A Middle East within my soul
I have an arduous relationship with the Middle East. The first I ever fell in love was with it’s Arabic language at a very young age. It’s vast treasures of poetry struck my heart early on. The ability to express so much in such few words. The ways the words rhymed. The fact that there are 12 different words for “love” in Arabic to nuance distinct 12 states of love. If you thought the Greeks had it with their 6 words to describe 6 different states of love, you should learn Arabic. How could I have resisted such depth? I stood no chance. I am a sucker for depth.
And so that’s how I first fell in love with a place that eventually gave me so much to hate about it. In much of what I am today, in mission and life, I oscillate between love and hate for it several times on any given day. I remember being so young, singing at school “Al-Watan Al-Akbar” — a Pan Arabist nationalist song released in 1960 to celebrate the union of Egypt and Syria into the United Arab Republic. I remember the tingling sensations taking over my body as I bolted out: “My beloved homeland, the greatest of homelands, day after day, its glories multiply, and its life is rife with victories, my homeland grows and becomes free, my homeland…my homeland”. My small homeland, Palestine, was taken away from me. But as I looked into the eyes of my friends who came from everywhere in this region, I imagined then a bigger homeland that would hold us all in. I imagined I would grow up to write my own poetry as I sat by the Tigris of Baghdad, or as I soaked in the Mediterranean of Latakia or the Maghreb coast of Tangier’s. I was the orphaned kid dreaming of a big family.
But then I grew up. And I couldn’t visit Baghdad because it was overtaken by suicide bombers. I couldn’t visit Latakia because a lot in Syria has been reduced to mere rubble. I couldn’t visit Tangier because my visa took too long to process as a Palestinian refugee at the time. I couldn’t visit Amman because they outright rejected my visa as a Palestinian refugee at the time. I made it to Cairo but when I did, Coptic churches were burning. I made it to Beirut, many times. But every time, Beirut was down with something. The 2006 Qana Massacre and bombing of Beirut. The Lebanese taking to fishing boats embracing death over life at home in 2011 and 2012. The car bombings. The revolution. The port explosion. So I write my poetry in my small office. But most of my poems I can’t publish (yet). The ones in which I wipe the floor with ruling parties in this Middle East of mine would land me in jail. The other ones where I staunchly claim my sexual liberties as a woman would land me in public scorn. I am made of freedom and light. There is very little of what I am made of in the Middle East today.
Here is where the arduous relationship kicks in. With all that’s wrong with it, I’m still in love.
I’m in love with Egypt for Ahmed Ramzy, Omar El Sherief and Rushdi Abatha for they filled my teenage dreams with dashingly handsome men and stories of immortal love. I’m in love with Egypt for Nagib Mahfouz who walked me to “God’s World”. I’m in love with Egypt for Ihsan Abdel Quddous who handed me my first feminist manifesto through Amina in “I am Free”.
I’m in love with Syria for its old cities and walls that hold within them stories from the dawn of human kind, even in rubble form. I’m in love with Syria for teaching me the beauty of my mother tongue, so mystically hidden within one Arabic word and another. I’m in love with Syria for water fountains adorning the centers of its houses, a silent prayer on the continuum of life. I’m in love with Syria for Nizar Qabbani who taught me how to claim myself in all my extremes.
I’m in love with Iraq for its pomegranates and limes and their secret resistance story. I’m in love with Iraq for giving me Sinbad, the only Arab superhero. I’m in love with Iraq for Muzaffer Al Nawab who wedded in holy matrimony revolution to poetry. I’m in love with Iraq for Nazim Al Ghazali and the seat he gave me way “above the palm tree”.
I can’t but hold hope for this part of the world. See, I am also a sucker for optimism. I still look into the eyes of my friends who come from everywhere in this region and see their passion, intelligence and grit. And on days where the barrage of news from this part of the world overwhelms me, somehow something pops up to remind me of love and hope. Today, it was this song that just popped up on my YouTube. I give you an excerpt from “A girl within my soul” by Bechara El Khoury. From the distinct 12 states of love in Arabic, Bechara in this poem is in the state of “Al-Gharam الغرام”: The state of love where you hold on and can’t let go.
A girl within my soul
<Listen on YouTube: https://youtu.be/VZYyEhMhtqY>
Within my soul is a girl
who beautifies herself with purity of the heart
and from her cheek, musk would grow
and my mind was lost
and my reason was lost
when she emerged intensely
and when I asked that we become lovers
she held back
and when I asked that we become lovers
she held back
Tell her, if you come upon her place,
that in her adoration I died,
and mention me to her in all the good that I am,
that she may show me some tenderness
Tell her, if you come upon her place,
that in her adoration I died,
and accompany her to my burrow, for my bones
long for her to trample them
My soul from its tomb
whispers of my love to her
and my eyes follow her footsteps
nothing cured me but my hope
that one day I will see her again
