When she goes "But isn't that dangerous?" when you talk about the Middle East.
Which direction should my Arab eyebrows go in response to her concern at the mention of my country, the land of my bloodlines, my ancestor's home?
How can I take anything away from that other than what do you see there worth saving?
A condemnation to hell.
"But isn't that dangerous ???"
I'm just now absorbing the weight of her blow, the harshness of her question is settling into my throat raw from the half a pack of cigarettes I smoked in one sitting.
What do I say to that?
What does she know about danger?
And what do I?
When my loved ones have lived under the rumble of shells and the crisp sound of the sniper for 19 months, how dare she bring up danger? When I've never had to sleep to the lullaby of drones nor have nightmares about car bombs, how dare she bring up danger?
I'm tired of trying to find a response. It always makes me look like the brave one.
ولكن اشتقت لبلادي يا جماعة
All I want in the world is to listen to Faiurz during sunrise on rooftops that will never come back. That doesn't feel very dangerous or brave.
28 October 2012
06 December 2011
Ashura's du'aa for the living
Ya Rab.
Ya Razzaq ya Aleem.
Oh God the All Knowing, my Savior my Provider.
Reward the hearts that are heavy in sacrifice, and bless the lands that are soaked in blood.
Heal our wounds of the soul before You heal our wounds of the body.
I will fast today, but I will not fast for Musa's victory. Probably both Sunni and Shi'i will tell me I'm doing it wrong, but tomorrow I will fast for struggle, for sorrow, and for sacrifice. For Hussein's sweet blood spilled by tyrants. For the sweet blood spilled every day since.
Every day is Ashura. And every land is Karbala.
As I write the news coming out of Afghanistan is of three blasts, three Karbalas, 30 Husseins. Just today.
God protect them.
The land of my heart and of my blood, my Syria, my Homs, has been a Karbala for nine months now. And there have been thousands of martyrs glad to see their chance for sacrifice.
"The ground of Syria is today's Karbala, where every day really is Ashura. Ashura is a day to open the heart to weeping, to ache for others, and to meet them with the answering ache in ourselves. A pain through which we fnd redemption, and more or less save the world."
Ya Allah. Let their sacrifice be for the sake of strength and solidarity. Let no martyr's death be used to divide or distract.
I seek refuge in Your mercy from my ignorance.
For the fact that I hear my sisters and brothers in Islam slandered and can't find a silver coated tongue to fight back with.
For the fact that from my growing knowledge from the last few months I pretend that I understand this day, or any day, and that I am allowed the privilege of its sorrow.
For every Muslim's story gone untold in the remote corners of Islamic lands and theology, and for every sacrifice forgotten by sheikhs and imams, I seek refuge in Your mercy for my ignorance.
Ya Rab.
Help me honor the dead by seeking the living, the struggle, the being.
Ameen.
Ya Razzaq ya Aleem.
Oh God the All Knowing, my Savior my Provider.
Reward the hearts that are heavy in sacrifice, and bless the lands that are soaked in blood.
Heal our wounds of the soul before You heal our wounds of the body.
I will fast today, but I will not fast for Musa's victory. Probably both Sunni and Shi'i will tell me I'm doing it wrong, but tomorrow I will fast for struggle, for sorrow, and for sacrifice. For Hussein's sweet blood spilled by tyrants. For the sweet blood spilled every day since.
Every day is Ashura. And every land is Karbala.
As I write the news coming out of Afghanistan is of three blasts, three Karbalas, 30 Husseins. Just today.
God protect them.
The land of my heart and of my blood, my Syria, my Homs, has been a Karbala for nine months now. And there have been thousands of martyrs glad to see their chance for sacrifice.
"The ground of Syria is today's Karbala, where every day really is Ashura. Ashura is a day to open the heart to weeping, to ache for others, and to meet them with the answering ache in ourselves. A pain through which we fnd redemption, and more or less save the world."
Ya Allah. Let their sacrifice be for the sake of strength and solidarity. Let no martyr's death be used to divide or distract.
I seek refuge in Your mercy from my ignorance.
For the fact that I hear my sisters and brothers in Islam slandered and can't find a silver coated tongue to fight back with.
For the fact that from my growing knowledge from the last few months I pretend that I understand this day, or any day, and that I am allowed the privilege of its sorrow.
For every Muslim's story gone untold in the remote corners of Islamic lands and theology, and for every sacrifice forgotten by sheikhs and imams, I seek refuge in Your mercy for my ignorance.
Ya Rab.
Help me honor the dead by seeking the living, the struggle, the being.
Ameen.
23 August 2011
Queer Underwear
The last day or so, I've been wanting to do something a little different.
Change my desktop image, so to speak.
Apply a new theme.
Slick up my style.
Fill different shoes.
Put on my queer underwear. Instead of my 3rab ones. (let your imaginations run wild as to what they look like.)
The last few years of my life have been a veritable identity roller coasters. Peak Arab, dip queer, and sometimes find myself hanging upside down hollerin my head off (that's when my parents slip on some queer I left loose.)
I recognize that activists, feminists, theorists, academics, and the like, most of whom are safely behind their ivory tower, will insist (and I agree!) that the two are not mutually exclusive, that the intersectionalities of race and sexuality and gender construct and etc on and on. I know.
The fact remains that I usually cannot embody/embrace both identities so that I legit feel like a queer 3rabiyeh, whatever the hell that means. There are rare beautiful moments. But usually, it's my queer "identity" that gets hidden/not manifested physically, both because it is logistically difficult for me to do so, and I haven't fleshed out what it is yet.
There is the added nuance that I feel a certain duty/passion to my Arab identity because of what is going on in the Middle East. The Syrian revolutions have never made me feel more Syrian (correction. They've never made me feel more Syrian-American. As excited as I am about what is going on in "my" country, I've also never been more aware of the limitations I have in fully adopting it.)
And I will never give that up, nor do I want to, and no one can make me. However, the fact remains that living out an Arab identity (particularly a cisfemale one) comes with lots of nastiness attached. There is an obligation to family, which I do gladly (but somehow my brother gets out of every.single.chore.) and there's the marriage jokes, the racism, the sexism, and of course the homophobia. There is the absolute taboo on any sexual activity, or sexuality at all before marriage whether hetero or homo or queer. And sexuality is a big part of my identity. Nor orientation wise, but just, everything wise. It's really hard on me when I can't express that sexuality. Hence, frustration at how long the 3rab underwear has been on.
"Egypt's gays hope for change in culture after revolt"
Can it be? Can I dream? I saw that being tweeted around today.
Last summer, after an unfortunate incident in which my family found out a little bit too much about my queer life, I lamented to my cousin (having suffered through months of hell with my parents) "I just want to pick up the whole world and shake it"
The last few months have been the manifestation of that wish. Of that innate desire to see change, change that leads to growth, growth that leads us closer to humanity and closer to God.
"It takes a revolution to find me a solution" sings DAM. And revolutions of the government are happening, and as it stands, I am looking for how to make revolutions of the spirit and of society happen too.
I'm not looking to step away from the revolutions. I can't. I am waiting anxiously for the moment though when I feel like they are truly a revolution for everyone. So even as I yearn to be out in the streets of Homs myself calling for isqat el nezam, I'm also impatient for Assad to just fucking leave already so the important work can be done. A revolution of the people. Acknowledgement of the rights of minorities. Agency to women. Transformation of gender norms (tolerance of differently gendered identities? A gal can dream.) But above all, anything that makes Syria, the Middle East, anywhere, a little more human.
Change my desktop image, so to speak.
Apply a new theme.
Slick up my style.
Fill different shoes.
Put on my queer underwear. Instead of my 3rab ones. (let your imaginations run wild as to what they look like.)
The last few years of my life have been a veritable identity roller coasters. Peak Arab, dip queer, and sometimes find myself hanging upside down hollerin my head off (that's when my parents slip on some queer I left loose.)
I recognize that activists, feminists, theorists, academics, and the like, most of whom are safely behind their ivory tower, will insist (and I agree!) that the two are not mutually exclusive, that the intersectionalities of race and sexuality and gender construct and etc on and on. I know.
The fact remains that I usually cannot embody/embrace both identities so that I legit feel like a queer 3rabiyeh, whatever the hell that means. There are rare beautiful moments. But usually, it's my queer "identity" that gets hidden/not manifested physically, both because it is logistically difficult for me to do so, and I haven't fleshed out what it is yet.
There is the added nuance that I feel a certain duty/passion to my Arab identity because of what is going on in the Middle East. The Syrian revolutions have never made me feel more Syrian (correction. They've never made me feel more Syrian-American. As excited as I am about what is going on in "my" country, I've also never been more aware of the limitations I have in fully adopting it.)
And I will never give that up, nor do I want to, and no one can make me. However, the fact remains that living out an Arab identity (particularly a cisfemale one) comes with lots of nastiness attached. There is an obligation to family, which I do gladly (but somehow my brother gets out of every.single.chore.) and there's the marriage jokes, the racism, the sexism, and of course the homophobia. There is the absolute taboo on any sexual activity, or sexuality at all before marriage whether hetero or homo or queer. And sexuality is a big part of my identity. Nor orientation wise, but just, everything wise. It's really hard on me when I can't express that sexuality. Hence, frustration at how long the 3rab underwear has been on.
"Egypt's gays hope for change in culture after revolt"
Can it be? Can I dream? I saw that being tweeted around today.
Last summer, after an unfortunate incident in which my family found out a little bit too much about my queer life, I lamented to my cousin (having suffered through months of hell with my parents) "I just want to pick up the whole world and shake it"
The last few months have been the manifestation of that wish. Of that innate desire to see change, change that leads to growth, growth that leads us closer to humanity and closer to God.
"It takes a revolution to find me a solution" sings DAM. And revolutions of the government are happening, and as it stands, I am looking for how to make revolutions of the spirit and of society happen too.
I'm not looking to step away from the revolutions. I can't. I am waiting anxiously for the moment though when I feel like they are truly a revolution for everyone. So even as I yearn to be out in the streets of Homs myself calling for isqat el nezam, I'm also impatient for Assad to just fucking leave already so the important work can be done. A revolution of the people. Acknowledgement of the rights of minorities. Agency to women. Transformation of gender norms (tolerance of differently gendered identities? A gal can dream.) But above all, anything that makes Syria, the Middle East, anywhere, a little more human.
10 August 2011
Privilege of Denying Privilege
So clearly I'm not that great at this whole blog thing. For now. But this is a topic that pricks itself into my gut and tosses me around at night. (and I still can't spell privilege right.)
The latest spear of guilt was watching this poem:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PTFNA6jtwHA&feature=player_embedded
Somalia.
"somalia - synonymous with suffering
african meant adversity
an african struggling was like
a fish swimming
a dog barking
somalia meant starvation"
Somalia. As I heaped piles of freekeh into the ornate stainless steel bowl as large as a small child that my baba had shipped from Jordan in order to accommodate his need to have 30 guests over to impress.
Mentioning Somalia felt obscene.
Even as I ranted to my mother about..corrupt governments...unfair American subsidies... capitalist exploitation...colonial havoc... "Somalia meant Starvation".
And I here I was.
Oh I've donated.
Learned.
Taught.
Ranted.
And then what? I still remain among the most privileged people in the world. And I still can't disassociate Somalia from Starvation. I still don't know what it means to go hungry without a finite end to my hunger. To worry about my next meal. To not even remember my last meal.
The latest spear of guilt was watching this poem:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PTFNA6jtwHA&feature=player_embedded
Somalia.
"somalia - synonymous with suffering
african meant adversity
an african struggling was like
a fish swimming
a dog barking
somalia meant starvation"
Somalia. As I heaped piles of freekeh into the ornate stainless steel bowl as large as a small child that my baba had shipped from Jordan in order to accommodate his need to have 30 guests over to impress.
Mentioning Somalia felt obscene.
Even as I ranted to my mother about..corrupt governments...unfair American subsidies... capitalist exploitation...colonial havoc... "Somalia meant Starvation".
And I here I was.
Oh I've donated.
Learned.
Taught.
Ranted.
And then what? I still remain among the most privileged people in the world. And I still can't disassociate Somalia from Starvation. I still don't know what it means to go hungry without a finite end to my hunger. To worry about my next meal. To not even remember my last meal.
Somalia and Suzan may as well be on separate planets. So I may pout and shout about the state of the world and cry about going on hunger strikes when my family debates getting a fourth fridge, and buy organic and local and cook/eat smaller portions and feel oh so fucking good about myself.
Recently I had a conversation on twitter about racial identity. I mentioned how I'd rather pass as straight than pass as white. I hate passing as white, it's one of the biggest reasons I wear the hijab (albeit I'm a "slipping sister") But I live in California. I've never gotten accosted in any threatening manner. I have full political freedom to pray in the middle of the Macy's while I do my Eid shopping if I so please. And I live a very privileged, upper middle class, white existence. Thus, I have the privilege to deny any white privilege ascribed onto me. And I retain the privilege of disclosing my queerness when I feel it's safe and appropriate.
Basically, this is a long winded way of saying I feel frustrated, humbled, undeserving of the riches I've been granted, never thankful enough, never aware enough, never awake enough. My mama claims I'm "carrying the ladder too wide" but I am not Atlas, holding the world up single-handedly. Instead I feel blessed, privileged, just to be able to touch the world to begin with. I don't know what it means to give back to humanity as much as it deserves, if it means living on a couple hundred dollars a month in some shack and preaching to the yuppies, or burning everything and being one of those people "visiting Africa" or moving to the MidEast and showing off all the fancy American things I've learned so that these people build their little democracies right, or what. This is the problem. As scared as I am if it'll ever be enough, I'm even more scared if it'll ever be right
Ya Allah,
اهدِنَــــا الصِّرَاطَ المُستَقِيمَ
Guide us on the straight path
Recently I had a conversation on twitter about racial identity. I mentioned how I'd rather pass as straight than pass as white. I hate passing as white, it's one of the biggest reasons I wear the hijab (albeit I'm a "slipping sister") But I live in California. I've never gotten accosted in any threatening manner. I have full political freedom to pray in the middle of the Macy's while I do my Eid shopping if I so please. And I live a very privileged, upper middle class, white existence. Thus, I have the privilege to deny any white privilege ascribed onto me. And I retain the privilege of disclosing my queerness when I feel it's safe and appropriate.
Basically, this is a long winded way of saying I feel frustrated, humbled, undeserving of the riches I've been granted, never thankful enough, never aware enough, never awake enough. My mama claims I'm "carrying the ladder too wide" but I am not Atlas, holding the world up single-handedly. Instead I feel blessed, privileged, just to be able to touch the world to begin with. I don't know what it means to give back to humanity as much as it deserves, if it means living on a couple hundred dollars a month in some shack and preaching to the yuppies, or burning everything and being one of those people "visiting Africa" or moving to the MidEast and showing off all the fancy American things I've learned so that these people build their little democracies right, or what. This is the problem. As scared as I am if it'll ever be enough, I'm even more scared if it'll ever be right
Ya Allah,
اهدِنَــــا الصِّرَاطَ المُستَقِيمَ
Guide us on the straight path
صِرَاطَ الَّذِينَ أَنعَمتَ عَلَيهِمْ
The same path as those that you've blessed.
Ameen.
Ameen.
24 June 2011
Scraping a page clean
So, I'm not quite sure how one goes about starting blogs.
Nor am I sure what this'll turn into.
Nor should I probably even be blogging here when there is legit work to be done...
However. This will hopefully be a space where I expand on things I tweet about, bring up ideas too complicated for 140 char, maybe throw in some writing, and of that sort of thing.
It's odd deciding how much to separate the political from the personal here, considering how thoroughly the two have mixed. It's also odd because as a queer Syrian-American woman, simply starting a blog seems like a political statement, particularly in light of the Amina fiasco and the recent response to GayMiddleEast.com that I endorsed. Ideally, if I can find it, this will be a reclamation of a voice from among the noise that those two created.
Bismillah.
Nor am I sure what this'll turn into.
Nor should I probably even be blogging here when there is legit work to be done...
However. This will hopefully be a space where I expand on things I tweet about, bring up ideas too complicated for 140 char, maybe throw in some writing, and of that sort of thing.
It's odd deciding how much to separate the political from the personal here, considering how thoroughly the two have mixed. It's also odd because as a queer Syrian-American woman, simply starting a blog seems like a political statement, particularly in light of the Amina fiasco and the recent response to GayMiddleEast.com that I endorsed. Ideally, if I can find it, this will be a reclamation of a voice from among the noise that those two created.
Bismillah.
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