only a matter of time before the internet was targeted, too. People have already gotten in trouble for things they have done either on their computers or on their mobile phones, so this is just solidifying what certain groups here want to do: hold the Saudi population tightly in their grasp.

Of course, as with every form of censorship, it is done in the name of security. It is done for "protection." Already, several websites here are blocked for this very reason. Tell me, why does PostSecret need to be blocked? What harm is it truly causing me?

Really, guys? PostSecret?

PostSecret isn't the only blocked site, of course. Some sites I cannot get to are SomethingAwful, SpikeTV, Moviefone (not that I really need it), and ANY link that uses tinyurl. It's not just about annoyance - I can totally live without those sites! It is irritating but it also denies us a basic human right. I know people in the US are going to point the finger at me and shout "LIBERTARIAN!" when I say that the government doesn't need to police every damn thing I do on the internet, but seriously, the government does not need to police every damn thing we do on the internet. This isn't only about "protecting" me from what I see, either. This is also about "protecting" others from what I say. What we all have to say is so important, so valuable, that others are afraid of it.

There are so many countries who are trying to "protect" me from danger and "protect" others from me. They instill fear in others and create paranoia. All I have to do is think about international travel and I have plenty of examples of how so many people have been harassed - all in the name of security! Think about the TSA scandals we have been hearing about in the US lately. These cases display the mistreatment of so many people! I also remember hearing about how the Vagina Monologues was banned at a religious university. Apparently, it is to "protect" the students and preserve values. What it is doing instead is protecting a potential audience from hearing about the experience of women around the world. Apparently, hearing the voices of these woman is a security risk. It's completely out of hand, just like this law from the MOCI.

There is one thing that especially irks me. The new law states that Saudis cannot write blogs without prior registration, although foreigners can. The reason I wanted to start blogging in the first place was due to brilliant Saudi minds within Saudi who wrote about their experience. They are the ones who are more likely to write a knowledgeable post about the truth of what happens here. I have read many amazing blogs written by foreigners living here too, but why allow only one voice? This doesn't make sense! I guess the "protection" we are getting is from a certain type of truth; a whole group's reality - just like the banning of the Vagina Monologues.

There are many people tweeting, writing, and trying to fight this. I applaud them for their dedication to the right of free speech. To my friends reading this, I just want to make you more aware. Especially for those reading from countries where you can get everything from porn to news to celebrity gossip without a second thought; from countries where you can write a whole article about how your country's leader looks like an elephant or about how very ugly that girl in your calculus class is - there's a world out there that doesn't make the same kind of sense.

How Bananagrams and Riyadh Saved my Family

2011-01-07T09:50:00.000-05:00

I have been in Saudi for ~13 days now and this experience should have been Hell.

First of all, I am leaving a country I became a hermit in every summer since I started undergraduate university. I'm leaving people behind and seeing how my parents' departure is affecting people that they knew; people who cared for them.

Secondly, as we are moving out, I have to sort through all my things and pack them into boxes. I have absolutely hated packing ever since I was little and I find myself avoiding the task every time I have to do it. It stresses me out even thinking about putting things in boxes. I have been procrastinating since I got here and have made little progress. It doesn't take a leading psychoanalyst to tell you what's going on there!

Despite these things, it hasn't been Hell. It has been nowhere near the terrible experience I thought it was going to be. I am going to take a huge leap forward and say that this time in Saudi might be the best time I have ever had.

There is a sense of freedom in the house and everyone is much more lighthearted than usual.

There may be no TV and fewer trips outside the compound (or even outside the villa), but I rarely feel bored.

I may be waking up at 4pm or later every day but I never feel that the day is wasted.

You may see me online all the time, but this time I don't feel like it is taking me away from my family.

My best friend can account for the pure hatred and distaste that I feel for board games and the like. I also feel very uncomfortable in "family" situations, because I don't belong to the lovey-dovey family that kisses and hugs and wants to play board games together. I'm fine with both of those facts and cannot imagine my family life to be any other way. Isn't it ironic that it is in Riyadh where I actually find myself enjoying playing Bananagrams with my sister and Mom while my Dad listens to comedy music of the 60s (Allan Sherman's Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah to be exact)?

In person, I am kind of quiet and introverted. I sound like a stoner and usually have a very blank, unreadable stare on my face. I listen more than I talk, and when I do talk I tend to say awkward things or mix up words because I tend to think in several languages at once. I don't show my feelings. I don't think that my family realises that I'm having a good time here, but I really am. I cannot express it with my voice, but I think I can express it in writing. This is why, sometimes, I wish I could type everything!

I'm not super happy and jumping for joy about leaving Saudi, but I am not angry that we are moving out of here. I am starting a new chapter of my life, one which does not have Saudi as a base of operations. It's a confusing and stressful time. For once in my life, I don't see it as a new chapter in my life alone - I see it as a new chapter for the family. I never used to think in terms of family...

Riyadh has never been Hell for me, although it has been for other people and I am well aware of that. Riyadh is a strange, kind of crappy place. It is constantly under construction, it is sandy and dry, it is where bureaucracy is King and Queen, and it is segregated by gender. The most wonderful thing in the world is that it is the place where I found myself finally becoming closer to people who I have known my whole life. To explain how that worked out, I think I'd need to write a whole book.

I'll always be grateful to Riyadh. I'll always be grateful to Saudi. And now, I can say I will always be grateful for what it has done for me and my family.

[Dang, this kind of feels like a movie ending to a post. Does Pixar wanna pick this story up for a movie? They could turn my family and I into animals, or robots, or toys, whichever one they want (preferably robots)! I could deal with my life being turned into an animation. Pixar rocks.]

Resolved.

2010-12-31T14:27:00.000-05:00

It is 22:10 here in Saudi. Some countries have already celebrated the new year of the Gregorian calendar and are thinking about what it will bring. While I am not a huge new year's eve person (I've never even been to a legit new year's party) I still like to reflect on things that have happened in my life.

The new year is a time of lists. Here are some lists for you and for me.

Part I: 2010 Past

1. I fell in love and out of love with the idea of love, not with any person in particular.

2. I listened to new music and old music that I had rediscovered. It brought me much happiness.

a. New music I enjoy: the soundtrack to How to Train Your Dragon and Shakira's Sale El Sol

b. Old music I enjoy again: the song Ammaneh by Diana Haddad and the soundtrack to Notre Dame de Paris (I downloaded it on iTunes yet again).

3. I started life as a grad student in Massachusetts, in a new apartment, new school, with people I had never met before. I have never been in a happier place in my life.

4. I found a new love: smoking.

5. I got a new pet fish named Sten, who I named after the Dragon Age calendar.

6. I made new friends on the internet and met a couple of them in person and greatly enjoyed their company.

7. I met some of the worst, chauvinistic men on the internet and in person I have ever met in my 21 years of life.

8. I got better grades than I have ever gotten since I started university schooling.

9. My weight went up and down like a mountain range, and slowly, I have become more comfortable with the fact.

10. I started this blog and rekindled my love for writing.

Part II: 2011 Future

1. I want to fall in love with love again.

2. I want to write more blog posts of higher quality.

3. I want to do better in my classes than I did in the previous semester, and push myself even harder.

4. I want to limit smoking to a community activity rather than a solo one.

5. I want to go on longer walks in new places.

6. I want to travel to new states within the US and, money permitting, to at least one new place outside of the US.

7. I want to make new friends and create joyful, beautiful memories with old friends.

8. I want to keep in touch with my family and keep those bonds strong with whomever it is possible.

9. I want to read more books and have my eyes opened over and over by new worlds I would never consider outside their pages.

10. I want to grow as a person and involve myself with others who I care about and who care about me, as I am nothing without the rest of the world.

Part III: Conclusion

This coming year is about keeping the positivity that grew in the year 2010 and also about destroying the negativity. Bad things should not cloud my life, nor should beautiful things bar the way to truth. I want to grasp reality. My search for knowledge needs to continue, as should my writing.

And it will, without a doubt.

Happy New Year, everyone!

By the fig and the zeitoun; by Mount Sinai; and this city of security...

2010-12-26T16:09:00.000-05:00

This was written in Frankfurt airport. Due to the internet being full of rubbish there, I could only publish it on the site later. As this entry is with respect to a dream of mine, I have a dream - that one day, travellers will be able to use the internet in Frankfurt airport. Amen.

On my flight from the USA's Boston to Germany's Frankfurt, I reread Zeitoun by Dave Eggers in its entirety. I have never read anything by him before, and he has now become my idol. I want to do what he did with Zeitoun; it's my biggest dream.

What a beautiful book! What I love most about it is Egger's style of storytelling. It has great emotion, but the words don't necessarily shove you in one direction. It sounds like someone has described the facts, and the facts speak for themselves.

I can never be Eggers because I am not him. However, his writing in Zeitoun opened my eyes to a new direction I could take my writing. If I want to write memoirs, or write biographies, I might want to take some inspiration from Eggers and his approach. I know it is hard for me to separate myself from writing, and sometimes I like injecting myself into the narration, but Egger's style has taught me that sometimes words do all the work. I want my words to work more like his, but still be true to who I am.

I am very impressed and fascinated with Eggers' fountain of research. He interviewed so many different people and gives us rich data to process. I wonder how his interviews with Kathy and Abdulrahman went, how they were conducted. He must have asked great questions to allow such great information to pour out. I can feel that he picked up on important subtleties in each person's character - Zeitoun's stubbornness, Kathy's fiery spirit, etc. I wonder how his editing went, too - there are so many anecdotes within the writing that add layers of intensity and a breadth of knowledge about the people involved. How can one possibly choose which ones work best? He did an amazing job.

Eggers is obviously a journalist, one can see it in his style, but that did not make the story dry by any means. In fact, he allowed the heart of the story to beat within Zeitoun's pages. I admire Eggers so much right now for this. His writing is subtle and extremely effective. He didn't need to use fancy flashing lights and colours; as I said before: his words did it all.

When I read a book twice, the first time is usually enjoyable (unless its really bad) and it is actually the second time that really allows me to give an opinion. Either the book shows its flaws, or it becomes even better and shows complexities I did not notice before. Zeitoun was the latter, and more. The second time I read it, I felt the presence of the people Eggers wrote about. It was like we were acquaintances before, but now, we were close friends. I knew Kathy, Abdulrahman, their children, Ahmed, Todd, Yuko…I was even more connected. I cried more on the plane than I did reading it in the sanctity of my Massachusetts room. My emotions towards the characters intensified.

When I get to Riyadh, I am going to shove Zeitoun into my Mom's face and ask her to read it. It's an amazing book, and I know she'll like it. I would love everyone to read it, to feel the devastation, horror, and love that Eggers placed within his words; the emotions that were dominating the story of Zeitoun and his family. People need to read and understand as much as they can about what happened. I think it's incredibly important.

I have another, more personal use for Zeitoun. From now on, when people ask me what I dream of doing, I'm going to say: "I want to write memoirs, or biographies. Have you ever read Zeitoun, by Dave Eggers? I want to do what he did there. You should read it. It's brilliant."

Aló, aló ¡Sigo aquí!

2010-12-25T11:36:00.000-05:00

I've been in Massachusetts since the beginning of September and many things have changed since then. What is most surprising to me is that I have met such a diverse group of people who I have connected with on many levels, sometimes deeply and sometimes only on the surface.

The United States is a place where eclectic people from all over the world meet. It can be refreshing sometimes, because it produces open-minded people. It can be frustrating when others, with a more xenophobic mind, close themselves off to "foreigners" forever. All in all, however, I'm glad I have chosen to come here. Despite the great uncertainties I faced this summer, I find that being brave and following my gut has saved my life. I don't know what I would have done if I stayed in Saudi for this whole time.

Let me ask you a question, now: would it surprise you if I said that I am in the airport, waiting for my flight to Riyadh via Frankfurt? Let me also tell you why you shouldn't be so surprised.

I miss Saudi. I've expressed that recently. I miss my parents, I miss the peace, I miss the culture, and I miss other material things like food or shopping or the TV I used to watch. I'm going back because I was offered an opportunity and I took it. I didn't have to, but I did.

Another thing is that this is the very last time, for a very long time at least, that I will be able to go to Riyadh. The parental home base is shifting. They are leaving this desert for a different landscape. I wish them well, but this means that my time in Saudi is about to end. The desert where I regained my bearings is not going to be my halfway house anymore.

If this is the last time I see Saudi, I'll be very, very sad. Even though I did not have a chance to integrate into Saudi society, I wish I did and I feel like I didn't have a chance. There are a couple of people who I have mentioned before in various places in my blog who I am going to miss a lot. I miss them by being here in the US where it is hard for me to contact them or for them to contact me. What will happen if I do not have a reason to go to Saudi? It's not that I can just take a holiday there. It doesn't work that way...

I also know that when I leave Riyadh this time, when/if I ever come back, the Riyadh I lived in will not be the same, and I will not be the same. I have changed already, and I wonder how that will affect Riyadh when I arrive there (hopefully) tomorrow.

Sitting here, trying to think about what I want to achieve in my last trip to Riyadh as I know it is extremely difficult for me right now, for several reasons. First of all, Logan airport is playing the cheesiest Christmas music ever with some of the most terrible arrangements I have ever heard. Secondly, I am still groggy from taking my medication last night, and I have a severe headache. Thirdly, I keep feeling like I left something at home that I needed to bring with me. Lastly, there are just so many things swirling around in my brain that I can barely piece things together.

A tornado of sand. Spirals of dryness circling in the harsh winds. Dunes being dismantled and recreated in waves. That is my mind right now. I am seeing the unclear desert landscape through a filter through which I can barely see. The promise of being in Saudi one last time is the glare of the sun escaping between the bursts of sand.

Sometimes I wonder if the desert remembers that I still live there. It needs to know that I never leave, that I am always here even when the storm gets rough. It is of my opinion that this trip therefore needs to become a meaningful reminder to the desert, and to me. Let's hope the connection becomes stronger.

All She Can Bring is Portable and Smokable

2010-12-15T13:19:00.001-05:00

I made a little book as an assignment for a class. It represents my identity.

I thought I would share it with all of you, so I took some pictures. It's not very long. I hope you appreciate looking at it as much as I have loved creating it.

When writing the words and thinking of how to present it, I thought purely in metaphor as it was a requirement for the assignment. I am sure you can figure out what the symbols mean, but here are some things to point you in the right direction:

- Who is talking and what do we know about them? Why is that important?
- What is the stitching about?
- What do the "smokables" symbolise?

III

VII

VIII

Fin.

Phoebus veut dire Soleil

2010-12-04T22:13:00.000-05:00

Today, I was stabbed with an emotional sword to the heart.

When I started this blog, it was when I was living in Saudi. My life was as bipolar back then as it is now: I wavered between pain and resentment to happiness and appreciation. I'm still doing the same thing, all the time. I have to admit, despite my keeping track of the Saudi blogosphere and news, I have not felt a tug from Saudi for a while.

Today, a simple phone call from my Mom made me need to go back to Saudi right now, today.

It's not that I dislike it here. In fact, being in the Boston/Cambridge area has been an exhilarating and educational experience so far. My graduate school program is opening my mind to new experiences, I have made new friends, and I have discovered new places. Here, I can hop on a train or a bus and get to wherever I want to be. It's incredibly different than my life in Riyadh, where I was stuck in my villa just about every day. It is refreshing and liberating.

Today, I felt the need to be back in my room in Riyadh, writing blogs and eating peach figs.

Life was simple during the summer, where I did not feel like I had much to do but wait and contemplate the coming years. I could sit and write, or think about what I would do once I sat down to write. I read so much, especially from other writers who were either from Saudi or who were living there. Even though my time was limited to some weeks, I felt every day that I had all the time in the world. There was no pressure or rush to do anything, and no real deadlines. It's nothing like now, where I am using iCal to its full potential. Every single day I have some sort of commitment, be it an academic meeting, a social event, or an errand. I am running on a schedule here. It is nothing like my life before, and I am growing resentful of it.

Today, the cold became so unbearable as I walked to the bus stop that I yearned for the hot, summer sun and sandstorms.

I heard it might snow tomorrow, and I have been panicking since. Is my coat warm enough? Do I have enough socks? What will I do in this horrible snow? I dislike the cold, being an island girl. However, I don't want the humidity and cockroaches of Mauritius right now, although it would be a nice alternative. For whatever reason, I want the dryness and blazing sun. I think at this time of year it would be different than the summer, and somewhat cooler in Riyadh. I do not know, because I haven't been to Saudi Arabia during this time of year for such a long time. I don't remember those years I spent as a child. What I do know, however, are the previous summers I spent and if I could have that now, I would be extremely happy.

Today, I found myself wishing, while smoking sheesha at my preferred lounge, that Mr. F could be there with me, sharing the sheesha and talking to me about his life.

My friends here are wonderful, but Mr. F always brought me down to Earth. He always had words of wisdom and warmth to give to me. If you want to know more about how I feel about him, you should probably read what I wrote previously, when I was still in Saudi. Rereading my own words made me feel very sad. Let me just say that until now, I have still never met a more selfless and endearing man. I am reminded of him all the time, especially when I encounter brownies (which is often) or sheesha (which is even more often).

Today, I thought about sitting in the villa's living room with my parents as each of us sat at our separate laptops and I couldn't imagine anything better.

Today, I wanted to buy a pair of shoes at Granada Mall because I know exactly where to look and I know they'd have something in my style.

Today, I saw a sushi place and remembered my Dad's ritual of buying a tray of sushi from Carrefour to eat while my Mom and I went shopping.

Today, I started to miss Saudi so much more than I have since I have gotten here.

The sandstorm still rages in my psyche. I'm never too far away from the desert.

Awake. Seek Truth. Stumble. Begin Again.

2010-11-30T14:52:00.000-05:00

From "Buddha: A Story of Enlightenment"
http://www.comicbookresources.com/?page=preview&id=7133&disp=table

I love twitter. Because of twitter, I follow many random people I would have never thought of listening to otherwise, and I listen to what they have to say about 90% of the time. Also due to twitter, I have many links to click on so that I can procrastinate further on the many assignments and projects that are eating my life.

Today I clicked on a link that brought me to Deepak Chopra's Buddha. I looked at the gorgeous illustrations and was fascinated. There are comics about everything. And why not? I spent a whole thesis dedicated to why the sequential art genre is amazingly effective at displaying narrative. It is of absolutely no surprise to me that many books are being adapted into the graphic novel format. It is a completely different, yet valid way of portraying a story.

One person I follow on twitter, who is in fact one of my favourite people to follow, is Paulo Coelho, one of my most beloved authors. I found out through twitter that The Alchemist, a book I consider to be one of the best out there, is also out as a graphic novel. I'm ordering a copy as soon as I finish this post. When I heard of the news, I was so damn excited and thrilled that this existed. I cannot wait to see how this will work! Will I feel the magic I felt when I read the book? How will my gaze and the sequence of images change my emotional reaction to the events of the story? Will the still images and speech bubbles of the storyboard evoke the same questions and thoughts that the sentences did?

http://www.marieclaire.com/cm/marieclaire/images/iJ/mcx-book-alchemist-graphic-novel-1110-mdn.jpg

I have to admit, like with any other person who is a fan of something that is very close to them, I am worried about beloved books translating to comics. It's like the book-to-movie transition - can it really work? What do they have to cut out? What will have to be added? How will the appearance of characters and settings match with my imagination?

However, I need to say that this isn't a book-to-movie transition at all. There are fundamental differences that make book-to-comics way more appealing to me than book-to-movie.

First of all, there is the lack of Hollywood. Oh my God, Hollywood! How you have destroyed many, many good narratives and characters! Look at that stupid Red Riding Hood movie that is coming out, for example. Pathetic. It is usually due to the Hollywoodisation of books that we are either bored to tears (those movies are usually better) or angry due to the complete distortion of canon (those movies are usually so much worse).

Sometimes, Hollywood can get it right. This is when the changes are subtle but necessary, the acting and screenwriting is superb, and most importantly, what I like to call the soul of the movie is unchanged. We are involved with the same characters we loved in text and the tone is perfect, matching that of the author and narrator. I like to think that The Color Purple and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest are good examples of this. However, most of the time these adaptations are just dreadful. Lots of money is spent on making a lot more money out of people like us.

Graphic novels, comics, whatever you want to call them do not have the pressure of Hollywood. From my own experience, they come in so many varieties that there is not need to glamourise the story at all. People who read comics tend to love books too, so while certain conventions do apply, the content of graphics do not need to differ greatly from that of a novel. Us book lovers are generally expecting the same things.

Obviously, the fact that there are images accompanying text (and some comics have no text at all) makes the type of narration dependent on different things. Therefore, the story will not be told the same way. This is a given. However, I feel that the medium can relate the story's "soul" more effectively because novels and comics are both forms of book arts. They involve the reader in a way that is similar to each other. Film and comics have something in common too, in terms of the movement of images - aren't strips reminiscent of film stills? I think so, at least. However, like with books, the reader controls the speed and movement of comics, whereas films are moved for you. It's a huge divergence.

Having said all of this, I need to note (so that I may remain honest with you all) that I view all three media with equal reverence. Actually, in order to be really honest, I need to use the word love. I love novels, comics, and film with all of my heart. There is something about narrative that means so much to me and all three of these art forms are effective in their own way. I like to view them as separate from one another and yet I cannot help but see them as extremely intertwined. Like life, it is complicated.

I wonder if I will be able to separate the novel from the graphic when I finally receive The Alchemist in the mail. Maybe the only way for me to enjoy the comic is to see it as its own thing, and let my eyes be led across the page. It is a narrative I know, but now it's time for me to see it differently.

At least the "different" way for me to re-experience The Alchemist isn't through some shitty Hollywood adaptation. Thank the LORD.

A Royal Devastation and a Case for Knowledge

2010-11-11T18:01:00.000-05:00

I am writing this in response to a news item brought to my attention by a wonderful blog: Crossroads Arabia. It is one of the many ways the internet connects me to Saudi these days.

Also, please let it be known that I am really talking about a certain group of Muslims, not all of them, and certainly not all Saudi people. Every large area has many group, and within each group there is individuality and diversity. I am sure you know that already.

Recently, Arab News reported that archaeologists have found a Pharaonic inscription near Tayma.

What an amazing find! It is evidence of a trade route, of communication between peoples thousands of years ago. This route goes all the way to Jordan (according to the article). It's a fascinating discovery that gives Saudi history a different in its richness, a deserving complexity.

Crossroads Arabia makes a very good point though, and mentions a term: "The Age of Ignorance". This is a term that makes the human and the art historian in me shudder with rage.

When I was in Saudi, I let myself waste away (but then decided to write it off). I bathed in solitude, as many of you know. On the other hand, my sister took advantage of her time there to go and do much, much cooler things. This is for reasons of personality and opportunity, and I am very proud of her. One of the things she did was visit a museum in Riyadh, I don't remember which one, although I think it might have been the National Museum of Riyadh. She reported back to me about what she had seen, and one of the things she told me was that the museum had a certain...tone about pre-Islamic Arabia.

The very term "Age of Ignorance" is one I have heard many times in my life. People in my own family has used it, and many members of the Muslim community of different ages and walks of life talk about it casually in their discussions of religion. It marks an attitude that I could never wrap my head around, or even respect. This is because it is founded on the belief that before Islam, people were just...doing it all wrong. Nothing good could come from the "Age of Ignorance"! God brought to us the prophet Muhammad and he made us do it right, so all we need to know is that before Muhammad, people sucked. That's it.

As someone who has devoted years of her life to studying culture, the evolution of mankind, architecture, and many other things that involve the human race over the course of years upon years, I am insulted by this attitude. I cannot relate to it, and have therefore gained prejudices against people who show the merest sign of having it.

Islam is the religion of knowledge and I am proud of being brought up in a religious circle that preaches everything but blind faith. Since I was little, I was told several things that support the spiritual and mental benefit to gaining knowledge: read the Qur'an, become proficient in Arabic fuss'ha (or however you might want to spell it) so that you can understand it without a translation one day, read the parables/hadith of the Prophet and understand which ones are more reliable (if any of them are), have religious discourse, and take nothing at face value, for God has given you the capability to learn.

I feel like this "Age of Ignorance" attitude is contradictory to this wonderful, reasonable attitude that doesn't even need Islam at its core to appreciate. There are many things to study about all histories, including pre-Islamic history, and much that we can gain from remembrance and analysis. Many Muslims know that, and to them I am preaching to the (probably nasheed) choir, but others don't care about anything but their own little bubble.

This goes for just about anybody of any religious or non-religious upbringing. What kind of a life are you living if you do not appreciate the work of the men and women and others who came before you? What kind of justice are you committing to them, if any at all?

The reason art history was the major I chose in my undergraduate study is because I got to study history through the lens of expression and perception. I got to learn through the philosophies of those who came before me and those who are still working today. It would be a great shame if we ignored the ideas of others and pretended we are so much better than they are. I am proud of the discoveries of Muslim scholars, I am interested in the knowledge or wisdom that the Prophet might bring, and I am also equally interested in the Pharaohs that have made their mark on Arabia.

I have no right to make decisions for Saudi Arabia or for its people, but I have to admit and address the worry that I feel personally about a lack of interest or appreciation for a whole history. There is a block in my mind against Muslims, not just Saudis now (because my knowledge about the "Age of Ignorance" came from Mauritians and Americans) that is caused by my mind's confusion. Why would you not take pride in a rich past? Who would brush away the accomplishments of their ancestors? And why not try to learn from the ancestors of others who are not your own?

The people who would ignore the past are the ones belonging to Ignorance. The people of pre-Islam were, according to Islam, on the wrong path spiritually, but the mental capabilities were nothing to scoff at. There are non-Muslims who find no need to think about anything but their own present as well, and they are doing just as badly. Humanity has done great things, and horrible things, and we are the ones losing out if we become ignorant.

Write the Poem for Yourself, not Me

2010-11-08T17:29:00.000-05:00

During my first year of undergraduate study in Upstate New York, I did an internship in between semesters at the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York City. It was there that I met and learned about Lawrence Weiner.

Just in case you didn't feel like sifting through the Wikipedia article, he has written the following important statements about his artworks:

1. The artist may construct the piece.
2. The piece may be fabricated.
3. The piece need not be built.

As you can probably see here, especially in the last statement, an artwork does not need to be made - it is, literally, the thought that counts. For those who are informed somewhat about art and art history, Weiner is basically stating the tenets of conceptual art. It is the art that is in the mind, it is the idea, not the physical representation.

One and Three Chairs, Joseph Kosuth (1965)
Image: http://www.moma.org/collection/browse_results.php?object_id=81435

Joseph Kosuth is one of the big examples, one of the guys you will always see in an art history textbook - and with good reason! He displays exactly what conceptual art is all about. Here, we have three ways of representing the same object - a chair. We have the chair itself, the photograph of the chair, and then the definition of the word "chair" right next to the both of them. What does it mean? Well, basing myself purely on what I learnt during my undergrad years, it basically means that all of these three things, these three "chairs" we see here are all just standing in for the idea behind what we see visually in front of us.

Although there are different ways of showing it, all three of these things are chairs. The shared meaning is what is the most important in conceptual art; that shared meaning becomes a raw one. The raw is what really counts.

Okay, everyone, it's time for me to finally explain why I am giving you an art history lesson here. Today, I wrote a poem. I used to love to write poetry as a kid, and even won a few little school prizes for what I wrote. This was way back when I was about 8 years old, by the way. When I hit my teen years, when I should have been writing poetry about my dark, depressing, emo life, I just...stopped. I didn't really want to write anymore.

Recently, I have been yearning to write in so many different ways besides my academic writing, so I decided to use a pencil and paper to write some poems. I wrote whatever came to mind. What became more interesting to me, however, was the feeling and meaning behind the poem. I remembered that back when I was studying English literature at school in Mauritius, I always wondered if the poets were looking down at all students, getting pissed off that we got the meaning of the poem all wrong. When I was more frustrated, I'd shake my metaphorical fist at Keating, Eliot, Lawrence, et al and say "Why didn't you also write an explanation for your poems? Isn't that the point anyway?!"

My teenage self is the person who missed the point, to a degree. Some people see the importance of the representation. Today, based on my little frustrated self and on my love and appreciation of conceptual art, I want to give to you...the meaning.

As I said earlier, I wrote a poem. I am going to give you the meaning. If you want, you can write the poem! What is more important is that everyone gets what the poem is about.

The meaning is in the form of a list, but the poem is not

1. It mentions where I was born

2. It is about how far away I am from that place

3. It talks about a controlled life I do not wish to lead

4. It talks about "quiet desperation" - but not literally in those words

5. It talks about a desire to belong, even though the belonging comes at a price

6. The heavy price is that I can never be free to think my own thoughts ever again

And that, my friends, is all I am going to give you today.

Absence Makes the Keyboard Last Longer

2010-11-02T11:30:00.000-04:00

Oh my, it has been a long, long while since I have opened blogspot and made it my slave.

Today I am going to write to you about writing. I think every person with a blog indulges in this, but each person has a unique reason for needing to write, or wanting to write if the need is not too great. Then again, I have always believed that needing and wanting are not so far apart. Blame my hedonistic attitude for that statement!

I used to write this blog to keep myself sane from the desert of my mind. It then became a reason for me to analyse and think about different aspects of my past and present life. It became a place to iron out some issues, discuss some thoughts, and open my own eyes despite the sandstorm.

Now, my life has been taken over by another kind of writing - the academic kind. Being a Master's student in a program about relations between people of different cultures...all I do is write! And the reason I am doing this reading and writing is to learn more about myself and how people interact. It is all fascinating. My ultimate goal, after this, is...guess what? To write more.

I do not use the pen and paper, I use the keyboard. I want to use my keyboard forever, use it up until it is so broken the keys don't even register anymore. After this laptop, I want to use another one. The keyboards will be used up like pens run out of ink. I have no paper, but that's just better for the environment.

I am writing in so many ways now, so many other ways that I have neglected to write in this blog, the blog that once kept me grounded. This is what is sad about my writing life. I need to put my life back into writing, and not just write for the sake of others in an academic setting. I cannot write only what others ask me to write, although I love the writing experience every time.

This blog is for letting you see me. I want you to see me and know me, even if you know very little about me. You will learn about me as you read, because the best way for me to open up to you is write. That's really why I write: because when I speak, or sing, I cannot express myself. My face hides too much, my body's movements are mostly calculated. When I write, the social situation is different. I can be myself. I can be anything I choose to show you, but I promise you that I want to show you everything. In due time, of course...

I am writing more specifically about writing today because I am taking part in NaNoWrimo - I am trying to branch out and write fiction. On my first day, I wrote ~2000 words. My story is about an afterlife where memories are stripped of the dead and they are stuck in a purgatory for a much higher purpose, one that will decide their ultimate fate. I don't wish to say too much just yet, mostly because I have not planned it closely and also because I have only written for one day.

Am I overdoing it with the writing thing? Am I writing too much, asking too much of myself? Let me just say that in my life, there is one certainty - okay, there are many certainties, but there is one major one that I feel very good about, although I know it is not possible. The certainty lies within a dream. A dream I know will never happen, a dream of a life that will never occur. The dream is this:

If I were to fill the rest of my life with eating, sheesha, and writing, that would be the best life.

His Dark Victory Over My Own

2010-10-12T12:56:00.000-04:00

When I was 14 years old I was told by my school counsellor that I may be suffering from clinical depression.

After many ups and downs, I figured out over the years that I was not suffering from depression, but bipolar disorder. In terms of coping mechanisms and medication I must take that actually work and make me feel like a functioning human being, all of this makes sense. I have/had a psychiatrist back in Saudi (a strange, unlikeable fellow) but I have already talked about that in a previous, albeit messily written post.

Back at that awkward age, when I was told I had depression, I allowed myself to sink into that identity. I became the depressed girl who was on medication that didn't work. It became hard to deal with me. Everything I did wrong was because I was depressed and I let it become my reason for everything happening in my life. I kept it a "secret" but told some of my friends and let them know, so when I was in a particularly bad mood, they'd have my condition to blame. I'd have my condition to blame, rather.

How long could I have let that kind of attitude go on? Sadly, about 6 years. I went to undergrad with that mindset - that I was practically invincible because of depression, that it would be my excuse for all of my pitfalls. Even when the diagnosis was switched to bipolar, I let it drag me down. I honestly did not feel the need to fight against my condition. I became engulfed in helplessness. Because of my lack of desire to go against all odds, I went with, no, swam with the flow of depression's tide. It gave me bad grades, a terrible attendance record, and disappointment in me from people who thought I could do much better.

What a miserable, pathetic few years of my life. I still am bipolar, I still deal with the consequences, but I cannot let myself become the bitchy, angsty, immature brat I was before.

I was made to revisit my past and my previous diagnosis when I was face to face with a beloved family member who is currently dealing with depression. This man, once full of life, is now possessed by a failing memory and a hatred of his age. It hurts me so much to see him. However, I noticed that despite his feelings he still fulfills his duty as a grandfather, father, and husband without fail. He takes care of his wife and makes me believe all over again in everlasting, true love. He makes us laugh with his hilarious manipulation of our Mauritian Creole. He keeps us company with his stories of generations past. Although we are all concerned about his well-being, and it has brought many tears to my eyes to see the frustration on his face, he is doing all the fighting I couldn't be bothered to do; that I was too busy being self-pitying to do. While I lurked in the darkness of my room, he is struggling at completing his routines - routines he is still managing to keep even though it is becoming more and more difficult. He might have his moments, but he keeps moving on.

I am so proud of him. I have always looked up to him my whole life and admired the many amazing things that he has done throughout the years, whether on his own or with his wife, another wonderful person. He is doing what I was too scared to do back as a teenager. I became a victim by my own behaviour while he is not letting himself become too much of a victim. Though he is so obviously affected by the physical changes he is going through against his will, he is still alive while having some life taken from him. For 6 years, I was a zombie by choice.

Right now, all I have been thinking about is this wonderful man. He is as inspiring to me now as he always has been before. Mo Yab, personn pa kapav sanz twa. To bien tro fort. Extra pli fort ki mwa mem so mwa mo pli zenn. Vrai mem, to leker bien pli zenn ki mo leker.* I only dream I can be as good and as fort as you.

*My Yab, no one can change you. You are too strong. Much stronger than me even if I am younger than you. Really, your heart is much younger than mine.

Mission: Impossible (or How to Date in a Place like Mauritius)

2010-10-06T15:26:00.001-04:00

She meets me at my house. I have now become her alibi.

Her Mom knows me and, more importantly by far, knows my Mom. That is why she was allowed to visit me in the first place. But she is not there to see me, not really. We engage in a little chitchat here and there, we laugh about certain things. She's a little nervous.

We walk over to Plaza, the city centre of the glorious town of Rose Hill - a place I could faithfully call my hometown, at least for 6 years. It isn't my hometown anymore, but I know that place too well. If I ever go back, I'll remember the way to Plaza. It's hard to forget.

Image: http://cache.virtualtourist.com/912663-Rose_Hill_The_Plaza_theatre-Rose_Hill.jpg

Plaza is a beautiful town hall. In my mind is it Rose Hill's pride and joy; a complex of offices and a gorgeous opera house which I have attended and performed at. Behind this colonial wooden structure is a parking lot, and small garden. The lot is full of old, crumbling low walls and trucks. The garden has high hedges.

Do you know what all of those are perfect for? Why, the secret rendez-vous!

And that is what we are doing. We are meeting a boy there. She has been waiting for a good two weeks to see him and hold his hand, so she is very eager and impatient. She blushes at the very sight of him.

He's a skinny guy with spiky, gelled hair. I think it's gross, but he is her Adonis, so what can I say? I smile, say hello, and go for a walk. This is their time, not mine.

Rose Hill is full of places to walk. I go into stores, maybe walk to the post office which is right by the bus station. An old woman sells boiled peanuts but I never buy any from her. I am, as always, severely tempted.

After about an hour of wandering or reading in Le Cygne bookstore, I go back to Plaza. I shyly walk by the many couples who are attempting to be unseen, but it is all very obvious. They are there to make out, and I am there to see if my friend is finished, because she needs to get back to my house soon. Her Mom might have called while we were out of the house. This is the age of telephones, not cell phones...

I see her sitting with her beau under a tree, against a mouldy-looking wall. It's gross, but they don't care. They are in love, and this is just the first step to them being together...forever.

No, it isn't. They will have a fight in a few months, or maybe in a few years, that will end in tears. She will probably end up getting an arranged marriage to a guy from a "good family" and he will hate her forever. He will text her many times a day before she gets engaged, because he cannot believe it is over. She will cry late at night sometimes. Her new husband might be good to her, or he might not. It never ends up the way you think it will.

The Muslim dating world is hard to navigate. It is unforgiving and, at times, heartless. The Muslim-Mauritian community may be the same in many ways, but when I was growing up there my friends and I had nothing but heart. We loved our girls and boys with all of ourselves. We didn't care about race, religion, or age. We just fell in love over and over, fully and crazily. This was a time of hormones and raging emotions, and Mauritius may have stifled us. We were young and full of love, but we had to do everything in secret. While it may have been exciting, the consequences could be dire.

I am unhappy with the knowledge that Mauritius hasn't really changed yet. The same mentality still exists.

I hope other Mauritians are still acting as alibis. As hated as we might have been by the righteous, weren't we a necessary evil?

The Unreal Concept of Dating in the Muslim World

2010-09-30T14:29:00.000-04:00

Oh, boy. Dating. In any culture, it's really, really hard.

It's a great way to meet new people, even if you are not looking for strictly romance and a whole lot of commitment. It's a way to find out about a new area, to make new friends, and have fun experiences. I've been to a lot of fun places because of dating. It's a way to lighten your wallet, taste new foods, and have eye-opening (or dreadful) conversations with people who want the same things you do (I hope). All emotional attachment aside, dating is (or should be) fun, lighthearted, and a way to make a potential connection of some kind with another human being. It's nice.

Never in my life have I ever dated a Muslim. I cannot tolerate Muslim dating in the least, and the Muslim men I have met who I might want to date either a) end up scaring the heck out of me (I will show you later) or b) are married/engaged with twenty kids. The better Muslim men who I have had connections with are either not progressive enough, or taken. Apparently, the Muslim world is out to prove to me that happiness with a Muslim man is not possible for me at this point in my life.

Now, I am not going to talk about arranged marriages, being set up, etc. etc. That is a different way of looking at life; one that is not mine but one that I respect. There is nothing wrong, in my opinion, with meeting a nice guy/girl through the family in this "traditional" way. I think in certain aspects that it makes more sense! In a close knit family, having input from the people who love you might be the best way to find a partner. They know you best. I do not want it for myself, but I think it is reasonable as long as the person is not pressured or forced into marriage.

I am instead going to talk about Muslim dating. I am also talking about Muslim dating from the point of view of myself, and probably many female Muslims out there. Indeed, stereotypes will be engaged in, generalisations will be apparent, and one or two people may raise their arms in anguish and shout, "BUT, Ms. Burdened Mary, not ALL Muslim men are like this! Some of them are awesome! Look! I'm married/engaged/dating/the mother of a GREAT Muslim man!" Well, good for you. I'm talking from my miserable experiences; the bad side of things. I am aware of individual differences.

Some of us Muslimahs want to casually hang out with an attractive male. That is, apparently, the most wrong, immoral, indiscreet, SLUTTY thing you can ever do. Yes, we are all skanks for wanting to find a soulmate in a casual atmosphere, with conversation, food, and maybe a movie or something. Obviously we just wish to use our wiles to seduce poor, poor Muslim men who are naive and defenceless against our wicked charms!

Oh, come on.

This is the first issue with wanting to date in the Muslim world: the huge discrepancy between the role of men and women. Men are expected to take charge, and women are not supposed to want the attention. We are to be demure, shy, reserved and sweet. We should accept the advances we get but are damned if we show our own feelings of attraction too much ourselves. We are pressured every time we meet a man into showing affection, but once we do it...that's it. We are impure and not innocent anymore, so the man moves on!

Let me give you an example that is way too familiar to you if you have dated or have read/heard about someone dating a Muslim man. A young girl, age 18, meets a guy at a falafel restaurant in New York City. He is handsome, and older at about 26 years old. He is Arab, and a Muslim. The girl is Muslim too, and is flattered by his friendly, seemingly open manner towards her in the store. She is Arab, and has moved to the city for studies - it was nice to find a face familiar to those at home. They exchange phone numbers and the girl floats on could nine out of the store with a delicious falafel- and tahini-filled sandwich.

The next day, she calls him. He jokingly says, "Wow, you seem eager to meet me." She says, "Well, yes. Do you not want to meet me?" He goes silent. He says, "Okay. I'll meet you. See you in x place at x o'clock."

They meet at this place, which is a dark restaurant in a seedier neighbourhood. She is dressed nicely, and he is in a t-shirt and an old pair of jeans. They sit down, he looks at her, and throughout the meal he smiles with a glitter in his eye. She smiles back, and they flirt, albeit shyly from her end. She's not too used to flirting and is really just acting on impulse rather than on calculated thought, at least most of the time. By the end of the meal, he has his foot next to hers under the table, and they indulge in a small, yet meaningful, game of footsie. It's like they've been dating for a long time...

He offers to walk her to her bus stop, being a gentleman in her eyes. She is glowing with happiness. That is, until they start walking. He runs his hand down her back as they walk, his hand getting lower and lower. She is uncomfortable, and flinches away oviously. Suddenly, his tone of voice changes to a low growl as he stops.

"Why are you running away from me now," he asks, "why are you suddenly shrinking?" She says, "I like you, but you are making me feel weird." She couldn't think of a better thing to say than weird. Uncomfortable would be too accusatory, in case he didn't realise he somewhat crossed a line, and if she said I don't like what you are doing, it would be way too awkward.

"Oh, I see." He faces her and looks her right in the eye. His stance widens, and his shoulders look suddenly twice as broad, just for a second. "Now all of a sudden you are a pure and innocent Arab! The way you were before, you were like a looser girl, like an American. What did I do wrong?"

Offended by his words, the girl feels heat in her face. Pure and innocent? Loose? Those are not words that went into her mind throughout the whole date. Now she just wanted him to leave, but they were near the bus stop. She realises that she is all alone, with this man she did not know.

She is lucky. He says, "I don't know you or what you want. Good night." He walks away from her, leaving her in the dark. It's better this way, she thinks. I am glad he is gone. She takes the bus home and she feels safe, and the questions in her head are too much for her. What did he mean? What did he think I wanted? Did I act like a whore? I don't remember!

I want to tell her, and every other woman with those questions every day, that she did not act like a whore, nor did she do anything wrong. Whether he was Arab, Indian, Mauritian, whatever, it doesn't matter - he was a Muslim man from a Muslim culture that did not expect a woman to be forward in the least. If she were quiet, unresponsive, and never looked at him in the eye whatsoever, she would have been doing what was right in Muslim society's mind, but she would have been boring, wouldn't she? She wouldn't have been acting as herself. She would have been a great wife, but not a partner or a friend.

But guess what? Us ladies, whether we are Muslim or not, we don't just want to date to become wives. Some of us would like to to end that way, but dating is about having fun and, as I have said, making real connections. We cannot shield ourselves completely, lie or conceal for the sake of reputation, and then expect to be able to have a genuine relationship based on trust and love. It doesn't make sense!

The Muslim dating world, if that even really exists, puts too much emphasis on face, the idea that we need to protect our reputations. It's all about what we should do, and not at all about who we are, or emotion. It has gotten to the point where everything is ridiculous. If you dare make up your own moves, forget it. You'll be forced out, and alienated. I'm sick of it; that's it.

A Bond by Birth: A Childhood Object Described

2010-09-24T16:41:00.005-04:00

Wherever I lived, I had to be a big girl.

I cry because my mother or father is yelling at me? If I do it in front of them, it ends up becoming embarrassing later.

I cry because my heart is broken? Never in front of my family or friends.

I cry because I am leaving a country where I made great new friends? Never, EVER in front of my family, and coincidentally never in front of my friends, too.

Maybe the coincidence isn't a coincidence after all, you know. I've been made harder, like stone. I listened to Simon & Garfunkel's I am a Rock when I was about 13 and I thought...Wow. This song is life. MY life.

I don't feel that way anymore. I feel that if I should cry, let me cry! I am a human being who deserves to be sad. I deserve to look forward in my life and not backward. I cannot get over the past, however, if I keep everything inside. My friends would love to help me, as I would love to help them no matter what. Why not show them my feelings? Why not cry?

I can't. I'm 21 years old, and I can cry at movies like I have lost everything I have ever loved, but if you make me sad, or if I feel sad for another, even more devastating reason, you will not see me cry. Books, songs, movies, random news stories and photos will make me cry. Sometimes, you'll be around when that happens. That'll be your lucky day, because otherwise, I am a rock, I am an island. And a rock feels no pain, and an island never cries.

--

Tomorrow, I have an extra Saturday class. I am supposed to bring an object that is from my childhood or that represents my childhood before I turned 10 years old. I honestly have nothing from that time frame anymore. I do not have, in my possession, anything that old. I have some scanned photographs that I might share, but that is the only thing I have.

I will not share these with you, because some of them involve my family and the last thing I want to do is show a picture of my family on the internet. That would be risky and unfair to them. But I will describe a picture to you that I think I might share tomorrow.

I do not know how old I am, however, I am very little. Well, little as in young, but I was a big baby! I was enormous! My large, black eyes made me alien-like and frightening, even to me today! They are soulless. My mother's father hold me up while my father's father grabs on from the other side. They are standing beneath a framed Islamic inscription on a blank cream wall. My grandfathers are smiling, animated, alive. They are excited to be holding me.

But what I will probably not mention tomorrow is that even as a baby, I was emotionless and blank as that wall behind me. I don't even have a hint of curiosity. I am staring, but at nothing at all, just towards the camera so that the lens can capture those dark, dark eyes. I am wearing a ridiculous pink outfit, but I might as well have been naked. I was either a blank slate waiting to take on the world, or the zombie I am afraid of becoming today.

It is strange to me how emotional and happy people are with a new arrival like me into the world. I have never been that excited about babies, although I must admit that when my niece was born, it was an entertaining idea for me to think about being an aunt. However, in general, my interest in children has waned. My interest in life, however, since that picture was taken, has grown immensely.

I am studying really hard so that I can understand the way cultures interact. Right in that photograph, I am seeing a forced alliance through marriage between two very, very different cultures. My mother's father looks so different from my father's father. One is white and American, one is dark and Mauritian. They are both a part of me, and they are both insanely beautiful. They have different personalities that reflect in their eyes and postures. My mother's father is looking at me with a cheeky grin of all white teeth, his hair pushed back in a messy parting. He is charming, funny, and loving. My father's father stands just a bit straighter, his hair neater, and he wears a sweater-vest and tie. He is also smiling, but directly at the camera. It looks like he is in the middle of a laugh. He looks so proud to be the grandfather of a third girl; I can see it in his Caspian blue eyes.

I can see cultural differences, but what I see even more now is how similar these two men become, together in this frame. Sure, their physical features are different, extremely different, but their expressions are connected. That day, in that photograph...they were connected by me. It's hard for me to think of that, but I know it is true. The picture was taken to actually celebrate me, and it took me so long to get it.

--

So what if I grew up all moody and cold? So what if I went through moments and periods of sadness and solitude? I hid my feelings, but today I am not the same. I love that I am alive. I mean something to someone, even more than one someone. I may be working on expressing my feelings outwardly, but I will one day prevail even if it is not today.

One day, I will be able to cry in front of someone and it won't feel weird or awkward or wrong. There is a time and place for everything, and my time and place for open expression is in an intimate area, with a friend or family member. I can do this; I know it. It may not be soon, but it will be a day described as a turning point in my life.

My Identity in the Form of a Graduate Paper

2010-09-21T17:49:00.000-04:00

I had to write a paper about my identity for a class in this new Intercultural Relations degree I am aiming for. After writing it, I knew it needed to be posted here. So here it is...

Enn Ti Zacko Blanc

“Where are you from?” is the most irritating question in the world, in my opinion. This is due to the fact that my nationality or birthplace has nothing to do with who I am. Depending on my mood, the position of the moon, and the blowing of the Eastern winds, I have different answers.
When I am in the company of good-natured, jovial people, I laugh and say, “It’s complicated!” Sometimes, the rest of the group enthusiastically proclaims that they would love to hear this complicated story that I had just advertised. Sadly, they missed the point of my laughter – to me, it was a social queue meaning “I’m laughing because I don’t really want to talk about it and because it is, in fact, way too complicated.” A few times in my life, the other people recognize that I am trying to shy away from the subject and either poke and prod me for at least a little about myself, or they respect my desire to stay silent on the topic. When the latter happens, I breathe a huge sigh of relief.
On a bad day, when I have had it particularly rough, I respond to the question with a sharp “It’d take way too long to explain.” My tone of voice is not of the easy-going, carefree Khadeja in the last situation. Instead, I am pointedly irritated by the question and it is obvious. Again, some still ask for more, some stay silent, and others just smile and try to turn my nasty spark into a kind of joke. Again, the latter allows me to let out a sigh of relief. I like it when people use lightheartedness to improve a situation. I usually feel guilty, no matter what their response is. They are only trying to make conversation.
In the end, there is one thing that one may notice about these two polar situations. The truth is, I do not enjoy explaining my background in one fluid paragraph or flow of words. I need to break it up, little by little, over the course of many conversations. This is mainly because the first explanation I try to give does not encompass the vast amount of knowledge I need to portray to my listener. Sadly, the first impression counts for many, many people.
However, there is a question. What do I do when people ask for more or practically beg for some kind of answer? I am a fickle lady, one who cannot take too much begging before I start to feel bad. In the end, I give them something indeed, but up to this point I think that what I have been answering is incorrect.
Before today, I used to give them a rundown of the places I have lived in throughout my life. I was born in a suburb of Chicago, near to where my father was born. My mother was born in Mauritius, a small island off the coast of Madagascar and the land of the dodo bird, which is now extinct due to a plague of Dutchmen and rats. When I was one and a half years old, my father accepted a job opportunity in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Since then, I have become a forced nomad, as my parents (mostly my father due to his job) made us pack our things and leave on many occasions. At one point, we moved back to Saudi Arabia, but this time to the holy city of Makkah. We used to go to the Friday Jummah prayer at the Masjid Al-Haram, and we would see the Kabah at its centre. It did not occur to me, when I was so young, that there are millions of Muslims that would never get to see the Kabah due to health or financial reasons, but there I was. At another point in time, much later, I was living in Mauritius. My father moved back to Saudi Arabia alone – this was the time right after the tragedy of September 11^th, 2001. Foreigners in Saudi Arabia were being targeted, especially international schools, so my father did not want my sisters and I to have to live that kind of life. After my years in Mauritius and graduating from secondary school, I went back to the United States with hope in my heart and dreams of a great, free university life. I thought I would finally begin to find myself…
Instead, I got even more lost. Is it not apparent why none of that chunk of story matters? What does it say about where I am from? I think it says very little, if anything at all. It took me 21 years, but now I see that who I am does not lie with the countries I have lived in, no matter what anyone tries to impose upon me. I am from none of these places, in the end. The longest I have ever lived in a country was in Mauritius, but even there I was not accepted fully into the society. Even with a Mauritian mother, the fact that I had a white American father mattered more. I feel President Obama’s pain when people constantly label him as a black president when, in fact, his mother was white. This is the kind of uphill battle I am constantly involved in, but in this battle I have no armor to speak of. It is as if everyone is better equipped than I am.
When I was in Mauritius, people chose what I was – I was that weird English-only-speaking girl who tried too hard to make friends. In every other country, I was labelled as an expatriate testing the waters but never going in too deep – except the United States. Here, I am an exotic, interesting woman who has lived in places most people would never dream of visiting. I am sometimes scrutinised, and at others idolised merely for existing. Back in Mauritius, for an extremely long time, I was the epitome of everything that the society hated: a “white” girl who claimed to be a Mauritian, but who knew nothing of the culture itself because she only began living there at the age of eleven. To be honest, I feel like I am an intruder upon the cultures I visit, and that the Mauritius got it right. In the Creole I claimed as mine, I am enn ti zacko blanc ki envi rentre kott les pli grand noirs[1]. The harsh truth is that I don’t fit in anywhere.
However, when it comes to my flexible, unknown identity, I can at least say this: the ti zacko blanc (little white monkey) was able to, and is always able to, coexist peacefully with the pli grand noirs (bigger black ones). Sometimes, we even become friends and share experiences.
My identity is an endless ocean, with life and death as well as stagnancy and waves. It is a mixture of colours, textures, and movements of things dead and alive. How can I possibly describe it? Where could I possibly start? I feel sometimes that I am incapable of doing so, because I am but a small creature; floundering, swimming and gasping for air in this sea of emotions and experiences. And the imposed labels that have been forced on me are like oil rigs, tankers, and fishermen who plunge into my sea and destroy me.

[1] A little white monkey that wants to be with the bigger, black ones.

Using Travel to Forge the Link

2010-09-13T18:50:00.000-04:00

This weekend, for the Eid celebration, I went to Chicago.

The events unfurled as follows, starting on Thursday, the 9th of September:

Sitting in my room, trying to watch My Name is Khan without bursting into tears, I decide to pause the DVD I ordered from Netflix and call it a day. With everything that has been going on, with the threat of Qur'an burnings and Park 51 nonsense, watching My Name is Khan is a bad idea in the first place. All of a sudden, in the middle of me drying my eyes, I see that Mom is calling me on my cell phone..

The conversation basically starts like...
"Khadeja, do you want to come to Chicago?!"
"Umm...okay!"

She buys me a ticket mid conversation and sends me a receipt. That's the short version of what happens. In reality, it takes about 3 phone calls for the tickets to be bought, as well as a lot of mumblings on the part of both myself and Mom. Usually, when we get excited, it's hard for us to do things systematically. This usually infuriates the likes of my Dad, who likes things done in order and efficiently.

Finally, the last conversation my Mom and I have ends something like...
"Okay, we'll see you tomorrow then!"
"Yeah! I will!"

That very night, I book a taxi to the airport that night by searching for taxi services in Google and calling the first name that catches my eye. I then decide to read the reviews - again, doing things out of order, willy-nilly, because of entrenched excitement. To my dismay, the company I choose instinctively has the worst reviews, citing terrible manners, customers being ripped off, and dirty taxis with cigarette butts littered on the seats. One guy wrote a scathing paragraph about how the cab driver he had was mad at him for being 2 minutes late to catching the taxi - by the driver's watch, mind you - and he berated the customer constantly throughout the 20 mintue drive to the airport. Ohhhhh boy.

I wake up at 6am the next morning although the taxi is supposed to come by 9. I initially plan to wake up at about 7:30am, which would give me plenty of time anyway. I decide to skip the shower and take it when I get to Chicago, for some reason - I am lazy all the time, but let it be known that most of my laziness occurs in the early morning hours when I do things at a quarter of the speed. I instead waste time on the internet, reading threads on the Something Awful forums, where I have lurked for years. I ended up rushing in the shower for 5 minutes because I realised I had nothing better to do. I wear my Eid dress, one I bought the day before from a thrift store (it was vintage!) and I love the way it looks on me. The oranges, browns, and 70s patterns evoke a feeling of bliss and inner hippie, something that has been apparent in my clothing of late for some reason.

I go outside and end up waiting only 5 minutes for the cab to arrive. The driver ends up being awesome. He is a hilarious Greek guy (from Macedonia!) named Steve who talks about all the girls he chased in his youth before settling down with his, and I quote, "amazing woman." It warms my insides after I laugh at the stories of his various conquests. He really, really loves her, and his children and grandchildren. He reminds me a bit of my own grandfather, the one I am about to visit, who also had his fair share of women in his youth - and still brags about it. While I should be offended somehow, I like Steve's cheerful nature and sugary words about how good-natured he thinks I am for laughing and not taking him too seriously.

I get to the airport rather early for the flight, especially since I get my boarding pass and go through security checks very smoothly. The passport checker looks at my passport and asks, in Russian, whether I speak Russian. I understand him due to some basic vocabulary, but had to say no as I do not actually speak the language. The man was Brazilian and was speaking Portuguese only a second before switching to Russian to ask the question to me.

At my gate, I ned up alternating between playing Plants vs. Zombies and reading The Last Living Slut: Born in Iran, Bred Backstage. It is 2 hours before I am able to board my flight to Chicago's O'Hare airport. The American Airlines "wing" is interesting, with some fun neon work on the wall. I did not think of taking a picture only because the book was engrossing.

I finally get onto the flight and end up being seated between two rather attractive men: one big, burly, and obviously on his way to some sort of business meeting, the other shorter with a gorgeous smile and a self-help book. The book I am reading has racy pictures of rock stars and the author, who appears on one full page in lingerie and a sexy pose, pushing her breasts together and puckering her lips seductively. I feel awkward looking at it next to these two men, but I want to understand this woman whose story I was reading; I want to be engrossed in her physicality which makes up so much of the book - and believe me, it is very important. In retrospect, it is hilarious. I end up finishing the book within the first hour or so of the flight anyway, leaving me with nothing but my iPod for the rest of the time.

I arrive in Chicago with barely any sleep, but slightly earlier than scheduled. I take an American Taxi cab over to my grandparents' house in the suburbs. I arrive there before my parents and, while talking to my grandparents (who are in this case my father's parents) I receive an Eid Mubarak phone call from my other set of grandparents who live in New Jersey, my mother's parents. It is then that I realise why it is I took this trip.

The details of this trip are mundane, and most of them have blurred into a blob of grey in my mind. The dance I have always done through the security checks with only my passport, boarding pass, and carry-on entertainment as my partners now contain steps I have memorised through years of practice. I am now a world-class performer! I have been on airplanes since I was 1 1/2 years old, I have been travelling without my parents since I was 16, and I will keep on travelling for years and years.

It is lonely being on an airplane for hours and hours; it is boring at an airport with the same duty free shops, the same exorbitant food prices, and the same families, businessmen, well-dressed women and tourists walking around like zombies at the shopping mall. It's no longer thrilling, or exciting, or amazing. The only exhilarating thing is being on the airplane during takeoff and landing near a window. I will never get tired of that. However, I take my second flight back here and it's as if I just took a bus to downtown Boston and back.

But when I was with my family, my crazy tumultuous family of mixed beliefs, cultures, backgrounds, and aspirations...I feel everything in the world at once. I feel things that are fantastic as well as depressing in the span of about 10 minutes. I walked again through the grey, personality-free corridors of another airport for the reward. When it comes to my life, the monotone of travel is always met with the colour and vibrance of the destination. When there is a chance to reforge old bonds on the anvil, it makes everything even more worthwhile.

The Fashionable Marginalisation of Peoples

2010-09-07T09:26:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I went to the supermarket to buy food. When choosing what to wear, I decided to let myself feel inspired by reading I had done the night before about the Rastafari religion.

Mauritius is home to a very small community of actual Rastafarians. However, Bob Marley, reggae, and ganja are symbols familiar to all Mauritian people, and the Rastafari way of life is appreciated by many who live on my small island. Some are taken in by the peaceful way of life while others take on the fashion as their own, especially amongst the Creole (those of African slave origins). Of course, the music is loved by people of all religions who find it to their taste.

I swear I saw a dude who hung out in my Mauritian hometown who used to wear this same hat!
Image: http://bit.ly/bYfPLO

In this way, the Rastafari religion and culture has permeated and become a part of many Mauritian cultures. It is not a strange thing to see someone who is not actually "Rasta" dress in the colours or in a Bob Marley t-shirt walking around the streets of Mauritius. So, today, with that same spirit and feeling inspired, I wore my "Rastafari" t-shirt emblazoned with a sparkly Ethiopian lion and decorated with the gold, red green and black.

The Ethiopian Lion is used as a Rastafari symbol as they revered Haile Selassie, the Ethiopian King.
Image: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Flag_of_Ethiopia_(1897).svg

I accompanied it with my Africa necklace (with black beads and a dark wood pendant of Africa as its centrepiece) and a green headband, and there I was! Totally irie and all so good. I put my red earphones in and went to that supermarket I mentioned earlier. I didn't have a care in the world.

When I was at checkout, the woman scanning my items looked at me kinda funny, then asked me where I was from. She noticed my Africa necklace and Ethiopian lion and was visibly confused. I don't look like I could come from Ethiopia, I suppose, and for all I know, she was from around there. I told her I was from Mauritius, and as is the case with most people, I was met with a blank stare. I first tried to explain where it was, and then instead opted to just say, "We have a few rasta there and we love reggae!"

I am so glad and grateful that she smiled and said, "I like it!" - of course referring to my outfit. The truth is, when she showed interest in what I was wearing, I immediately felt foolish and a little ashamed. I immediately thought of one of my pet peeves and realised I had become what I didn't like.

What I am talking about is the way that "Westerners" take fashion of different cultures, ignore the actual meaning and symbolic nature of these items of clothing, and decide to use it as theirs. I am talking about hipsters wearing the Islamic crescent and star, "hippies" wearing the Om symbol, and the most irritating to me of all: the youngsters and celebrities wearing the ghutrah or, as it is known in the US, the keffiyeh.

That scarf thing is known as a keffiyeh.
Image: http://bit.ly/aJHSLg

For those who do not know, let me just give you a short explanation of what the keffiyeh means to some people: it is a symbol of resistance, it is a show of support for Palestine, it is a cloth used by many Middle Eastern countries and cultures, and it is a symbol of unity of all Arab cultures. It was once used by many races and religions in the Middle East, even Jewish people even though it is now seen as a pro-Palestinian tool.

When I used to see skinny model types in New York City tie one of these around their necks, I would burn with rage. To me, this was disrespect for a whole political movement and area of the world. Apparently, people can appropriate whatever they want in the US and dilute a culture. I saw it as a symbol of conquering. I saw it as proof of pure commercialisation and world domination. Frankly: I did not like it.

Wasn't I doing the same thing when I was wearing my "Rasta" stuff? Even though I was not wearing an item that reminds us of conflict, I was using a symbol that was important and spiritually meaningful to a culture that was really not my own. I may feel kinship for some Rastafarian ideals, but it they are not mine. I may like the music and the colours, but that does not make me immediately Rastafarian. It doesn't give me the right to take what is theirs. I was a mockery of their ideology, wasn't I?

We, as human beings, have been picking and choosing from other cultures for so long. Look at the turban - it has become bastardised. For some, it was just a means of covering the head and protecting it from the sun. For others, like the Sikhs, it was a religious item of clothing that showed the world who they were and their pride for their people. Then, it was a fashion item. Look at it.

Image: http://www.houseofwigs.co.nz/images/gloria%20turban.jpg

Later on, especially now, the turban has become a representation of Islam and Muslims. What a shame. All of those people around the world, from Russia to India, who use the turban in their own specific ways, with their own special fabrics and colours, are completely discounted because of a Western interpretation of what a Muslim "looks like" or dresses. It is all wrong. Is this the road that the keffiyeh and other cultural or religious dress are travelling on? The road to complete, devastating distortion?

I am seriously worried. Where do we draw the line? Sometimes I love wearing clothes that belong to other peoples, not necessarily of my own. I would love to own an African dress from Ghana because I love their fabrics and colours, but I also know that the colour choices are very important to the people who make the fabric. Does that mean that I shouldn't buy the fabric and wear the dress? Can I only buy and wear the clothes of countries I belong to?

But then again...where do we belong? Are we not all citizens of the world? We should be allowing and appreciating diversity, in theory. This is a very important and difficult question indeed that doesn't have a direct answer. I don't know where to draw the line yet. For now, I think I should draw it at religious or political significance. I am not going to wear a keffiyeh for trendy purposes. I will not wear an Om necklace because I do not follow that religion. I will have to think carefully about the Rastafari-inspired top, although I feel the top was made more for fans of reggae music.

If you think that people don't mind others appropriating their culture or religion, think again. This link was posted on Facebook and when I read it, I felt horrified. I had read similar stories before, especially about Native Americans, because their culture has been so openly twisted for popular culture. It still exists in sports logos and Halloween costumes. Actually, I believe Halloween costumes are generally the worst. Look at their "Harem Girl" outfits. They even sexualise culture so shamelessly...

Enjoying a different flavour or culture is one thing. Taking it and changing it for your own benefit, especially for something as superficial as fashion or costume, can be hurtful. It may be meaningless to us, but it is meaningful to someone else. Yes, the woman in the supermarket liked my outfit, but a Rastafarian in another place might have laughed at me for being so ignorant or might have felt that their religion and way of life was being treated like a fashion trend rather than a real spiritual practice. I don't think I want anyone to feel like that.