Sometimes we are ready with the answer. It is just the question that never comes!
On Mother Day I called my mom. I was very excited because I haven't called her in a very long time, thanks to school! This time however, I wanted to give my mom a special gift. Since her birthday was really close I decided to sing to her something nice on the phone! I remember sitting on my three-leg chair trying to sing the bloody Happy Birthday song and knowing that I wasn't singing, I was whining like a cat ran by a car. It was so far beyond bad that I didn't feel nervous. It must be like when you're in the war, and you know you're going to die anyway. About halfway through, I totally gave up and I just stopped. "Thanks God!" My mom finally declared. "Mom…," I coughed. "Look! I made my decision and I'm….I'm going to Palestine!" I muttered. There was a long pause after which my mom said: "Why do you always RUIN any special occasions we have! Huh?"
Long time ago, when my father was in his 50's, he always used to tell me about how life is like a big castle full of gates which we pass through to obtain knowledge and wisdom. Every time we spend a year in our life time, we pass through a gate of wisdom. And I believed him. Thus, I was full of energy and potential. And I had many big dreams waiting to be fulfilled.
Before I travel to Egypt while I was seventeen, I established with my teacher and a few number of students, in MALI English institute, an anti-discrimination club which was concerned with the Akhdam (or servants) of Yemen and their shanty towns. For me, that was a dream which just came true. Yet for a reason or another, most of my friends thought my club was hilarious, while my parents thought that my club was crazy and my siblings just didn't care! Although I expected such reactions, I expected that my club would even survive for some time. However, the club was doomed to failure only three months after it was established. And despite I lost everything, I guess I didn't learn my lesson…
Three years after that I came to Egypt, I met Hanna, a Swedish newcomer in my university. And we became good friends. Hanna would always tell me about her dream and passion to visit Palestine because of her Palestinian friends whom she was influenced by while she was in the States. When Hanna would ask me about Israel, I would say that I am a pro-Palestine. Yet I love Ofra Haza to death and my father has Yemenite roots. I always remember my mother yelling at me: "you and your Jewish ancestors, damn you!", whenever I would do something wrong. So, maybe I hate Israel because my mother taught me to hate Jews or maybe because Israel is just evil like what the guy in Goma'a prayer says! Right?!
In a university like mine, when many of the students are either Westernized or materialistic featherheaded and sometimes both, I usually join extra-curricular activities to kill time. This semester, I ended up with Hanna in an international organization called STAR (Student Action for Refugees) where we teach English for refugees. There, I had my first encounter with refugees from Iraq, Palestine, and different parts of Africa. One of the glorious moments I've ever had in STAR was when an old female refugee said "Please, help me teacher!" on my second class. That time was the first time I hear someone call me a "teacher". And literally, my hearing just switched off and I couldn't hear the rest of her question! Now, realizing that I am a teacher every single time I go to my class, I feel like I have another chance to influence, touch, or change twenty five students life (Yes, you cynics who believe that crazy poor Ibrahim can't even boil an egg, a teacher now, do you hear?!!) …
Recently, I have also joined Debakh dancing sessions operated by a Palestinian club in our university, known as Al-Quds Club. Despite being clumsy, I, somehow, managed some dancing right. But what is mesmerizing about this experience is that we would always have Palestinians and people from different races who share the same passion for Palestine. On beautiful Palestinian music, hand in hand, we dance until we get feet blisters, or at least me. And this is another incredible feeling I have been blessed to experience…
After joining Debkah dancing, I started educating myself about the situation in Palestine: How people live in camps and all that. Then, I remembered how my parents used to talk about Palestine and hideously compare me and my brothers, the bad ones, to the brave Palestinian teens, the good ones. I remembered how my elder brothers used to discuss the Palestinian-Israeli conflict enthusiastically in their Qat sessions asking me about my opinion and criticizing it all the time. Yet something neither my parents nor my siblings thought of which is DOING something rather than TALKING.
"No, mom, I'm not ruining your birthday!" I brusted "I just want you to be proud of me. After all, I'm not going to bomb myself! My university is arranging a trip in the Spring Break to Palestine and I want to take advantage of that. I'm just going to teach English and help in refugee camps…those people need help…" I said to my mother over the phone. "Do whatever you want but your father won't be happy about this," my mother replied. "I know…I know! Tell dad that I'll travel to…to... Jordon! And I would need him to send me some cash...because I'm running short…" I pleaded. "No," my mom declared "I'm not going to lie!"
I was sure that my father would decline my request anyway and he did. In fact, he refused to talk to me and there was no hope to convince him whatsoever. I felt sorry for myself and my father, who passed more than fifty gates of wisdom. If the majority of Arab youth only care about their clothing, cell phones, and relationships, then at least a few of us are willing to do something. But no one is willing to give us the chance. As an Arab I feel ashamed that a Swedish girl like Hanna is going to travel during my Spring Break to help my brothers and sisters in Palestine while I'm typing this article to complain about how hopeless one person can be...
I can see that my father is scared of losing me but to die or not to die is something in God's hand. If my father taught me to pray, fast, and act as a proper Muslim, he should be proud of me pursuing my dream and doing the optimum thing that a Muslim can do: Jihad. I think Jihad is not only by killing people. I think if I know that I might end up bombed (!), but I'll take my chances to help some Arab brothers and sisters out anyway…this is Jihad…
Monday, April 2, 2007
Saturday, March 24, 2007
When Bats Love Mangos
"But why Doctor? Why would bats love mangos?!" I eagerly asked my American professor. "Because they simply do Ibrahim!" she chuckled. For me, it was quite bizarre to relate between an obnoxious creature and one of my favorite fruits. Ironically, on the same day, five years ago, my fellow man spelled it out clearly to me: You are no more than a bat! And I hated bats since then. Now, I am not here to condemn what my friend said, because I have to admit, he was not wrong after all.
Since I was young, I have always been considered different. I was not a typical Yemeni teenager who chewed Qat with his friends and learned how to drive. Some people might believe being different is cool because it means being unique. But this is not necessarily the case. Others find it pathetic, just as my friend pointed out earlier. I did not like many of our customs and traditions. For me, it was quite difficult to understand why, on earth, would some people practice Bara'a. I did not grasp the point of wearing a traditional "knife" on your waist while walking. Why bother? Back in Yemen, I had my tiny room, packed with black jeans and dark T-shirts and, simply, that was enough for me.
My traditional religious parents did not really appreciate the way of life I liked."Why are you doing such nonsense?" was part of our daily conversations. I made sure, however, to flash them big smiles from time to time while letting their words just hang in the air. You might assume I am devoting this article to expressing my deep apologies to my parents. Not really. Although we did not look eye to eye, my parents and I had a very special relationship, which is not simply understandable. Although most of my actions topped my parents' not-to-do list, I still know they loved me more than any one else.
I hope I am not conveying the image of a spoiled boy descending from a filthy rich family because this is not really who I am. Yes, I went to a private school and I ate Kelloggs Corn Flakes on a daily basis, but I did not have any cell-phone with "cool" ring tones and I did not bring hundreds of riyals like other kids did. And when I got into the high school, unlike my friends, I did not embark on romantic adventures with girls. Life, for me, is simpler than that.
Being a naïve diligent student was a good excuse to ease the anxious atmosphere back home. Although I was not the typical obedient son when it comes to family, I was one of the best examples when it comes to school. It is not really some kind of schizophrenia or a paradoxical personality, which needs an immediate therapy. It is simply the constant struggle between being what I want and what others want.
First, let me assure you that being different is not a denial of one's identity. I have to admit, however, that many teenagers are completely influenced by the West, which is something I consider pathetic if not gross. Fortunately, being different, for me, does not mean born to be different. In fact, it is the ability of looking at life from a different corner. For example, I knew a Yemeni friend who traveled to Egypt for a holiday. He considered every lady he saw without a veil simply a prostitute and every gentleman with a necklace purely gay. On the other hand, I knew an American friend who traveled to Yemen for a holiday. He considered every Yemeni lady with Nekab inferior and every Yemeni gentleman with Ganbia a terrorist. Now which one is worse than the other? I think no one is. Just like our Yemeni fellow did not like the unusual lifestyle he noticed, our American fellow condemned the strange lifestyle he touched. Such examples make me wonder why ethnocentric individuals bother to travel and discover new cultures if they not to appreciate them.
I have always listened to the Spice Girls; indeed, I still do. And that was not highly appreciated by some people I knew. A religious friend lectured me once saying that a horrific event, only, would slap the wild child in me and wake me up! One month ago my grandmother passed away in the same building I live in here in Cairo. She actually fell down in her kitchen while I was watching FRIENDS! Although she is not technically my grandmother, she was an old Egyptian lady whom I have known since I was born. When I ran to help her, I realized that the old lady was not going to make it. I, basically, whispered in her ear a couple of times trying to wake her up but it was too late. There was nothing to salvage.
It was the first time for me to observe someone dying. In the movies, they say that dead bodies are always cold like a piece of ice. Here, it was the opposite. She kept on beaming heat while I was as cold as a piece of ice. It may sound like the horrible experience, which my friend has predicted. But he was wrong after all. Four hours after her death, I was peacefully studying for my next-day exam, which I passed with an A. And after four days of her death, I was listening to the Spice Girls again! Now what?
This incident, basically, clarifies the fact that one's self is more complicated than being infected by painful experiences only. You might believe that ruthless and heartless individuals would not simply be affected because this is the way they are. But I think it needs a "will" to change, not just a hard time. Thus, it is crucial that we have to understand the differences among us and deal with them with respect. Not just condemn them because they are simply not similar to us. Now, in Yemen, for example, tension exists elsewhere between traditional and non-traditional individuals (just like the unstable relationship between old and new generations). But why does one have to be either this or that? Why it is hard to grasp the idea that one's identity can be influenced by traditions while coping with the constant changing world?
Back to my friend who told me that I am no more than a bat. I wonder now if he has ever known the fact that bats love mangos? If I were considered to be a bat than I would like to say that, just like humans, I share the same pleasure of eating mangoes! To wrap up the whole article I would simply say for traditional life style advocates: try to trust the ocean for once and you will never drown. There are a lot of things that happen around you. Why not take a look at them?
And for those who advocate total non-traditional life-style, I want to tell them, according to my own experience, fitting a square into a circle is no life. By a square I mean the new extreme trends and notions; and by circle I mean our purely traditional lifestyle.
Unfortunately, I realize now that back then (in the dark-jeans era!); I did not devote any room for my culture in my own identity. To make up for what I did, I have decided to travel to my family next summer after I canceled my stupid guitar class. Instead of playing guitar, I will be searching for a willing traditional person to teach me to play the Yemeni Mezmar. I know it is not that much. But at least I want to be able to perform something one of my ancestors was capable of.
Eventually, I just want to say that I am quite glad that I had my chance to realize all the mistakes I did. I think if my life was nothing, but following the orders assigned by my parents, I would not appreciate my traditions, my people, and most importantly my country. I would like to conclude with a beautiful phrase an Egyptian friend said it once:We will live the life we choose; we will fight and never lose…
Since I was young, I have always been considered different. I was not a typical Yemeni teenager who chewed Qat with his friends and learned how to drive. Some people might believe being different is cool because it means being unique. But this is not necessarily the case. Others find it pathetic, just as my friend pointed out earlier. I did not like many of our customs and traditions. For me, it was quite difficult to understand why, on earth, would some people practice Bara'a. I did not grasp the point of wearing a traditional "knife" on your waist while walking. Why bother? Back in Yemen, I had my tiny room, packed with black jeans and dark T-shirts and, simply, that was enough for me.
My traditional religious parents did not really appreciate the way of life I liked."Why are you doing such nonsense?" was part of our daily conversations. I made sure, however, to flash them big smiles from time to time while letting their words just hang in the air. You might assume I am devoting this article to expressing my deep apologies to my parents. Not really. Although we did not look eye to eye, my parents and I had a very special relationship, which is not simply understandable. Although most of my actions topped my parents' not-to-do list, I still know they loved me more than any one else.
I hope I am not conveying the image of a spoiled boy descending from a filthy rich family because this is not really who I am. Yes, I went to a private school and I ate Kelloggs Corn Flakes on a daily basis, but I did not have any cell-phone with "cool" ring tones and I did not bring hundreds of riyals like other kids did. And when I got into the high school, unlike my friends, I did not embark on romantic adventures with girls. Life, for me, is simpler than that.
Being a naïve diligent student was a good excuse to ease the anxious atmosphere back home. Although I was not the typical obedient son when it comes to family, I was one of the best examples when it comes to school. It is not really some kind of schizophrenia or a paradoxical personality, which needs an immediate therapy. It is simply the constant struggle between being what I want and what others want.
First, let me assure you that being different is not a denial of one's identity. I have to admit, however, that many teenagers are completely influenced by the West, which is something I consider pathetic if not gross. Fortunately, being different, for me, does not mean born to be different. In fact, it is the ability of looking at life from a different corner. For example, I knew a Yemeni friend who traveled to Egypt for a holiday. He considered every lady he saw without a veil simply a prostitute and every gentleman with a necklace purely gay. On the other hand, I knew an American friend who traveled to Yemen for a holiday. He considered every Yemeni lady with Nekab inferior and every Yemeni gentleman with Ganbia a terrorist. Now which one is worse than the other? I think no one is. Just like our Yemeni fellow did not like the unusual lifestyle he noticed, our American fellow condemned the strange lifestyle he touched. Such examples make me wonder why ethnocentric individuals bother to travel and discover new cultures if they not to appreciate them.
I have always listened to the Spice Girls; indeed, I still do. And that was not highly appreciated by some people I knew. A religious friend lectured me once saying that a horrific event, only, would slap the wild child in me and wake me up! One month ago my grandmother passed away in the same building I live in here in Cairo. She actually fell down in her kitchen while I was watching FRIENDS! Although she is not technically my grandmother, she was an old Egyptian lady whom I have known since I was born. When I ran to help her, I realized that the old lady was not going to make it. I, basically, whispered in her ear a couple of times trying to wake her up but it was too late. There was nothing to salvage.
It was the first time for me to observe someone dying. In the movies, they say that dead bodies are always cold like a piece of ice. Here, it was the opposite. She kept on beaming heat while I was as cold as a piece of ice. It may sound like the horrible experience, which my friend has predicted. But he was wrong after all. Four hours after her death, I was peacefully studying for my next-day exam, which I passed with an A. And after four days of her death, I was listening to the Spice Girls again! Now what?
This incident, basically, clarifies the fact that one's self is more complicated than being infected by painful experiences only. You might believe that ruthless and heartless individuals would not simply be affected because this is the way they are. But I think it needs a "will" to change, not just a hard time. Thus, it is crucial that we have to understand the differences among us and deal with them with respect. Not just condemn them because they are simply not similar to us. Now, in Yemen, for example, tension exists elsewhere between traditional and non-traditional individuals (just like the unstable relationship between old and new generations). But why does one have to be either this or that? Why it is hard to grasp the idea that one's identity can be influenced by traditions while coping with the constant changing world?
Back to my friend who told me that I am no more than a bat. I wonder now if he has ever known the fact that bats love mangos? If I were considered to be a bat than I would like to say that, just like humans, I share the same pleasure of eating mangoes! To wrap up the whole article I would simply say for traditional life style advocates: try to trust the ocean for once and you will never drown. There are a lot of things that happen around you. Why not take a look at them?
And for those who advocate total non-traditional life-style, I want to tell them, according to my own experience, fitting a square into a circle is no life. By a square I mean the new extreme trends and notions; and by circle I mean our purely traditional lifestyle.
Unfortunately, I realize now that back then (in the dark-jeans era!); I did not devote any room for my culture in my own identity. To make up for what I did, I have decided to travel to my family next summer after I canceled my stupid guitar class. Instead of playing guitar, I will be searching for a willing traditional person to teach me to play the Yemeni Mezmar. I know it is not that much. But at least I want to be able to perform something one of my ancestors was capable of.
Eventually, I just want to say that I am quite glad that I had my chance to realize all the mistakes I did. I think if my life was nothing, but following the orders assigned by my parents, I would not appreciate my traditions, my people, and most importantly my country. I would like to conclude with a beautiful phrase an Egyptian friend said it once:We will live the life we choose; we will fight and never lose…
Sunday, March 11, 2007
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