I Hope You're Happy

This post is the conclusion of another blogpost I wrote earlier, titled "Real Beauty".

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I really do hope you're happy.

In a parallel world, we could be curled up on a couch, eating pizza and watching bad chick flicks which you picked out.

We could have had those annoyingly cheesy "no you hang up" conversations until one of us got cut off by the phone service provider because we ran out of credit.

We could have gone to those fund raisers you're so fond of and raised money for one of your good causes even though I was out of money and had to wake up early and all those excuses I'd have made up, but you'd have made me go anyway and earned my begrudged respect.

You could have met my friends and I would have tutored you on all our inside jokes so you wouldn't feel left out.

You'd have done the same with your friends, if you knew what was good for you.

I'd have come to your office on your birthday and made an embarrassing scene and maybe set your things on fire like Ross did to Rachel that one time.

Actually, come to think of it, I'd probably have found an excuse to make a giant gesture every other day because that's what I do.

You'd have shamed me into giving away half my money to homeless people and beggars on our way to dinner, so that we'd only have enough money to share an appetizer and a glass of water, having fits of laughter at the disgusted expression on the waiter's face.

We'd have a private language that no one else understood.

We'd be that couple who everyone else would use as an example for true love.

We would have had inexplicable fits of laughter over random things that only make sense in our heads.

You would have played your really bad music on my car's speakers and somehow I wouldn't mind because you're enjoying it.

We'd have long fights about very stupid trivialities and not talk for days until we intentionally forget about the fight because one of us had a joke or a funny situation to share and couldn't wait any longer for childish disagreements to resolve themselves.

You'd drag me kicking and screaming to go shopping with you and I'd jokingly mumble all the way there and then inexplicably have fun, even though you'd clean out my wallet doing the activity I hate most in the world (shopping, not cheating on me).

I'd proudly present you to everyone I know as the girl I plan on spending the rest of my life with.

We'd have a far away wedding and a serious discussion about the 12 people we plan on inviting.

We'd grow old together and have that happily ever after ending with the kids and the dog and the riding off into the sunset.

You wouldn't think this post was creepy.

But life doesn't work out that way. We don't always get what, or who we want. In a perfect, parallel universe, we'd be together and we'd be happy. But this is the real world, and you're with him and there's no way to change that. All I can do is hope he makes you as happy as I would have made you.

No, I don't mean to make you feel like you missed out, I genuinely wish that.

I will always be grateful to you for letting me know that I can have a relationship like that, and...

I wish you a long and happy life with someone else.

Home - وطني

A letter sent home by an Egyptian soldier in WWII; in Arabic and English (scroll down for English). In the memory of my grandfather; the inspiring, self-made humanitarian who rose high in the UN but who was always a simple farmer at heart, and who has urged me to write in Arabic several times.

This is the first time for me to publish a post in Arabic, so I would appreciate any feedback. (You should try listening to "Take Me Home" By John Denver (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1vrEljMfXYo) while reading the English version; it compounds the effect. I know that sounds pretentious, but it really did for me).

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عزيزتي الغالية،

لقد ارتحت كثيراً عندما تلقيت رسالتك الأخيرة، فإن أخبارك منقطعة  عني منذ فترةٍ طويلة، وانت تعلمين كم أقلق عندما أتخيل أن مكروه قد أصابك وأنا بعيد عنك وغير قادر على نجدتك. أمازلتي مريضة؟ اتمنى أن تكونين بخير عندما يصلك هذا الخطاب.

 في رسالتي الأخيرة أخبرتك انني قد وصلت إلى قاعدة الأسكندرية العسكرية، ولكن عندما تصلك هذه الرسالة سأكون بالقرب من الجبهة في طرابلس. لقد اضطررت أن أرسل هذا الخطاب من الأسكندرية، لأنني غالباً لن اتمكن من إرسال أي رسائل في الفترة القادمة... لا تقلقي، فإني لن اشارك في أي هجوم؛ فقد اعطاني الإنجليز مهام حراسية في نقطة حراسة في الطريق إلى تونس. أرجو أن تخبري عائلتي كي لا يقلقوا علي.

استيقظت اليوم مفتقداً وطني. في البداية كان إحساساً ملحاً، ضاغطاً على أعصابي، طالباً جزء من تفكيري. حاولت بشتى الطرق أن اشغل نفسي، ولكني فشلت في التغلب عليه، وظل يزداد ويزداد في إلحاحه حتى شغل عقلي وكياني بالكامل، وملأني بالحزن والكأبة حتى أردت أن استسلم لتلك المشاعر وانهار تماماً، منهمكاً في همومي... ولكن بالطبع، الجيش لا يتقبل مثل هذه الأعذار، فضغطت على نفسي وشرعت أكمل مهامي اليومية في الوحدة، مثل حفر الخنادق وتنظيف أرض ثكناتي وتنظيف بندقيتي... ولكن مثل هذه الأعمال تركت لي مطلق الحرية لأن أفكر في مشاغلي، وبالطبع بدأت أفكر في وطني. 

أين أبدأ؟ بالمساحات الخضراء الواسعة، حيث قد زرع الفلاحون محاصيلهم من قمح وشعير وقطن من شهورٌ مضت، وحيث هواء الخريف المنعش كفيل بشفاء أي داء قد يصيب المرء؟ كنت قد تعودت أن أتجول يومياً في هذه الحقول بعد صلاة الفجر وأنا عائدٌ إلى بيتي، ماراً بعيدان القمح التي تميل أكثر وأكثر إلى الذهبية ريثما ترتفع الشمس في عنان سماء زرقاء اللون خالية من السحب ومليئة بالأمل، مانحةً للدنيا ألواناً لا حصر لها، راسمةً إبتسامة على شفتي. كانت حياتي سهلة... لا أعتقد انني كان عندي أي هموم. كل ما كان علي فعله هو أن  أرعى محصولي المتواضع وعائلتي المتواضعة بالمثل.

 ولكن ليس هذا ما يحزنني.

لعلي افتقد والدي، وضحكاته المدوية وهو يخسر في لعبة الطاولة من عم ابراهيم جارنا. أكاد أتخيله الآن، جالس القرفصاء أمام المنزل على الحصيرة، وكوب الشاي الساخن المعسول بشدة بجانبه... قد حذرته كثيراً من إضافة هذا الكم الهائل من السكر إلى الشاي، خاصةً لأنه يعاني من مرض السكر، ولكنه دائماً كان يربت على بطنه ضاحكاً، مستبعداً مخاوفي، قائلاً "أنا صحتي زي الحصان". كان قد اعتاد أن يوقظني كل يوم لصلاة الفجر مزمجراً، ناظراً إلي بسخط، لظنه انني لن أصحو بمفردي إذا لم يوقظني هو. "حتروح النار من غيري" كانت جملته الشهيرة. اتمنى ألا اضطر أن أصحو بمفردي من غيره... اتمنى أن يكون بخير.

أو ربما افتقد أمي. أمي الحنونة الجميلة العطوفة. في صغري، عندما كان أبي يضربني لارتكابي أحد حماقات الأطفال، كانت تعنفه وتحتضني بشدة لتحميني، وتؤرجحني برفق حتى أتوقف عن البكاء، وتقبل آلامي وتطوقني في درع آمن يحميني من مصائب الحياه، حيث لا قذائف ولا رشاشات ولا قنابل ولا أشلاء قتلى ولا أصدقاء أموات. كانت نظرة واحدة إلى وجهها النضر المبتسم كل صباح كفيلةً بأن تجعل حياتي سعيدة... فقد وهبت حياتها لترعاني أنا واخوتي. اتمنى أن يرعوها بدورهم... سوف أعنف أحمد بشدة إذا عدت لأجدها تشتكي من أي شيء، فقد تم الخامسة عشرة من عمره، ولم يعد طفلاً... يعلم الله انني لم أكن لاتطوع في الجيش الإنجليزي إلا لرغبتي أن أخفف عنهم و اكسب بعض المال لأصرفه عليهم.

أو لعلي افتقد اخوتي... كان أحمد كسولاً طوال حياته، ولكني أظن أن هذا لأنه يعرف انني موجود وقادر على دعم العائلة بمفردي... و لكنني الآن ببعيد، وأظنه سيكون قادراً على المسؤولية.
على الجانب الأخر، يسعى محمد بكل ما يملك من جهد أن يساهم في دعم الأسرة، ولكنه ما زال صغير جداً على الأحمال الذي يتطلبها العمل في الحقل، فإنه غير قادر على حمل الفأس الثقيلة بمفرده، فضلاً عن رعونته الطبيعية، حتى أنه قد صار من أهم مهامي اليومية أن  أخبئ الأدوات منه حتى لا يؤذي نفسه. وبالطبع لا يمكن أن أنسى اخواتي الأصغر؛ فاطمة وهنية... يثبون من حجرة إلى حجرة في المنزل، يغنون بأصوات طفولية شبيهة بأصوات العصافير التي تنشر البهجة والسعادة في فجر يوم كئيب غيوم... حتى أبي الصارم ذو الضحكة النادرة ما يلبث أن يراهم حتى تنكشف أسنانه في إبتسامة عريضة، فيحملهم و يداعبهم ويدغدغهم... وهو أمر غريب جداً لأنه كان هينهرني عندما كنت أحاول احتضانه في طفولتي، صائحاً: "الحاجات دي للستات". لكني أحبه، فإنه رجل صالح.

و ليس ببعيد أن أكون لقريتي مفتقداً... للميدان الرئيسي للقرية، حيث يتجمع أهالي القرية كل ليلة أمام النار (بالرغم من أن عندنا ساعتين من الكهرباء كل مساء)، يتسامرون ويتبادلون القصص والطرائف، حيث يتجمع الشيوخ ويعطوا الدروس الدينية والمواعظ ويسردون علينا قصص السلف الصالح، حيث يعرف كل الناس بعضهم البعض ويتبادلون الأخبار والسؤال عن الأحوال، حيث ضيافةً لا حد لها وحيث يتسارع الناس ليتعازموا على الطعام والشراب، بالرغم من بساطته. أعرف تماماً أنهم سيعتنون بأسرتي تمام الإعتناء، ولكني ما زلت أظن أن أحمد قادر على ذلك بمفرده.

ولكن الألم الذي أحس به أكبر من كل هذا.

تفكرت كثيراً عسى أن اميز ما يحزنني، وأخيراً تمكنت من ذلك... فبالرغم من أهمية كل ما سبق في حياتي، تبقى هناك جانب مهم جداً، ربما كان أهم من كل ما قلته حتى الآن. فجأة أدركت انني كنت قد حجبت هذا الجزء عن تفكيري عامداً، فربما لم أكن قادراً على مواجهته حتى تلك اللحظة... فإذا به كيان قائم بذاته، يشع بضوء الشمس ساطعاً، مطالباً بانتباهي... ولكني عندما انتبهت إليه إختفى، تاركاً خلفه فراغ كبير في قلبي، لا يملؤه أي من الناس الذين قد ذكرت.

افتقدهم جميعاً، ولكن كان إشتياقي إليك مهيمناً على قلبي... فإن لا حرب ولا دمار ولا قنابل قادرة بأن تنسيني ضحكتك المرحة وابتسامتك البيضاء البراقة؛ أو شعرك الداكن البني اللامع، مجعدٌ برقة و عاكسٌ لشمس الظهيرة (بالرغم من ربطة رأسك التي أكرهها)؛ وعينيك البنية المبهرة، مليئةٌ بالسرور والتفاؤل والبراءة. عندما أنظر اليهما، أرى إمرأة جميلة لا تعرف مدى تأثيرها علي... أرى إمرأة أقوى بكثير مما تبدو، ومما تظن. أرى إمرأة عاقلة ورزينة، ولكني أرى أيضاً فتاة مليئة بالفرحة، ما زالت في ريعان طفولتها، مرحةً وسعيدة بدون أي متطلبات. أرى إمرأة ذات حياه بسيطة مثل حياتي، ولكنها قنوعة ولا تريد أكثر مما تملك. أرى إمرأة لا تربط سعادتها بالماديات وكماليات العصر الحديث، فهي سعيدة في جميع الأحوال؛ سعيدة وهي تأكل المشويات الغالية مثل الملوك، وسعيدة بنفس القدر وهي تأكل الفول وعيش الشعير المتبقي من عشاء الأمس. 

أرى إمرأة كل ما تريده من حياتها هو أنا.

وهي كل ما أريده من حياتي.

في تلك اللحظة، وعيت انني افتقد بيتي، لأني افتقدك أنت... فإن اليوم الذي يتوقف فيه قلبي عن النبض بحبك، سأكون فيه من الأموات.

فأنت حياتي، وبيتي، و وطني.

بكل حب،
بندق العسكري الفلاح من سنة 1942

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Dearly beloved,

I was so relieved when I got your last letter; I had not heard from you in a long time and you know I cannot bear thinking that something has happened to you when I am away and unable to help. Please do not make me wait so long again... How is your cold? I know you were feeling a bit under the weather, but hopefully by the time this letter is delivered you will be feeling better. Last time I wrote you, I had just arrived at the military base in Alexandria, but by the time you read this I will have already arrived near the front-lines in Tripoli. I had to send this letter before I left the base because I might not have had a chance to send it later. Do not worry about me... I am not going to be part of any offensive. I will be stationed at a guard post on the road to Tunis, so I will not have any combat duties (as far as I know). Please let my family know so they would not worry.

I woke up today, missing home. At first it was like a insistent nagging at the back of my mind, but then it started bothering me, like a hangnail or a blister that I could not get rid of. No matter how hard I tried or how busy I tried to make myself, I could not shake off the feeling. It grew more and more in intensity until it was all I could do not to curl up in a ball, overwhelmed by melancholy and longing... But of course, such behavior is not tolerated in the corps. So I had to grit my teeth and busy myself with my daily duties; standing guard, digging ditches, sweeping my barracks and cleaning my gun. Such physical labor gave me a chance to think, and my mind naturally wandered off to home.

Where to start? The wide, open fields of wheat and cotton and barley, where the crisp, clean country air can cure a man from any disease? The long strolls I would take every morning after Salat Al-Fajr, whistling a merry tune and walking at a leisurely pace between the long wheat stalks, turning gradually golden as the rising sun cast its first rays of light upon them, lending color to a grey world and giving shape to an increasingly blue, cloudless sky. Looking back, I doubt I had a care in the world. Life was easy. I only had to tend to my moderate crop and care for my ageing parents. But when I thought about it, this is not what I was missing when I wrote this letter.

Maybe it was my father... his booming laughter as he played backgammon with our neighbor 'am Ibrahim, with his glass of strong sweet mint tea on the floor beside him where he sat cross-legged. I have told him a hundred times to stop adding so much sugar to his tea because of his diabetes, but he always gave a loud chuckle, slapped his belly and loudly proclaimed that he is "as strong as a horse". He would wake me up for Salat El-Fajr with a scowl every day because I almost always miss it if he does not wake me up, and he claims I would go to hell if he was not there to remind me. I hope he is always there to wake me up.

Or maybe it was mother. Matronly, caring, sweet mother. As a child, whenever my father would start hitting me because I had done something wrong, she would stop him and hug me protectively, rocking gently back and forth to calm me down until I stopped crying, kissing away my hurts and worries and enclosing me in a safe bubble where nothing can hurt me, where there are no mortar shells or machine gun fire or torn limbs or dead friends. One look at her kind smile in the morning, and my day is made. She only exists to care for me and my siblings... I hope they are taking good care of her. I will give Ahmed a good beating when I come back if he is not. He is 15; not a child anymore. God knows, the only reason why I volunteered in the British army is to support them.

Or is it my siblings? Lazy Ahmed, always reluctant to toil under the bright, warm sun. I know he was only being lazy because he knew I was always there to pick up the slack, but now there is no me and I know he will pull through. Mohammed, although younger, has always been more responsible... but a 10 year old boy would not know how to use a pick or would hurt himself trying. I always had to hide the tools from him because he was always eager to help but so clumsy that he almost always hurt himself. Then there are little Fatma and Hania, always skipping around cheerfully in the house, loudly singing in high-pitched childish voices and bringing joy wherever they go, like a pair of swallows on a particularly gaunt and foggy dawn. Even my stern, unyielding father would smile in spite of himself and lift them up and tickle them. That is saying a lot; when I tried to hug him as a child he would yell at me and say "hugging is for girls"... but his heart is in the right place.

Or maybe it is the village at night... the village square, where there is always a bonfire going even though we get electricity for two hours every night now. The village elders would sit around the fire and trade stories of times long gone; sheikhs giving religious advice and lessons; elderly women trading gossip. Everyone knows everyone else, and people always inquire after each others' health, genuinely concerned and wishing each other the best. Everyone invites everyone else over for tea and a humble meal; hospitality is unparalleled, and as sacred as their daily prayers... they would help support my family in my absence, I know... but Ahmed is man enough to do it on his own.

But the hurt in my heart was because of none of these things.

Once I had considered all these aspects of my existence, one part stood out. Arguably, the biggest part... glowing bright and warm inside my aching heart, expanding wider and wider, demanding my immediate attention. Once I started thinking about it, the glow was gone, to be replaced by a yawning, dark abyss of nothingness, swallowing up the memory of everyone I know, except one.

I miss everyone and everything else, but nothing holds a candle to you, my love. No war or death or bombs can make me forget your dazzlingly bright smile; your shiny, wavy ringlets of dark brown hair (covered by that hairnet I hate so much); and your cheerful, bright brown eyes; full of wonder and youth and possibilities. When I look into them I see a beautiful woman who is unaware of the effect she has on me. I see a woman who is a lot stronger than she looks, and stronger than she thinks she is. I see a mature woman, but I also see a happy, frolicking little girl, full of dreams and unspoiled innocence. I see a woman who is always happy; who has a simple life -like mine- but who would not trade it for the world. A woman who does not tie her happiness to personal belongings or materialistic wealth. A woman who would be just as happy having a kingly dinner of kabab and kofta as she would be eating leftover barley bread and beans. A woman who wants nothing but me.

And I want nothing but her.

And that's when I realized that I was homesick, but homesick for you most of all.

The day my heart stops beating for you, know that I will be amongst the dead. My heart is yours, now and forever, and if home is where the heart is, then you are;
my love,
my life,
and my home.

Sincerely,
Homesick 1942-Villager-Bondok


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Of Love and Horses and Shit

Horseback riding is not easy. Even though I'm a fairly fit person in and in good physical condition, I have been unable to move for the past two days because of a wild gallop on one of the stupidest horses I've ever been on. Please allow me a completely unnecessary digression to explain why horseback riding is awesome, but really not for everyone.

When you watch a medieval war movie, you never spare the knights a second glance. Sure, they look impressive on their charging horses, armored heavily and slashing left and right with their swords, but that's all. They're just cavalry. Right? Wrong. I've always been intrigued by old societies such as feudal Europe and feudal Egypt (the Egyptian Mamluks, one of whom happened to be my great great grandfather). They always used to hold knights in great esteem, and I never understood why. Essentially they're just soldiers, and I didn't see why they held a rank higher than the other soldiers just because they were on horses.

That gallop made me understand.

Let me paint you a picture: the horse is nervous and tired, and thus unresponsive to your commands. When you pull on the reins it turns with you well enough, but getting it to stop is almost impossible even when you pull viciously on the reins, and if it stops it won't move until it's whipped by its handlers. You wouldn't have these problems with a properly trained horse, but in war all horses instinctively behave similarly. Anyway, the horse is not your only problem; the saddle is extremely uncomfortable and there are bits of iron jutting out on the seat, making you uncomfortable at best and in agony at worst when the horse is moving at a canter, because you keep getting jarred on those steel irregularities as you jump up and down in your seat due to the horse's pace. When it picks up the pace and starts going at full gallop, your only option as a guy who wants to retain his reproductive capabilities is to take a half-seat position where you half-stand up on your stirrups, gripping the horse with your knees and leaning forward so that you're not sitting anymore. But watch out, because when you do that, your lower back usually gets jarred against the steel back-support of the saddle, which will give you nasty bruises. After that, if you're riding a fast horse, it's all you can do to grab the saddle horn and hold on for dear life. The saddle horn is, of course, made of steel and hence raises blisters and bloodies your hand and makes your wrists go sore, but it sure beats falling over and getting trampled by the other horses at your rear. Not only that, but there's an uncomfortable knot in the stirrups that stabs you in your leg repeatedly and you can't remove your leg from the stirrups unless you're fond of painful deaths, and the stirrups themselves are made of steel and they bite painfully into your foot. Moreover, you're forced to match the pace of all the other riders so you don't lag behind, and all the other riders seem to have comfortable saddles as opposed to the medieval torture device you happen to be sitting on, so they gallop at full speed, heedless of your pain and suffering.

Forty five minutes of this made me tired as hell. The effort of sitting in an upright position against the horse's frantic acceleration makes your back muscles scream for mercy, and your wrists, and your biceps, and especially your legs because you're doing a half-stand. The physical toll is considerable; all your muscles are sore, you're walking bow-legged, you're bruised all over and all you want to do is sleep. Imagine doing all of this for hours, while also heavily armored in unyielding steel armor which can cook you alive under a summer noon sun, while also swinging a heavy steel sword and being generally expected to land killing blows every now and then. I get it now, and I have a lot more respect for knights than I used to.

All of this just to say that I'm still sore all over, even though that was two days ago. The gallop was more exhausting than a whole week at the gym; my body seems to say.

But for some reason, as I sit here in the least uncomfortable position I can manage, I started thinking of cheesy stuff. Maybe because I've just watched a particularly cheesy episode of The Office, or because cheese is my default setting. Regardless, it seems to me that -much like horseback riding- people seem to have forgotten how love works. You have TV shows and movies romanticizing the giant gestures such as the cliched racing-to-the-airport-to-confess-undying-love. I'm not going to claim that the value of such gestures is to be completely discounted, but I don't think this is what love is really about.

It's natural to want to be with the person you love, but the feeling is not always mutual. Sometimes the other person does not feel the same way, and you're left with an uncomfortable choice; either to move on or to get even more invested in trying to get them to feel the same way. What I believe is that the latter is childish. Yes, we're not robots and it's perfectly normal for a person to at least try, but usually when it fails we try again, and again, and again, to the point where it's more an obsession than actual feelings. People usually start asking themselves "how do I get her/him to love me" instead of asking important questions, like "how do I make myself a better person and maybe one day they'll see it too". People completely disregard their pride and they get more and more invested to the point where they start resenting themselves for it later when they move on.

Like I said, I feel like this a childish approach to love; the love of a child for a toy he/she just has to have. Possession is not love. I don't like that saying that goes "if you love her let her go, if she never comes back then she was never yours to begin with" because it still implies that you're waiting for her to come back. That, again, is not love. Maybe she's happier when she's not with you... if you really love her, you'd rather she stays happy away from you than than be miserable with you. I know it sounds too holier than thou, and I won't claim to be so selfless myself, but I think it's how everyone should at least try to feel; it's simply the most selfless way to love someone.

Ask yourself this: if there was a way to help someone you love, which would be more important to you; that you help them, or that they know about it? More often than not, the honest answer is "that they know about it", because we seek their approval and we want them to know that we cared enough to help. Think of all the people you think you love, and -in my opinion- only the people where you can honestly answer "that you help them" are truly important to you. Getting someone a job interview without them knowing because they'd be too proud to accept your help if they knew; that's true love. Donating blood to someone without them knowing; that's true love. Even something as simple as wishing that a girl/guy you're in love with is happy -even if it's with someone else- counts for a lot, because they wouldn't know about it and that's what I think is what matters.

For years as a child, I thought my grandma was unbeatable at playing cards because that's what my dad used to say. She used to beat me all the time, and I used to stomp my feet and cry and sulk and to not want to play with her. As the years went by and I got older, and better at playing cards, I started beating her more often and I started wondering why I'd always thought she was so formidable... until one day, when I was spectating a game between her and my dad. He'd always lost to her, and I didn't understand why because when I played him he used to wipe the floor with me. It was only when I looked at his cards and saw him deliberately using the wrong cards and missing out on chances that I understood that he was letting her win, and of course she had no idea. This reputation that she was unbeatable was carefully cultivated just to make her feel adept at something. All he cared about was that she laughed and felt good when she beat him, and that's all that mattered to him.

That, in a nutshell, is what I think love is.

The greatest deeds in love go unrewarded.