abufares said...the world according to a man from tartous

Kahramana

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Wed, 30 May 2012 12:32:00 +0000

Farid Al Atrash was born a prince in the southern Syrian town of Suweyda in 1910 to a Syrian father and a Lebanese mother. At a young age, he immigrated with his family to Egypt, where he became one of the most influential Arab musicians and singers of all times. Upon his request, he was buried in 1974 in Cairo near his sister Asmahan (1912-1944). She, too, was one of the rarest Arab voices, having a far reaching contralto with a blend of "dramatic mezzo-soprano". In case you're interested in the complete biographies of Farid Al Atrash and Asmahan, the net is brimming with information on both. Instead, however, I intend this post as a more intimate companion and a backdrop to the attached Youtube video.

After perusing through my profile, a reader once asked what kind of a person lists Farid Al Atrash and Pink Floyd as favorites. They are, he implied, worlds apart and only a music ignoramus would be able to equally appreciate both. His comment, inane as it may sound, touched the truth in a way he could have never imagined. If music defines a person then I am a bipolar Farid Al Atrash – Pink Floyd aberration indeed. In the deep core of my being I sing the heart wrenching Banadi Alayk and listen to the mind boggling Hey You echoing back. In case you're not familiar with Arabic, both titles mean exactly the same thing. You should give them a try when you're in the mood for some soul searching. But more on that some other time.

The Michigan Arab Orchestra was founded in 2009 by Michael Ibrahim, a young Syrian American of impressive talent and extensive musical education. The orchestra is manned (and womenned) by 35 full-time and visiting musicians, most of whom, and if I'm not mistaken, are Syrian and Lebanese Americans. As per its mission objective, “the MAO is non-profit organization that is dedicated to the performance, and education of Arab music to the greater Detroit community.”

Kahramana is a musical piece written by Farid Al Atrash to the love of his life, the Egyptian dancer/actress, Samia Gamal in 1949. To my trained eye and my zoetic soul, Samia is the most beautiful woman to ever dance Oriental. Her Delphian smile tosses an innocent man (like me) between fits of ardor and bouts of passion. More significantly though, she restored the dance to its original divine manifestation and took the belly shaking out of it. Today, Arabic dancing falls under one of two main schools, the ambrosial style of Samia Gamal, which is appropriately called Oriental Dancing and the carnal trembling of Taheyya Kariokka, which is nothing more than Belly Dancing. While Samia pranced around the stage like a genie, Taheyya heaved like a volcano over a one square foot piece of tile.

This 2012 rendition of Kahramana, performed by the Michigan Arab Orchestra, left me breathless. One by one, some of the players soloed the same short arrangement. They improvised, very much like Jazz musicians do, on the complex simplicity of the melodic masterpiece of Farid Al Atrash. The result! Well, I leave that to you, but I do have one request though. It's a seventeen minute piece that requires first and foremost the proper ambiance to appreciate it. So if the hubby or the kids are being either obnoxious or raucous, you have to make sure to silence them first. Or it might be your new blond girlfriend talking on the phone nearby with an automated telemarketing voice and giggling. Shut her up please, then sit down with a glass of wine or your favorite drink, as long as it's not milk, turn the volume up on your teeny weeny PC speakers and float on a heavenly cloud of music for what will seem like an eternity.

In the comment section, and if you don't mind leaving a trail of your visit, would you tell us which soloist was your favorite and why? I do have my own of course but least I influence your own interpretation, I would keep my peace till the end.

Also Enjoy Watching:
The original Kahramana from the movie Afrita Hanem, 1949. Samia Gamal dancing. Farid Al Atrash bewitched.

Anima Sana in Corpore Sano

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Thu, 24 May 2012 09:56:00 +0000

One year ago I submitted what turned out to be my last job at the office. I was contracted to design a residential building in Tartous around mid March 2011. By April the 20th, all the drawings were completed and in order. The client came in and took delivery of the dossier. We shook hands and hoped for the best. He was my last paying client. Like most Syrians today I'm out of a job.

What we're going through, whatever we call it since we can't agree on that, isn't going to be resolved overnight. No one in his right mind can imagine going back to the way we were. As for those who wish we could.., oh well screw them. The thousands who lost their lives, the hundreds of thousands who became homeless and the millions who can't find work are not mere numbers. There's no turning back. No matter how long it'll take, the fat lady is going to sing and there's going to be a huge crowd, the largest this country had ever seen, cheering and partying. What comes afterward is another long and perhaps painful healing process but that's the way it goes down in history books. There seldom is a shortcut to liberty and freedom.

With plenty of time on my hands and even when I'm traveling or staying at my new home in the States, I've divided my attention equally between body and soul. I went back to being fit and resumed my writing. Six months ago I started going to the gym then not too long ago I picked up that unfinished novel and never looked back.

I've been training between two to three times a week since, but in the back of my mind I always wanted my own little gym. Luckily, I was able to reclaim a very small room in the basement (not more than 8 by 10 feet) and convert it into my own Sile Fitness Room. It's not fancy by any means but it contains the basic equipment for cardiovascular and physical fitness exercises. All of a sudden I'm working out at least five times a week and I'm wearing Medium T-shirts again and 34” waist pants.

I feel great physically. It's ironic that at over fifty I'm in a much better shape than during my forties. Actually I haven't felt so good since I stopped hunting regularly back in the late 90's of the last century. As for the writing, and although I'm progressing slower than I'd like, I'm focused enough to realize the importance of this book amid the turmoil around me. It's a story about a man lost between two worlds and about the woman who made it worthwhile for him to go on through life. I've set a deadline for myself, February 2013, but hell I'm not working for anybody and I'll finish it when I damn please. In truth though, I will try my utmost to respect this target date because I need it to maintain my own discipline.

I've been hesitant to take a break from “real” work and to devote my energy and time to writing for a few years. Now, however, I have no excuse. Despite of the darkness pervading my conscience, or perhaps because of it, I'm trying to make sure that no moment goes in vain. This article turned out to be too deliberate to go with the attached video, which inspired it in the first place, but at this junction in our modern history the comic is mixed with tragedy. If it were not for the sense of humor of my fellow countrymen and women who are suffering the most every single fucking day we would've all lost hope and purpose.

One last word, if you think my video is silly you should check out the original one made by LMFAO for the music I used as background “Sexy and I know it”. (Parental Discretion is Advised)

A Letter to My Daughter

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Tue, 15 May 2012 10:24:00 +0000

Light of My Eye
Although you're not here yet, I wish you a life of enchantment... filled with dreams to chase and destinations to reach.
I love you before you're born for you're a part of me. I want to protect, to teach and to learn from you what life and love are all about. You, who are more precious to me than myself.
Your Dad, 11:15 am - Saturday, October 1st, 1989
~Written 10 minutes before Diana was born.

Habibati Diana

A more traditional man would've waited for his daughter's wedding to write and post his letter to her. But you've just graduated from college, and you know damn well that there's nothing more important to me than this. After five grueling years, of which fifteen months were wrought in anguish every time you traveled back and forth, you're finally a pharmacist. I know more jokes about pharmacists than you care to hear but I should tell you this at least, becoming the father of one gave me wings and lifted me to the top of the world.

We were both, you and I, born in a culture which abridges the life of a woman, her successes or failures, her happiness or distress, even her being or non-being down to her luck with a husband. I couldn't even substitute the word luck with choice because unfortunately the mass majority of us don't have a say in that regard. People get married because it's the "right” time and the “right” thing to do. Even when a couple are deeply in love, marriage is not a matter of choice for most but rather a preordained destiny. Oh, don't get me wrong! I'm not against the institution of marriage. I am, however, against considering your matrimony as your biggest achievement, if it's an achievement at all. I want to be there with you to celebrate whatever makes you happy, but you've already made me the happiest I can be.

You are blessed with a loving family, a mother whom altruistic love never faltered, a sister and a brother who look up at you as their hero and role model, and a grandfather who went out of his way to support you when I couldn't. And of course you have me, a father who's supposedly good with words but who doesn't express himself often enough. If I ever wanted to have a lasting impression on you, it would simply be that I gave you what is already yours, choice.

Life is all about making choices. I didn't say the right choices because I've learned from experience that there is no right or wrong momentary decision. Whichever course we chart and navigate we'll have to make an infinite number of small corrections or we'd end up stranded high and dry in a sandbank or, even worse, wrecked on a treacherous reef. With your college education, you don't have to worry much about your future career. Your degree is in demand wherever you may end up, which brings me to my next piece of advice. When you do make your choices err on the selfish side. Don't let either your attachment to a place, even if it's the only home you've ever known, or your affection to a man, even if he's the only person you've ever loved, supersede your autonomy. Home and love are the most basic of human needs but don't allow them to rob you of your inbred freedom.

I had a great teacher who barely taught me anything, or so I thought, when I was young and green. I hope I was that kind of a father to you. I have no delusions of being perfect but I know that I raised you up to be a proud woman. Look at everyone as equal until they prove you wrong with their folly. Those who remain, are your friends. All I ever dreamed of is to be one of them. Way to go Diana, I love you.

Writing

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Sat, 21 Apr 2012 09:55:00 +0000

The difference between an amateur and a professional is a matter of detachment. I have worked under stressful conditions for a good part of my life. I had to report to jerks, crooks, and penny-pinchers who literally lived off the cheap labor of others. I maintained my reserved demeanor until one day, and before solidly securing an ironclad alternative, I resigned. Even in quitting I did everything in my power to be graceful and courteous. My insistence on being a professional stemmed from my interest in preserving the way I perceive myself rather than how others judge me. I respect my untarnished legacy. I know that the biggest of them all, the smartest, the richest, and the most accomplished stands as tall as my shoulders in stature but no more.

I started rebuilding my freelance career. I talked to old contacts and sought short-term contracts. I got the wheels turning again, albeit slowly. At long last I had more time to pursue my own path. I pulled the shades open, sat by my window and began to write. Shortly afterward, my country caught fire.

I always, in my heart of hearts, knew that this is going to happen. In all honesty though, I very much doubted that I would be fortunate enough to experience it in my lifetime. It’s a milestone wrought with tragedy, savagery, mayhem and stupendous loss but such is the path of revolution and its inevitability. I don’t expect to reap the benefits any time soon but I’m confident that my children and theirs will be free. I have no doubt whatsoever and this is precisely why I consider myself lucky.

Courtesy of http://www.guardian.co.uk/money/2010/jan/06/burning-books-wales

Evidently though I’m an amateur writer, or it could be that I’m simply scared. Perhaps in all reality, I’m both. I flipped open a blank page and embarked on a novel. I molded the characters, breathed life into their names, and escorted them along the first steps of an intriguing plot. I turned the sunlight on and summoned voices and sounds from the past. I channeled the morning breeze to stir the leaves of the eucalyptus trees then blew on the ripples of the sea to prod them into breaking softly on the sandy beach. My novel is a fictitious journey into the souls of people I intimately knew but never personally met. If it were to even brush with the world of politics it would do it noncommittally and only as an unavoidable background noise. Yet when we started dying in the dozens, day after day after day I lost all ability to imagine. Imagine a novel without imagination. The last written page stared at me for a month, then two before I closed the notebook. A professional writer would have overcome the dire circumstances and continued to write unaffected, unperturbed. Even a novice could have put his work on a shelf and started on something else in an attempt to dress the wound so to speak.

I don’t dare write the truth, for although I can pack up, leave and not return until the nightmare is over, I’m scared for those staying behind. All I can do to loosen the grip of the mind-cuffs is to sputter laconically cryptic posts on my blog every now and then. I scribe sporadic words to deaden the dull ache in my conscience, and to maintain my untarnished legacy at the minimum sustainable level. To declare that I'm a coward takes a lot of courage, so I console myself. Perhaps this explains my bitterness toward those intellectuals on the inside who soiled their reputations by equating the criminals with the victims and my contempt for the expats who chose to stand on the bestial side of humanity.

How others perceive us is ephemeral but we all have to live with ourselves for the rest of our lives. I won't write a word I don't believe in even if I have to stop writing.

I Shot the Sheriff

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Sat, 07 Apr 2012 18:56:00 +0000

My stand on guns is simple enough and straightforward. I wish they were never invented. But since they have, wishful thinking is nothing more than arcadian gibberish. I strongly support gun control when a just rule of law is imposed on each and everyone in a society. Guns should not be carried around concealed or revealed by civilians out on the streets. Yet, once within the confines of their own homes I believe that the right to keep and bear arms and to use them in self defense is an inalienable one.

I am an advocate of handgun and weapon training for every member of a household. It could come in handy one day and save lives. When an intruder breaks in and threatens me, my family or my loved ones he becomes fair game. Despite my peaceful disposition I wouldn’t hesitate nor feel guilty ripping him apart with my bare hands or blowing him to pieces with a hollow-point 45.

I am not much of a political activist. In fact I am politically timid. A line has been drawn, plain and obvious, however. I can’t stand aggressors. Whether it’s a lowly thief, a thug or the badass Sheriff himself, if he violates my human rights I won’t go down alone.

I Shot the Sheriff, from the album Burnin’ by Bob Marley - Harry J. Studios, Kingston, Jamaica, 1973.

They Taught Us to Fly

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Thu, 08 Mar 2012 21:47:00 +0000

The closest I got to a religious experience, or at least a spiritual one, was when I set foot in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina and shared the same space with the Wright Brothers among the dunes of Kill Devil Hills, albeit a 109 years too late. This has always been a dream of mine, a dream shared by every pilot and aviation buff the world over, the pilgrimage to Kitty Hawk. Orville (1871-1948) and Wilbur (1867-1912) Wright invented and built the first successful airplane. Then they piloted it themselves to become the first humans to fly in a controlled, sustained, powered and heavier-than-air aircraft on December 17th, 1903.

My son asked me once: "Who taught the first pilot how to fly?" and I found it difficult to give him a straight answer. Many men died in pursuit of that heroic endeavor but once you fully learn about the Wright Brothers’ achievement and how they realized it the mystery of this daunting task and of flight itself becomes less enigmatic. Orville and Wilbur were two bachelor bicycle mechanics from Dayton, Ohio. The absence of women in their lives had forced them perhaps to seek an alternative way to fly and be giddy. Their pain, or lack of it, was our gain of course. Just consider the tremendous advances in aviation over the last century and you would matter-of-factly appreciate why the airplane is indeed the greatest human invention in history.

The Wright Brothers were not of the daredevil type portrayed in the mostly romantic movies about the dawn of flying or even modern day aviators. In fact they were more of the bland type of men. Sedate, methodical and systematic, they attacked the problems of controlled, sustained and powered flight with empirical data and analysis reserved to physicists and experimental scientists. The self-taught aviators persisted for years in the unraveling of the secrets of flying by direct observation of the flight of birds then by making over 1000 un-powered flights in gliders of their own design and built. They chose this particular spot near Kill Devil Hills in the Outer Banks of North Carolina for its dependable winds, soft sands and unobstructed expanse years before they made their historic flight. They failed and returned to their drawing board and workshop over and over again without truly risking their lives like the many fallen heroes before them. They corresponded with renown aviation scholars and glider pilots from Europe and exchanged ideas and discoveries. They invented the wind tunnel, they manufactured their own gasoline engine from scratch, they carved the propellers, they sewed the muslin, they glued the struts and reinforced the wings of their Wright Flyer with bicycle spokes and all with their own hands. Then on December 17th, 3 days after a failed attempt by Wilbur, who won the coin toss to fly the airplane first, Orville soared into the air and flew for a distance of 120 feet (37 m) in 12 seconds and at a ground speed of only 6.8 miles per hour (10.9 km/h) due to the strong headwinds. The brothers alternated as pilots and made 3 more successful flights on that same day. The next two flights covered 175 feet (53 m) and 200 feet (61 m) and were piloted by Wilbur and Orville respectively at an altitude of about 10 feet (3.0 m) above the ground. The fourth and last attempt of the day (the Wright Flyer was severely damaged afterward and never flew again) saw Wilbur fly for 852 feet (260m) and lasted for 59 seconds. Modern aviation was born and our world changed forever.

There are thousands upon thousands of detailed accounts about the Wright Brothers’ achievements and contributions to humanity and it would be idiotic of me to attempt to add more. I can, however, express my own feelings of awe as I stood, walked then ran around the Wright Brothers National Memorial in Kitty Hawk. Once I climbed that hill and stood by the monument erected in their honor and memory the sky opened up and rain started to fall, cleansing my body in harmony with my mind... and I soared. It is simply impossible to capture the essence of the place in this short video but that was the best I could do. As I scanned the infinitely visible horizon, clearly defined against the overcast sky of the late afternoon I imagined hearing, carried with the winds and over the years, the unassuming words of the brothers sent in a telegram to their father in Ohio: Success four flights thursday morning # all against twenty one mile wind started from Level with engine power alone # average speed through air thirty one miles longest 57 [sic] seconds inform Press home ####Christmas.

*Video background music Learning to Fly by Pink Floyd, 1987 from the album A Momentary Lapse of Reason

Cloud

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 08:28:00 +0000

The budding year has brought us rain to wash the grime off of the facades of monstrous buildings and to cleanse our burdened hearts soiled from decades of cruelty. It’s not easy to shed a debauched past with the magic wand of a peaceful protester or the whim of a benevolent mogul and expect a miracle to save us all. For I had walked among the dead, the silent ones and the zombies, and saw them for what they are, vampires feeding on hope and spoiling the landscape with their excremental nostalgia. They are an admonition of what we could turn into if we give up our dreams. Outside my window, puffs of clouds, white, gray and dark scuttle across the sky. They gather from all directions, ominous with the threat of a devastating storm or a magnanimous deluge that will bring life to this barren land.

While apathy is plentiful work has become scarce. With nothing to kill but time I lose myself to a recurring daydream*. I’m flying among the clouds in unconditional freedom. I type “cloud” in the search box and come up with a game. I was never big on computer games but this one intrigued me by its utter benignity. Cloud was developed by a group of students at USC School of Cinematic Arts in 2006. It is the closest rendering of the ubiquitous dream of flying experienced by almost every child and a few lucky grownups. The purpose of the game, as if it needs a purpose, is to fly among clouds, to shepherd them in a flock and to bring rain to thirsty cities and souls. The music is serene, the graphics and wallpaper inspiring and the demands on your system and dexterity minimal. It is as close as you could get to practicing Yoga on your PC. Make sure to explore the various dreams and extras after your install the game.

Cloud can be downloaded for free at the game’s project website and on CNET.

*Read more about the Cloud People.

A Song from Afar

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 19:38:00 +0000

I took a lung-full of air and plunged at an angle, my body gleaming in the sunlight before it disappeared. The song came from the north, faint at first then growing louder like the knell of a fog-bell on a distant buoy. It was the first time that I hear such a song, yet it was one I've been longing for as it reverberated through my spine into the depth of my loins.

A primitive feeling of urgency took hold of me. For days and nights I felt as if I had lost all control of my faculties while being goaded by an intangible need. A blurred mirage of mother hung snugly in a dark recess of my brain, emitting a feeble light that turned the blackness into a fugue of gray. An anamnesis from the past, as shapeless as the surface of the sea on a windless night rode the back of the song from far away and guided me ahead.

It grew loud as the water got colder, crisp as the air turned brisker. I felt the currents, diverging near the top, converging the deeper I dived. A vast solace engulfed me in the frigid darkness and when I resurfaced I irresistibly stared with misty eyes at the stars above. Getting my bearings by sound and light pervaded me without any conscious attempt. Where did I learn to do that? Who taught me? The questions, the myriad of them, remained unanswered.

On a spry morning, 49 rising and setting suns after I left the bay, I saw them in a pod dotting the horizon. I called and they answered back, wordless voices of certitude but of little or no choice. They are like me, I reckoned. Memories trickled back then flooded my field of vision. I saw the school I grew up with. I felt the warmth of mother. I remembered ephemeral associations. That’s what brought me here and what will take me further west till I reach that solitary humpback! That’s what brought the others here too. The song, the eternal song, I hear for the first time.

Jets of froth filled the air and cascaded down like broken chrystal. Tall obelisks of fury erupted and ruffled the shoulders of the undulating waves. I was cornered in the endless ocean among my peers, fighting with each of them for my right of passage. Only if I could best this brawny one off to the left. Oh, and that one with the ugly cut in the fin, and the slimy looking one there and that fat one and the other.

With the break of dawn the melee came to an end. The ocean had turned red with the blood of the losers and mine. My body fat consumed, my strength depleted, only the burning in my loins remained. I swam by her side then circled around. Her own quest had come to an end, she acquiesced. She stood still realizing without looking back that I was the sole one for her. I made one last shallow dive and took her from below, holding her with invisible hands. As our eyes locked and my sperm flowed irreversibly into her she sang her eternal song one more time but only for me.

She will call again and I will swim across the earth's oceans. She is mine, we both know it, till the end of time.

Espresso

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 14:46:00 +0000

In January of 2000 I went on my first trip to Italy. Three days after a job interview in Tartous with a visiting delegation I received a call asking me to attend a meeting in Treviso. The company had applied for an expedited visa on my behalf and one week later I was there, at headquarters.

We sat in a very large and Italian meeting room with glass all around instead of walls. The ceiling and the floor were mostly made of transparent panels too. It was fantastic architecture by all means and although I'm no great fan of cutting edge modern design I was impressed nevertheless. The same 3 men who interviewed me in Tartous walked into the room with an amicable disposition. They inquired about the flight, if my room in the hotel was comfortable enough and whether breakfast was to my liking. Then we sat down to business. I neglected to tell them that I didn't have time for a proper breakfast but instead only had a cupcake. Most importantly there was no coffee in the breakfast area and before I had a chance to order it from the bar the dispatched car and driver had arrived.

15 minutes into the meeting I was dying for a cup of coffee. I was also reflecting on how differently business in Syria is conducted. The first half an hour or so is mostly spent on pleasantries such as talk about the kids, the weather and world economy, in Tartous at least. Coffee and/or tea are brought in by an attendant. Sugar is premixed as per each individual person's preference. Then ever so slowly the talk tangos into the business at hand. One of my hosts, more attentive than the others and who eventually became a personal friend, noticed my discomfort and asked if he could get me something. Yes please, can I have some coffee?

I was surprised that in a company with over 800 employees worldwide and with an office staff of 150 there wasn't a single person with the designated job of making and/or serving beverages. Of course that was my first venture into the world of big business abroad. It's true that I worked in the US before and that there was no one to serve coffee either, but I only worked in a university and a small general aviation company. Carlo, logistics and international crew and recruiting manager, got up himself and fixed me an espresso.

I was 40 and I just had my first real Italian espresso but I got hooked since. There's nothing in the world, not a single dish or beverage that comes close to an Italian espresso. But more than their cuisine or their wines, the football or the super cars, architecture, painting or sculpture, Italians reached their true height in art and science with their espresso machines and coffee.

I bought my first and only espresso machine in February of that year as a birthday present for myself. It was simple and actually the only one I could find, a French Moulinex Gusto. Unlike fancier machines, which contain a stainless steel or a brass boiler, an exchanger, complex plumbing and a powerful pump to flash-heat the water to precise temperature on its way to the basket containing the ground coffee, minee had a plastic water tank, a small heater in the head and an electric pump. Once the water temperature gets to a certain degree in the head itself the thermostat light comes off. I push a rocker switch activating a pump which in turn forces a jet of water over the coffee. I had it for 12 years and it served me at least one cup of coffee every morning I've spent at home since. I never filled it with anything but Lavazza coffee, the brand that I chose as my favorite after my maiden 5 days visit to Italy.

Last week the Moulinex started leaking on the sides around the filter holder. I fiddled with it as best as I could but I realized that it had reached the end of its useful life. This morning, my cup of espresso tasted almost as bland as a cup of American coffee with the consistency and suspended particles I so much despise in Turkish coffee. I cleaned the machine reverently for it had served me well. I even spoke to it and promised that I'll try to fix it but with the relegated role of a backup.

I just bought a new machine, a steam powered espresso coffee maker and an Italian at that. My DeLonghi is set up and ready. I can almost smell the fresh brew and the temptation is killing me. But that will have to wait till morning. For now, a shot of Grappa to celebrate the change of guard is in order. Salute!

Return

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 09:59:00 +0000

It hurts not to write, to wean my imagination by damming the river within or to trickle updates and comments on a bedlamite Facebook. With premeditated arrogance I pronounce that I’m too good for politics, but even a lofty leopard is distracted by buzzing flies. I should be writing about the beauty in and around me. Whether they are about the woman perched on a throne of clouds or the city I see in my childish eyes, I miss the echo of my own words. The music they make when they meander around in my head then dance to the drumming of my racing heartbeats. Leave the grease and the exposed hairy cracks to the mechanics, I tell myself then zoom past the desperate crowds in a dream powered Ferrari. I have the heart of Gawain and the ardor of Adonis, the Syrian God not the grovelling poet. I am the Tartoussi, Ibn al-Balad, who’s known the before and after, standing by and waiting for the end of this long day and a new beginning.
I'm coming back.

2011

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 11:06:00 +0000

I don't have mixed feelings toward 2011. It was by all means the year, one which we can look at from the shortsighted vantage point of the here and now or from afar to perceive its magnitude from the acquired insight of a future in the making.

No, I have no doubts. I know exactly how I feel about it as it has been the epochal year of my life although certainly the most agonizing for all of us. I wouldn't be claiming prescience if I had previously predicted its inevitability. Although it took me, like it did everybody else, by surprise I have been waiting for it to happen for as long as I can remember.

The inflicted pain of 2011 will linger on for a few more years, of that I'm certain. Yet I'm optimistic that out of calamity my and other children will lead more dignified lives. They will dig within their own bags of memories to compare the before and after. They will bask in precious liberty earned with the limb and blood of their brethren who made, and still are making, the ultimate sacrifice.

Many compatriots are against subversive change. They chose to bury their heads in the sand or worse to vehemently oppose the natural human aspiration for freedom for several reasons, not the least of which is the preservation of their privileged economic position and/or chaperoned social status. They were of the opinion that if it ain't broke don't fix it and thus embarked on a blind mission of psychotic denial and base justification for atrocities and crimes perpetrated and committed. Needless to say that their defeatist outlook is only helping in delaying the fateful outcome but it won't put a dent on its certainty. Over decades of subservience they've learned to tip the scale in their favor exactly like all parasites in the animal and plant kingdoms. They were able to make a good living within a corrupt socioeconomic system, where they evaded fair competition and hard work. They'd rather live in advantaged voluntary servitude instead of being free among equals.

In the spirit of the season, however, let me wrap up my last post of the year by being as good-hearted as I have it in me and by offering my best wishes for 2012. May peace fill the lives of every human, animal and plant. May the new year bring honor to those who earned it. As for freedom, I'll simply quote Abraham Lincoln to express my sincere sentiments: "Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves". Happy 2012 everyone :-)

The Aftermath

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 10:31:00 +0000

What shall I write about when everyone I know has turned into either a desultory opponent or a gullible supporter while those who are neither are the worst of all? I am a conspirator to the supporters and they are cowards to me. Highbrow hypocrites, camouflaged in diarrheal moderation, evade the deluge by hiding in the unreachable branches of tall trees, unprincipled, unashamed. They, along with the merchants of the two cities will surely recover and end up high and dry no matter how long the flooding remains.

courtesy thedailygreen

The cowards shall never win for their freedom will be handed to them as alms. The conspirators, and despite their fateful victory, have already lost their true identities. Eventually when the water recedes, the bemused survivors, cowards and conspirators, will pick up the pieces of their broken lives. The merchants will sell them their lives back, with interest and at a profit no doubt. And the hypocrite rascals will get down from their trees and fill the world with trash while, most certainly, making a damn good living out of cleaning the aftermath.

The Storm

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 11:02:00 +0000

Another dry gust blew with profane anger. From behind the windowpane I saw plastic bags and scraps flailing the streets. The godless oppressive wind, flapping from the southeast then from the northeast, and infused with the sickly breaths of teetotaler pawnbroker merchants, and skunky with the sweat of racketeering hajjes, harassed the green trees in the coulee. They writhed, close to despair, then bent down only to protect their naked saplings.

The cold lashed and puffed with arid impotence. The chair upon which I sat, the bookcase and the nightstand by my side moaned with pain, their old walnut bodies crying for moisture. The shutters outside shivered in the grip of the grim reaper, almost giving up their hinges, when the inevitable sea-wind of fall came at last. It started to rain, slowly at first then with an orgasmic rhythm.

A big storm is on its way. I'm longing to walk in the rain, to wash away the grime that soiled the mind and the smut that tainted the soul. I don't wanna cover my head anymore nor pull up my collar around the neck. I just wanna walk and get wet. I wanna come clean.

Photo above courtesy of http://rapid-downloadss.blogspot.com

Sile - The Face Lift

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 11:53:00 +0000

It all started when the television set exploded into a thousand pieces. I was tired after a day of give and take and was looking forward to having a beer in the comfort of my private hole in the ground. I took the elevator down to the basement where what I call my small barroom is located. I went around the bar to open the fridge and get a cold one when, splattered all over the floor, I saw the carcass of the TV set. After 6 years of hanging on a metal bracket, gravity got the upper hand and ripped the screws and bolt off the wall.

I had my beer anyway but was disgusted with myself. No, it wasn't because I had to buy a new piece of electronics at all. As a matter of fact I was looking forward to hanging a flat screen instead of the bulky box. It was just this feeling that my favorite room, the only one that I can claim as truly mine, because none of the others in the household like it, was in dire need of a face-lift. You see when I bought the flat (apartment) on the bones, as we say in Syria, I spent every penny I had saved on making it a cozy family home for 3 kids to grow up comfortably in. At long last when I wanted to dress up and furnish my 5X3 meter room I was virtually broke. So I made do on as limited a budget as possible and despite its spartan appearance Sile was by far my favorite place and sanctuary. Sile is a river in northern Italy and because of my affection for the city of Treviso where Sile flows I bestowed its name on the one piece of real estate that is truly mine and mine alone.

Over the years I wrongfully allowed Sile to become a dump for discarded pieces of equipment like a treadmill, or tidbits of furniture like a desk the kids no longer wanted. Even the Foosball table I was so excited to have at first became a burden and a piece of junk. I hardly played Foosball, exercised on the treadmill or used the stupid desk that nobody wanted. I only sat on my favorite stool and had my most creative moments in the bliss of my solitude and a drink.

Then my muse, oh I have a muse too, ran her slender hand on my cheek. You deserve better, she said.
Oh, I know, I told her, but what should I do? Where should I start?
What do you like best?
You, when you talk in my head, I replied.
Beside me silly old fool. Beside drinking. Think about it!
Uhhh, I like to read, I guess. With the country being in the palm of an Afreet as it is now and with very limited outdoor activities, I'm left with my reading.
And where do you read habibi? Yup after a couple of drinks she starts calling me habibi.
In bed, where else can I read? You know how it is upstairs.
Then bring your books and come read down here.
But... look at this place... it needs... it's awful and...
Shhhhh, leave that to me, she whispered, get a piece of paper and a pencil and let me show you what to do.

That was last month. Now Sile is done. I'm so happy with it. I mean h.a.p.p.y. as in really happy I want the whole world, well not all of it just those who read this blog and actually reach this point without hurting themselves, to see what a great place Sile turned out to be. This is a private club and only accessible through a personal invitation. Oh well, you are all invited.

PS Tequila Talking by Lonestar is a song that I've been stuck with during most of the remodeling process. So it's only appropriate to use it as background music for the attached video.

Cheers

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 18:40:00 +0000

I've written under the influence before. Here I am though, in this moment in time and in this particular place, waiting for the inevitable. Throughout my life, the journey itself meant more to me than the final destination. On the many twisting roads I followed, the curves, the climbs and the unforeseen stops had marked my passage rather than a Welcome to Utopia sign posted at the entrance of a dead-end street. Sure I remember the cocktail parties and the insidious talks and the obligatory dance every now and then and the banter and laughter and unfinished drinks. The lonely drive back, however, somehow proved more real, more existential, after all these years.

One night when I was young and green, loaded with blood in my alcohol stream someone popped a question. We were playing Truth or Dare and I chose the Truth. There wasn’t a thing in the world I would’ve not done if they dared me so I figured what’s the point! Let them ask, perhaps I can learn a thing or two about myself. “What is your dream?” This is a moment any 22 year old fool would treasure. It was my free ticket to get laid that evening. All I needed was to draw from a vast repertoire of bullshit a young self-proclaimed intellectual possessed and I would end up in the sack with somebody.

“I want to fuck the universe.” I downed the shot of whatever I was drinking and envisioned myself almost 30 years later, now, at this moment, sitting with my friend Johnny, just the two of us, having one hell of a time. His name is Walker, Johnny Walker by the way, and he’s Black my friend.

Well the universe proved to be too lousy a lover and too formidable an adversary. Neither of us remember much of our flirting affair. One thing, however, just one thing, brought me and continues to bring me unbound satisfaction. I never gave up, I never changed. I have less hair on my head to be certain but she too, the universe that is, has grown older with a fat ass. I found myself a small moon and she's much prettier. Screw you Universe, you lost.

I fancy the inevitable, the moment of ultimate truth, and I snicker. I’m past the halfway mark and I don’t give a fuck. After all I’ve seen and learned it could only get better. Cheers!

Flying - Comfortable in the Air

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Wed, 28 Sep 2011 09:15:00 +0000

My first flight instructor was Ulf, a soft-spoken Swedish guy almost exactly my age. He was a quite young man with a perpetual Scandinavian smile on his face. I never saw him wearing anything but a clean well-pressed white shirt and navy-blue dress pants. The last I heard about him was that he'd been a captain on Scandinavian Air Service SAS for many years. My first solo flight came after 10 hours of dual instruction. Why don't you pull off the runway, Ulf yelped over the engine noise, I need to take a piss. I brought the plane to a complete stop on the taxiway and shut the engine off.

Opelousas, Louisiana had an uncontrolled airport. It had no control tower and accordingly arriving and departing traffic (aircraft) had to communicate by radio and declare their intentions to each other. The system worked pretty well and still does for the vast majority of American airports. Take-offs and landings are on first-come first-serve basis. Airplanes line up in an imaginary predetermined traffic pattern then proceed to land or to take off safely and efficiently. It was late afternoon, however, and on that particular hot summer day the sky was empty and almost as blue as Ulf's eyes. He jumped out of the two-seater Piper Tomahawk, turned his back to me and did actually take a leak in the middle of the airfield. After a manly shake, he obviously zipped up his pants and came to the left side of the plane, my side that is, and spoke in his characteristically diminutive voice. Say Abufares (that was not my name then but I'm using it to keep my identity secret), what do you say if I ask you to fly around the pattern alone, land, taxi back here and shut the engine off. Then you can do it a couple more times if you feel up to it? I couldn't believe my ears. This was not supposed to happen today. The instruction manual recommended the first solo flight after 12 hours of dual training. I knew that if I didn't answer in 10 seconds or less Ulf would climb back in his seat and call it a day. Yes! That was all I said. I shut both doors closed then switched on the ignition. I saw Ulf smiling and waving his hand as I taxied back in position for take-off on the runway. It was sweltering hot and my heart pumping blood and adrenalin at 200 beats a minute didn't make it any cooler.

It's been 30 years since that Saturday on July 11th, 1981 and I still remember it as if it happened 30 minutes ago. I pushed the throttle all the way up like I did many times with my instructor by my side. The plane twitched then accelerated nervously down the runway veering to the left with the torque of the single engine. I compensated with right rudder and at 55 knots an hour broke ground. The tiny cockpit seemed incredibly large and empty without Ulf. The Tomahawk, amazingly light without his weight, climbed steeply, much more steeply than I ever remembered and I subconsciously adjusted the trim wheel to keep her nose down. I raised the flaps and commenced my left turn to join the traffic pattern on the downwind leg. It all went silent as a surge of freedom flooded through my body and mind. I AM FLYING! I AM FLYING ALONE AT LAST!!!

I made a robust first landing, safe and efficient. Although I didn't grease my plane onto the runway I would never forget that moment in time. It was my greatest personal triumph, and save for a thing or two, still is. After I received my Private Pilot License, Ulf left and joined a regional American airline. Krisan arrived on the scene and instructed me almost completely through my Commercial and Instrument training. She was a fine young lady, petite, smart, and very pretty in her leather jacket and tight pants. She too became an airline captain for one of the majors. Before she quit flight instruction, however, she handed me to Rick.

Now if you were God and wanted to create the antithesis of Ulf and Krisan you could only end up with Rick. The man was loud. He came to work on a Harley with a cigarette between his lips. Somehow it stayed lit till the end of the day. And, and... pretending he was grabbing another cup of coffee, he would chase the secretaries from upstairs and the receptionists downstairs with his lewd remarks and stale pickup lines from the 60's. After Ulf and Krisan, I was in for a cultural shock. My best defense against the inevitable I thought was to talk as little as possible. To this day Rick thinks that I didn't speak English then and is still surprised how quickly I picked up the language afterward. I would use lines I memorized from sitcoms on TV for my routine conversation with him. The guy, and I have no doubt about it, must've thought that I was an absolute idiot. Truth of the matter though, I was a graduate teaching assistant in college at the time. But, he didn't need to know that.

Despite his eccentricities, or perhaps because of them, Rick was a top rated instructor and a very proficient pilot. I completed the remaining of my training with him in no time and within a month or so received my commercial certificate and my instrument and multi-engine ratings. Soon thereafter, I was offered my first job as a pilot in the very same General Aviation and Flight School were I earned my wings. Gene, rest his soul, was a boss, a friend and an older brother, who believed in Rick and me. He helped me get my Flight Instructor and Advanced Ground Instructor licenses and I embarked on a trip of adventure and discovery that had changed my life forever.

I had used the I need to take a piss phrase with all of my students when it was time for them to solo. Perhaps the only greater satisfaction than my own first solo flight was when I gazed at the sky and followed with my eyes and heart a student of mine flying on his own while I stood on the side of the runway. I know some of them have joined the airlines, one or two became air force pilots and several are flying doctors and professionals.

The world has changed for me and for everybody else over the years. I have taken on more jobs than I can remember in different fields, places and industries, from construction to industrial installations to shipping. My hands stayed soft despite the wear and tear of time, or so she tells me. I didn't have a chance to fly for 11 years during which not a single day, not one, had gone by without me remembering that first solo flight when I became a pilot. To be with Rick in the cockpit again, on top of the world and above the clouds, is something I fail to describe by miles and knots. He sure talks a lot but he was, still and always will be my best friend.

To anyone with the slightest inkling to get in the air and fly I dedicate this post. Go for it!

To my friend Rick, happy retirement and until next time.

Living the Dream

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 10:02:00 +0000

I admired the beautiful handwriting by tracing my fingers over the elegant curves. The calligraphy scrolled like the sway of a perfectly shaped feminine butt in tight jeans. I could see her walking on a metal bridge as I trailed a step behind, too entranced to even breathe. I sighed, hoarding the air into my lungs, before I went breathless again. I ran my hand over my face, entirely covering my nose and mouth then mapping the outline of my stubbled chin. I gasped, a faint scent of Lavender and Jasmine lingered on my fingers. My heart pounded with a thousand delights. Sunshine lighted the world around me and a breeze stirred the surface of a lake, goading the water into dancing with the wind like the bangs of a mischievous boy riding his bicycle on the open road.

Climbing an immaculately manicured hill, you reached a railing where you stopped and looked at the river below. A couple of kids, more beautiful than a mecsek flower and a red rose played together. They laughed and raced and rolled on the grass. Their eyes, tranquil with content saw through you as if you weren't there. “Am I in the way?”, you asked the gorgeous little girl. She willed you to move without even nodding and followed a path laden with gold and jewels only she could see.

Rain threatened but waited. A solitary man stood by a window chasing a woman with a painfully long gaze before she disappeared behind the curb. His eyes held on precariously to the forming tears. I tossed and turned and woke up. The leather-bound notebook lay on the night table. I reached for it and peeled it open where the bookmark cleaved its pages down the middle. I read the Douglas H. Everett quote. There are some people who live in a dream world, and there are those who face reality, and then there are those who turn one into the other. Sweating but not ill at ease, I wiped my wet cheeks and smiled. Another dream, another day.

Born to Ride

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 15:42:00 +0000

To my friend Rick

The horses were standing still and probably asleep when he started brewing the coffee. As he approached the stable, bringing them feed, his cigar smoke brought them back to the here and now. They snorted before one of them, Ibanez most likely, neighed and kicked the door expectantly. It was almost 3:00AM.

I do flock with strange company but such are my friends. Admittedly, I only have a handful of them but Rick and I go back a long way. He is after all my best friend. In all the years we've known each other our bond has been mainly one of sharing the hard and the easy times. We went on without setting eye on each other for 11 years but when we met at last it seemed as if our farewell had been only yesterday.

We left Ward, Arkansas with the break of dawn and rode over the next 36 hours through the hot and muggy American South for 700 miles (+1200 km). Riding nonstop for 6 hours a stretch, save for fuel and piss stops, the beasts beneath us writhed in the scorching heat then waded in the pouring rain. We only have coffee for food when we ride and won't touch a bite till we break the day. We stopped at Sarah's and Ron's for the night and Ron fixed us the best damn steaks I've ever had this side of the Mississippi, or on the other. When we left the next morning, the Jack Daniel's bottles were sitting empty on the kitchen table. I look forward seeing you again dear friends. Thank you both for the good times.

The black and silver Dyna SuperGlide took the road with an easy stride. She roared with delight and defiance with every spin of the wheels. She's Betty's mare, you know, the Harley I ride in America, and I have to tell her how honored I am that she entrusts me with her pride and joy. Thank you Betty, we have to find a way to ride together one day.

The fog hovered then reluctantly lifted off the fields and rolling hills. A deer stood motionless in the middle of the road. The rushing Harleys braked then banked and darted on the very edge. The startled animal wondered if it died and went to heaven. It was its lucky day, I guess, and ours. Images from the past flared with the dashing stripes of yellow paint on the two-way highway. Chimeras from the future giggled in my head as I droned on and on and on not too far behind my riding buddy. He slowed down and I caught up with him. “Is everything alright?”, he asked. Exhausted, consumed and worn-out, I nodded, “It couldn't get any better than this."

Dancing on 9/11

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 11:28:00 +0000

I was on a job site in Lattakia when the shit hit the fan on September 11th, 2001. Since my work was almost done for the day I immediately jumped in the car and drove back (100 km) to my summer home in Bmalke. I flipped from one radio channel to the next in search of live news but still couldn't get a clear picture of what was going on amid the ensuing confusion. Once I made it home I ran straight to the TV and expectantly tuned in to CNN. The very first thing I heard was Deborah Feyerick reporting live from New York about the NYPD arresting 2 or 3 men in a white van full of explosives. Later in the day, anchorman Dan Rather mentioned it again on the 5 o'clock CBS News . The video clip below contains both instances plus footage of an Israeli talk show with these same men who were arrested then later released!!!

On September 12th, 2011 Paulo Lima, Staff Writer in The Record, a local New Jersey newspaper wrote an article "Five men detained as suspected conspirators were driving similar van as 3 seen celebrating after attack". This article was subsequently removed (i.e. erased, deleted) from www.northjersey.com (The Record's official website). Fortunately, a jpg image of the printed paper is available along with hundreds of links containing the original text. Here's the full article.

9/11 will go down as one of the most tragic events in human history. What makes it more tragically profound is that the government of the United States of America withheld and is still withholding information about what really happened. Cynics might argue that the fact that Israeli Mossad agents were on location filming live the catastrophe as it happened and that they were later seen by several eyewitnesses dancing jubilantly may not prove that the state of Israel was behind 9/11. Logically and with total judiciary detachment I can accept this cynicism, regardless of how foul it smells and tastes. However, there is conclusive evidence that Benjamin Netanyahu, the Mossad and the government of Israel had had prior knowledge of when (exactly down to the minute) and where (the specific buildings) the attack(s) were to take place. This is not an exoneration of the Bush Administration nor the government of the United States, as strong evidence also suggests that they were both either involved or had, at least, prior knowledge.

A must-read chronology of behind the scenes accounts and public records, some of them later erased, is to be found here.

To the families and friends of the victims of this tragedy, may your loved ones rest in peace. To the rest of the world, may the truth be known to all, one day.

In Search of the Lost Pueblo

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Wed, 07 Sep 2011 10:45:00 +0000

On a hot August morning in New Mexico, my GPSless friend and I embarked on a journey of geographical discovery in search of one of the illusive 19 Indian Pueblos. We were lost most of the time until eventually a couple of lumberjacks gave us the necessary instructions to get through the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. As we crossed the 12,000 ft path we descended on Taos and lived to tell about it.
Route: Albuquerque, Santa Fe, Sangre de Cristo Mountains, Taos then back along the Rio Grande River.

This video is the first in a series of posts called " Homage to America". Hope you enjoy it!

Istanbul... Istanbul

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 11:48:00 +0000

At 7:00AM, 12 hours after leaving Tartous, I made it to a modern looking hotel on top of a hill. Blurry eyed, I stood on a terrace and took a long look at the panoramic view of the Golden Horn laid down for my eyes only. Istanbul was yawning but already awake drinking a cup of Turkish coffee. The smell of spices and cardamon filled my airways with euphoric anesthesia. The enchanting minarets, stilettos piercing the heavens, awakened a docile spirituality I had previously tamed. My mind cried for sleep. My heart begged for a walk. But for a man like me, who doesn't give much thought to thinking, the heart always wins.

Over the years, I have followed with fascination travelers’ accounts of distant cities and faraway places. Istanbul remained uncharted territory although Ataturk airport has served as a transit point for my out of range expeditions on many occasions. A seafarer who has sailed the seven seas and beyond often talked about this magical city as if he were describing a woman he’s utterly in love with. I can easily understand him, for favorite cities are like beautiful women for me too and a return after a long absence feels like being in the arms of one of them. Yet Istanbul is different. Untamed and fierce, dazzling and spoiled, she’s more like an intimidating beauty we often lust for but are too hesitant to loose ourselves to.

The melange of East and West is certainly Istanbul’s most unique feature. Sailing through the Bosphorus, with Europe to my left and Asia to my right, both within swimming distance of each other and connected by two high suspension bridges catalyzed the most magical moment of my seven day visit. This is a city with a dark and bright history of domination. The Byzantines, the Greeks, the Romans, the Arabs and the Ottomans, among more obscure others, have taken turn in invading and controlling Istanbul for its local riches and strategic location. Sure, we often hear and read of claims by other cities and countries of being strategically situated but none come close to be a gate between continents and seas like Istanbul. The Bosphorus provides the only outlet for the landlocked Eastern European countries and those lying on the Black Sea to the rest of the world.

For the empires that ruled the Middle Ages, relinquishing control over the 31 km Bosphorus strait was like strangling themselves to death. More significantly, I believe, it was then that the fire of Western Christian Islamophobia was re-kindled for a second and more everlasting time after the Crusaders forced exodus from Jerusalem earlier. Yet the original fear of Turks and their brutal savagery and the acquired hate toward Islam and its draconian teachings fade in comparison to this second wave of European atrocities committed against Muslims starting from the 15th century onward. Although historically debatable, the invention of the Croissant in France in the 17th century was a gift to Hungarians in celebration of their victory over the Turks. It served as a gruesome symbol, it is argued, of cannibalism practiced against Muslims from as far back as the 11th century, when the first Crusaders invaded the Levant. Count Dracula might be a fictitious character to most but he is based on a real one, Vlad the III of Wallachia (1431–1476), also known as Vlad the Impaler. Vlad’s victims, numbering in the tens of thousands, were mostly the “infidel” Muslim Turks. His favorite execution method was to drive a wooden stake up the rectum of the prisoner. Bram Stoker's 1897 novel “Dracula” about vampires, wooden sticks and fictional blood sucking was acceptable, even entertaining, euphemism of European boorish history to the civilized 19th century West.

I am a wandering writer, my ideas come in bursts in what I believe are moments of truth. In Istanbul, I was assaulted by such revelations. It’s hard to describe the Turks, those I met at least, as either very nice or extremely hardy. They are actually both. Their Ottoman Empire was one of the greatest to rule the world, and like all the other empires before and after, Turkey’s history is plagued by cruelty and blessed by the splendor of the arts and sciences. But Istanbul and Turkey mean more to me, much more.

During my stay my mind clipped, edited and played one scenario only: What If? What if we had democracy in Syria and in the rest of the Arab countries? Turkey is a vision of the future, a country with a troubled history, turning into a military dictatorship then self-transforming itself into a modern, yet very unique democracy. While the entire world is suffering the aftermath of an economic crisis and while Europe has succumbed entirely to its role as second fiddle to the United States, Turkey stands tall and leads its own blazing trail. Its economy is going strong as it has become one of the top global tourist destinations, along with an advancing industry and very efficient agriculture. Sooner or later Turkey will emerge as a superpower. It’s halfway there already. Will the West, the United States and Europe, if they had their say, ever let the Turkish example spread further south? This is the question I wondered about and credited myself with knowing its answer as I was wandering through the streets of Istanbul.

As If This Is Enough

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Sat, 16 Jul 2011 10:20:00 +0000

Under normal circumstances I am immune to the cruelty of my environment. I have retreated to a cave in space and time where I found a jot of privacy and a pinch of independence. I defied oppression by evading confrontation and scouted a solitary rock in this damned place where I was certain I’ll get enough fish for dinner tonight. The shimmering lights of thousands of dying suns held me captive. I eavesdropped on the murmurs of crashing waves, hesitating then returning to my hole in the ground dreaming of taking a plunge one of these days.

Just as long as no one fucked with my fragile bubble I managed to be almost pleasant. If attacked, however, I lashed back with hardy ridicule and gallant courage. I am a believer in not believing and I will defend my thought with claw and tooth after pen and argot, regardless of what had come to pass or of what is yet to be. As if this is enough!
I could go on living for myself till a day comes when I look into the mirror and spit at my reflection if I still have a remnant of human decency left. Or it could be worse. I might smile feebly at the ghastly figure before lowering my head in shame to stare at my own feet. Images of men getting kicked in the face then trying to stand up again only to be brought down and beaten by a mob of ghosts haunt me forever.
I fumble in the pockets of my honor for a forgotten handkerchief to wipe the tears of my conscience. I should blow the nose of my anger instead.
Not too far ahead, there’s a fork down the road with an arrow pointing one way. I squint my eyes to read. The Point of No Return.

Blogging for Syria

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Thu, 23 Jun 2011 10:14:00 +0000

In March of 2009 I wrote on this blog: Live and Let Live in response to what I considered to be the latest bigoted outcry on the Syrian blogosphere against homosexuality. I was convinced that whoever was attacking homosexuals and their basic human rights would not simply stop at that but might eventually assault my own rights as a liberal and a secular humanist to freely express myself. It was the first time I enter into a direct confrontation online with some of those who were on the other side of what I always believed to exist in Syria, a social and intellectual chasm of religiosity. I claimed then, and I still do, that Syrian individuals, families and communities are divided along lines defined by their degree of adherence to religious practices and traditional mores. Later I was candid enough to confess that my champion defense of secularism was possible only because I lived in a country where my liberal stand was tolerated as long as I didn’t dig deep into politics or point my finger in the wrong direction. I never played hero and I admitted that had I been living in Saudi Arabia or Iran I would’ve not dared being so outspoken against institutionalized and organized religion.
We are, however, at a critical point in history. Those whom ideologies and theocratic beliefs I oppose were not and will never be my personal enemies. I say that despite the fact that when they disagreed with me they attacked below the belt. That never stopped me from reading the more adept ones continuously. Although I don’t comment on their blogs I cannot but admit my deep admiration to their insight, foresight and courage during this time of strife.
To them, to all readers of this blog and to every person with the love of Syria running through their arteries and veins I hope for better days ahead when freedom doesn’t mean treason anymore and when the right to dissent is embraced in the same manner the obligation to conform is applauded today. I will continue to blog for the love of Syria. May she rise stronger with our differences. May these differences unite us in a way our similarities were unable to. Souriah w Bass!

Total Eclipse of the Heart

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Thu, 16 Jun 2011 15:55:00 +0000

My plan for the evening was simple enough. Spray some mosquito repellent all over myself, climb to the rooftop with an icebox full of beer then chill out and witness the longest total lunar eclipse in eleven years. Earlier I’ve read somewhere that the astronomical specter would start at 17:24GMT, that’s 8:24PM local (June 15th, 2011). I invited my son Fares to join me but he declined saying that’s he’d rather “watch” it with his friends. Truth of the matter was that he wanted to ride his bike in the neighborhood and the hell with the moon playing magic tricks and his grumpy old man reminiscing over the good old days. In the meantime, it had completely slipped my mind that I was already booked for the evening. I was going out for dinner with a bunch of guys in celebration of a birthday.

I’m not a fan of maudlin songs, well most of them anyway, but a little after midday Bonnie Tyler knocked on my ear. Bewildered by her sudden appearance I let her in. She grabbed a microphone and started singing Total Eclipse of the Heart inside my head. "Please Bonnie", I begged after the twelfth encore, "enough is enough", but she wouldn’t listen and I had to resign myself to a romantic mood.
Turnaround...
Every now and then I get a little bit lonely,
and you're never coming round...

The company of ten “male” friends didn't do much in terms of lessening the effect and absorbing the impact of Bonnie’s tears. Not even the steady stream of Arak, the succulent cutlets of Shish Kabab or the raucous partying could snap me out of my bathetic mood or from Bonnie’s arms.
Turnaround...
Every now and then I get a little bit nervous,
that the best of all the years have gone by...
"You’re too tall for me", I mumbled politely but she kept dancing with me anyway, leading every step of course. And then, in a moment of utter loneliness in the midst of a crowd I looked over my shoulder toward the eastern horizon and saw the moon rising over the hills of Bmalke. Ah, the moon, my Amar... Oh, the eclipse... damn! It’s way past 8:24 but... relax, the show had merely begun. I was glad to have brought my camera along.
And I need you now tonight,
And I need you more than ever,
And if you only hold me tight
We'll be holding on forever,
And we'll only be making it right...

"Stop it Bonnie, I’m already taken, please I’m..." but it was too late. She carried me up two flights of stairs and kicked the rooftop door open. She Turnedaround, dropped me on the floor, ready to jump me when I feebly cried, "look... there behind you, look at the total eclipse of the moon".
I managed to take a few pictures. The passage of earth in between the sun’s rays and the moon lasted over two hours. Eventually the moon vanished completely from the night sky but not before going through an amazing color shift. The heart-shaped moon could’ve been a visual aberration caused by a minute jitter when my finger touched the shutter button but the photo was just perfect for the night. I only brought along a pocket sized tripod which forced me to shoot from less than ideal positions and angles but it was still a very unique experience. Happy Total Eclipse to all of you people out there, may you never have to watch it alone.
Once upon a time I was falling in love
But now I'm only falling apart
There's nothing I can do
A total eclipse of the heart

I Want to Break Free

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Tue, 14 Jun 2011 09:34:00 +0000

Is this the real life
Is this just fantasy
Caught in a landslide
No escape from reality
Freddie Mercury (1946 -1991)

Born Farrokh Bulsara on the island of Zanzibar (off the coast of Tanzania) to Persian parents, Freddie Mercury is probably the most eccentric oddball musician I truly admire. This particular song is a test to anyone who thinks that he or she believes in freedom. If this clip draw the words RIP Freddie involuntarily out of your throat then make you smile from the heart and if you accept Freddie’s quirks as being on equal par with his musical genius then you’re not lying to yourself, you do want to break free. It goes without saying, of course, that if you don’t appreciate this song as one of the greatest ever, to simply embrace the shackles around your wrists since you are already a prisoner of your own mind.