Buried behind the masked myth of erudition lay I—
a broken marionette yearning for a bosom.
From tongue to tongue, from age to age, I
sought a friend.
I scampered around, swinging my
naked
stub. But for the fear of
frivolity and the scythe of judgement, I
unfurled not my letters upon the canvas of man.
But when I do, I
convolute my letters. I
raise high my quill. I
swing, supplicating, spraying:
Thus scribe I, with a foreign tongue, the lulls and yarns of yore—
a forlorn epitaph to a cursed populace:
thou for whom the bell I tolled, thee shall I forsake.
So wrote I
when I
left home.
Category: Creative writing
Let Me Tell You
Show,
do not
tell,
they say.
Should I show you how she is—
bent
with sodden shoulders,
eerie knees,
bulging neck?
Bent into a ball,
like a festering kastania
oozing
after it had been stepped on,
its shell pressing hard in.
Look at her!
Shaking
bare feet,
black with muck,
six toes:
two lost to frost,
the others
to a pellet
from a shell.
Look at her!
Shaking
with a breath—
half white,
half red—
unable to contain
the life in.
Look at her!
Lean figure,
bone lean,
sagging leather pockets
for breasts,
and teeth removed
to relieve the pain.
Here she lives,
next to the pile
of filth,
the buoyant filth,
swimming
between homes
when it rains.
Why show you the pain?
Why do you need to see,
to understand?
Circumlocution is just a game.
So let me tell you
the truth
about the war.
It ends with
death!
Rosae damascena
I am the generation of mediocrity_
born in transition,
after the cold,
before the spring.
Unaccomplished. Unseen.
Skilled in disdain
equipped with a yoke,
we caressed the analog,
touched the digital,
turned blind to the AI.
From grenades
to self-driving drones,
we felt it all
falling
on our homes.
Dont get me wrong_
We lived in awe.
We tasted wealth,
paved the roads for better men.
Never seen an empire rise or fall.
Never been native
to anything
but disdain.
The Dove
It nested there,
as they all do_
because this is what they do:
one layer of dried sticks
laid over the old,
held fast by secretions,
generations of that.
It cooed against grey walls,
bouncing off prayers
for a thousand years.
Now from a sheikh,
once from a priest,
a warlord,
an augur
that read the signs
in the dove’s entrails
searching for hope.
Old
I saw
a wretch
with missing limbs,
and creaking joints,
a tilted head,
a back bent,
and a hoarse
whine.
Come!
Look!
The devil waits!
Strain your eyes,
focus your light.
Aim at the dark
corners of the world—
in the alleys
behind the dumps,
next to the destitutes
that shat themselves
yesterday,
and the day before.
That’s her.
A purple scar,
another in white
on her side.
On her chest,
a stab—
rotten black with circles red,
whirling around
a heart
made of old,
just old,
and stone
erected for
Haddad,
then Jupiter,
then Christ,
and finally a Mosque.
Its people,
forgotten,
ill-gotten,
crawl like moss:
brown,
white,
and yellow,
churning,
oozing,
in endless strife.
Whisper—
else she hopes.
Let her be:
a goliath doomed.
Damascus.
Lucky Thirteen
Thirteen
years, it takes
to become
a man.
…
Thirteen
were the men
whom lastly
dined in.
…
Even in myth,
thirteen
were the knights
of Avalon.
…
In Babylon,
thirteen constellations
they saw.
…
Even the augurs,
the magi, and the holi rest,
thirteen,
they prophesied
as eternal law.
…
Thirteen is now,
when tyranny has fallen,
and all of us,
the dejected,
can go back
home.
The Syrian March
Awaken!
One numb vestige at a time.
Shake the veil off
Off your ancient bosom.
…
Amin,
Allahu akbar,
En deus vult!
Awaken!
…
Shake them off.
Dishevel the seeds,
Buried deep
to waken.
The seeds of
The martyrs, your children.
…
Limbo,
Where they lived
In.
Lives uncounted for.
Seen unseen. Lived unliven.
…
Judder now! Awaken!
And call us home.
Manhood
Life writing. Autobiography. OU assignment. 1500 words short story
‘If a man does away with his traditional way of living and throws away his good customs, he had better first make certain that he has something of value to replace them’, by Robert Ruark.
The adult males of Damascus during the nineties followed a ritual that had endured the shifts and the schisms of the ancient world for millennia. They woke up, shaved their beards, curled up their handlebar moustaches, drank the cardamom-enriched black coffee that the females in their lives meticulously made for them every day, then shat before leaving their domestic environs enforcing their hairy wills, that they inherited from their forefathers and their despots, on the rest of us.
As a first son, I was never seen as a teenager. I was the person who would inherit the will of the family, the will of the Mahassen. So when I finally had my first wet dream, I was deemed ready for the title of a man. But to be rewarded with such an honour, I had to take care of a fluffy sheep for a month before slaughtering it with the same hands that fed it, celebrating the humble festivities of Ramadan.
Thus, by the time I became a man, I had corroborated and assimilated the wills of my despots, shedding away layers of myself into the corners of the dejected and the artists, earning me a stigma that still accompanies me to this day.
It was in seventh grade when I first discovered them: the physical symptoms of manhood: a creeping wisp of hair on top of my upper lip and a voice like a radio searching for its identity, moving from one channel to another, oscillating between a shriek and a bass in confusion. Being the tallest in the class had earned me the honour of sitting at the very back seat usually reserved for the unwilling and the nasty. I sat alone in desks stacked with four and a class hoarded with sixty kids. The classes were mixed. I mean, the classrooms were allowed to have both boys and girls, as was befitting of a liberal Christian private school. We didn’t sit at the same desks, of course. The class was split into three lanes, two of which were crowded with boys.
The day I broke free was the day our Islamic studies teacher discussed with us a taboo, a forbidden and shameful topic that was excluded from our curriculum.
‘Want is human’, I remember her preaching, ‘what we do with it is what distinguishes us from animals. Soon, something will wake up in you, some sort of a rage. It is alright to feel enraged, of course, but it is uncivilised to hit other people.’ Her statement was met with utter silence that she interpreted as confusion.
‘Listen, soon you will start having happy dreams about the other gender. When that happens, you are no longer a child.’ She paused again, trying to read the room. But having experienced that already, I stood up and spouted blatantly with a confident bass:
‘It happened to me last week!’
The room, of course, exploded with laughter.
1996 was the year of a very successful debut: an advent that took hold of the ancient dry canvas of the Middle Eastern youth, burning it to cinders, dragging American culture forcibly into our dilapidated schools. 1996 was the year of the Backstreet Boys:
Clean-shaven boys who lithely swayed and twisted, satisfying the beats of the drums in response to what seemed to me to be their rage.
With their advent, I decided it was time to become my own person. I shaved my moustache, got a Walkman, and did the daringest thing I have ever done: I bought some gel and other hair products. Then I went to the barber and asked him to give me a Spiky haircut. He looked at me and said:
‘Spy what?’
‘Zero on the sides and the back. Two in the middle. Three at the front.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Never been surer.’
‘Did you ask your father?’
‘Don’t worry about that.’
‘Just trying to be thoughtful.’
‘I know. Thanks.’
And so, I spent the winter break of 1996 figuring my new self out. And figure it I did. Oh, how glorious. My younger brother, owe struck, was proud of the person I became: a modern, supple, western-looking, rebelling youth of the ancient city. But as the barber foretold it, my father sneered at me. He expressed his refusal and his indifference to the worldly subject of looks by lowering his reading glasses for a second before going back to reading his veritable books about the Crusades, Machiavelli, the Italian Renaissance, Islamic decadence, or the Baath Party influence, or a book that talked about all of that at the same time. With my despot out of the picture, all was set for my revival.
My body still vividly reverberates with the memory of the first day of the new me.
I wake up early, as usual, but instead of dragging myself out of bed, I jump to the bathroom and start working on my hair. I finish my rituals and leave my house at 06:30 AM. It is still dark. It was snowing during the night. I put on my school uniform: a kaki-coloured military suit possibly borrowed from the Red Army, but I skip the beret.
I notice several pigeons huddled on the fence next to the bus stop. I approach them. They ruffle a little at first, but as I get closer, they become more violent. A couple flies away, but two flaps still hysterically before falling on the asphalt. Frostbite. Their stiff claws got frozen on the fence during the night. They might live, but they will lose a leg or two. I don’t have time to pick them up because the bus has just arrived and I am unwilling to miss it.
I am the eldest, so the back seat is reserved for me. I notice the elementary-level kids looking at me and my hair. I puff up and take my time walking down towards my seat. One hour and a half later, I reach school. I know it is very far, but that is the price my parents were willing for me to pay to get a private education.
At the main gate, I am greeted by the gatekeeper, Mansour.
‘Hey, you,’ He snarls at me.
‘Good morning, Mr. Mansour,’ I reply, heading inside.
‘Stop!’ He announces, blocking my path.
‘Who? Me?’
‘Yes, you. You are not allowed to enter.’
‘Not allowed to enter!’ I repeat, laughing, trying to twirl around him and step inside. But to my surprise, he snaps his fist at my coat, twisting the collar firmly with his thick, anvil-looking grip.
‘Let go of me.’
‘Where do you think you are?’
‘What is this all about, Mansour?’
‘You are not allowed to get inside looking like that!’
‘It is not up to you to decide.’
‘I am here to protect the school.’
‘From what, you brute? It seems that I need protection from you. Let go of me before I get you into trouble.’
At that moment, the deputy dean, a government-assigned official whose contribution to the school was so marginal and unnecessary that his name eludes me to this day, hears us.
‘What seems to be the problem?’ Asks the unnamed official.
‘This kid. Look at him!’
The deputy languidly looks at me with soggy eyes and waves his chubby little fingers. ‘This is not the look of a comrade. It seems your parents failed. You look like a wimp. Go back home.’
Emboldened by the mention of my parents, I retort, ‘Me? A wimp? Wait till my father hears of this. I will leave now, but you better be prepared for what will come.’
‘Wait,’ lashes the official. ‘Pray. Dear, what does your father do?’
Having felt his change in tone and reluctance, I raise my voice and spell my syllables one by one: ‘non-of-your-damn-buz-ness.’
Confrontations and shouting attract people like a moth. And huge gatherings attract the eyes of predators.
‘Assaad, come here, boy,’ a booming voice echoes through the corridor, splitting the crowds and clearing the path between me and the school’s real dean, Fouad Y.
Let me tell you a little bit about Fouad. Education and pedagogical qualifications were not enough barriers to hinder his career. His will and connections allowed him to secure the vote of the Patriarch of the Roman Orthodox church in Damascus, eliminating all competition and securing him the seat of the dean for one of the most prestigious schools. However, to compensate for his lack of educational background in running the business, he wore a white lab coat, hiding his lack of academic understanding. His manufactured liberal persona gave him room for some aesthetic divergence: His slick hair was drenched with castor oil and filled the school with a petroleum smell.
‘My name is Refaat, sir.’
‘I know, Assaad. Come here, boy.’
‘Ok, sir,’ I say, approaching him, ‘but my name…’ My sentence is interrupted by a sharp whistle that lands on my frozen ears.
‘Don’t talk back to me, boy.’
As the heat of the slap spreads into my cheeks, I feel his hand gripping the back side of my collar and dragging me towards the school’s playground. I try to resist, but both Mansour and the official help restrain my movement.
‘Take him to the sink!’ Fouad snorts.
In the middle of the schoolyard, right in the open, on a frozen morning in January, on the day I decided to become a man, my divergent persona got washed away by despots.
Next year, I dyed my hair blue.
The American Dream
When the Americans do it,
it is complete.
The work of artisans,
the touch of a master.
It hits you like an explosion of flavours,
unexpected:
spicy, never
sweet,
sour.
You learn to appreciate the American
craftsmanship,
with its colours
marinating
the dome of your life.
You learn to see its greatness,
hammered
on your
walls.
When the Americans do it
they do it right.
Nothing,
nothing escapes
their might.
From the past
to your neighbour’s alley,
all get marinated
by the colours,
of the sun’s
fairies:
doom.
Title: Final Stop
Fiction. 2200 words Short Story. OU (Open University)
‘It is safer that way habibi.’
‘But that is too expensive.’
‘Listen habibi. Would you rather risk your life?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Aha. I am offering you a golden opportunity. I guarantee it.’
‘I know, but—.’
‘No buting habibi. You don’t seem to understand. It is Europe that we are talking about here, and I am offering it to you on a golden platter. Besides, they literally give you money for free there.’
‘I am not going there for money.’
‘I know habibi. But who doesn’t like free money, eh? My cousin went there two years ago and now owns a car!’
‘I am not looking for such a thing either.’
‘You confuse me, habibi. Do you want to go or not?’
‘Yes, I want to.’
‘Tamam habibi. It will cost you 14000 euros. But I like you. You seem like a good guy. If you pay half of it now, I will give you a discount of one thousand. Amazing, eh?
‘Ok. Ok. Give me a second to get the money.’ he said that, scanned the area around him, grabbed his hoody with both hands and pulled it firmly forward, covering his face from cold and people. Then he wrapped his black scarf around his face, blending himself into the night.
He turned back and headed towards a faded kaki-coloured pile of rags embellished with rusted tin. When he arrived, he cleared one of the rags and pulled it up. The smell of meds and urine attacked his nostrils. He braced himself and got inside the tent. Inside the damp shelter, an amalgamation of bodies huddled together around a flickering candle and the agonised screams of a baby.
‘Hey, you are back!’ said the woman holding the noisy apparition.
‘Yes, and I have some good news.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘Emmm. I managed to get a discount. But it will cost us 13000. 4000 per adult and 1000 for the baby. But we have to leave at midnight.’
‘But we only have 6000 on us.’
‘Don’t worry. I will handle the rest.’
When the woman heard that, she charged at and grabbed the hand of the young man, pulling it to her face and smearing it with snot and tears and lips.
He pulled his hand away immediately, startled. ‘May God forgive me. No need, Khadija. If we didn’t help each other now, when would we?’
Amidst the sobs, Khadija’s husband rose and started to take off his sweater, revealing a pale, drained waist wrapped with layers of translucent foil. He shredded the sticky wraps of nylon open, releasing his flesh and an envelope hoarded under his armpit. ‘This is all we have. There you can find 6715 euros. Please take them.’
The young man took the envelope, counted 715 Euros, and handed it back before turning around to leave.
‘Wait,’ Khadija’s husband announced, ‘I can’t accept it.’
‘This is not for you,’ said the young man, ‘It is for your sick baby. You still need to take care of him, don’t you?
‘Aren’t’ you going to count the rest?’
‘No need, uncle. I trust your word.’ announced the young man before exiting into the dark, chilling evening, heading back towards the smuggler.
‘Hey. Here is your damn money.’ said the young man, thrusting a bundle at the smuggler’s face.
‘Why! Eh habibi.’ said the smugglers, snatching the money.
‘It is as we agreed, half now and the other half once I am safe.’
‘Of course habibi. But you don’t mind me counting them, do you, eh?’
‘Do what you will.’
‘When you have done this for as long as I have, then you will know.’
‘…’
‘As complete as a straight flush, as an open buffet, as an __.’
‘Are we done here?’ the young man interrupted.
‘khhhhhhh.’ the smuggler snorted, ‘we leave at midnight. Be on time.’
‘We will.’
‘I know you will habibi.’
‘Stop calling me that.’
‘Ok habibi.’
‘My name is Yousef.’
‘OK, Yousef pasha. See you soon.’ spouted the smuggler, waving, and dismissing Yousef before turning around and fading into darkness. Similarly, Yousef turned sideways, strolling into the illegal camp. He put both hands into the side pockets of his khaki jacket and started rummaging for a cigarette when he heard someone calling for him from behind.
‘Yousef, Yousef.’
Yousef looked back towards the voice.
‘How was it,’ the old man asked.
‘Hello, uncle. It went as expected.’
‘Don’t call me uncle. I am not that old. Call me Ziad.’
‘It doesn’t feel right.’
‘I insist.’ said Ziad.
At that moment, Yousef managed to find a broken cigarette in the upper left pocket on his torso. He put it in his mouth, pulled it out, spat some of the tobacco stuck on the filter, and then put it back in his mouth before rummaging again in his pockets.
Ziad noticed that and gave Yousef a lighter and a packet of imported tobacco.
‘I can’t accept this.’ Yousef said.
‘I am quitting anyway.’ replied Ziad, ‘Besides, I have learned that it is killing me.
Yousef nodded, snatched the packet from Ziad’s hands, put the broken cigarette into the packet, and pulled a brand new one. He brushed it slowly by his nose, savouring its smell before throwing it into his mouth.
‘Is your family ok?’ asked Ziad.
‘I don’t know.’
‘When did you hear from them last?’
‘Around six months ago.’
‘Do you know if they are_’
‘I think so.’ Yousef interrupted.
‘I lost my family as well,’ Ziad replied, ‘two brothers and their families and both of my parents. May Allah have mercy on their souls.’
‘May Allah have mercy on their souls.’ recited Yousef mechanically.
‘Khadija and the baby are all I have now.’
Yousef lit the cigarette, expanded his chest greedily, and felt the nicotine circulating through his body, then oozing into his famished brain.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Ziad.
‘I am not sure yet. The plan is to leave first and then think later. What about you?’
‘Germany. I think. I can find work there. If Allah wills it.’
‘Inshallah. It is a good country. Good luck.’
‘You too.’
‘Listen, I think I am going to rest a little. I recommend you do the same.’ said Yousef before swallowing the last wisps of the satisfying amber and retreating towards his tent.
—
Just before midnight, Yousef abandoned his tent and headed towards Ziad’s.
‘Come, it is time. Have you got everything?’ asked Yousef as he entered.
‘Khadeja,’ shouted Ziad. ‘We need to leave now. It is time.’
The baby roared back in response.
‘Do you need any help?’ asked Yousef.
‘No, we are alright,’ said Ziad, ‘Go ahead. See you at the checkpoint.’
Yousef left the family and the camp, heading west, wading through abandoned tents. The cloudy black sky made it hard to recognise landmarks, but It wasn’t hard to find the checkpoint. All he had to do was to follow the column of the marching dejects. With his head throbbing with excitement and lack of sleep, he surrendered his fate to the solemn faces around him. They hadn’t marched for long before the column started to slow down, congesting into a shivering jumble. Suddenly, a shushing wave pervaded through the throng, which was interrupted by the cries of forlorn babies.
‘Listen! Listen.’ an agitated voice arose from the centre of the gathering. ‘Shut your babies up. God damn it. Listen. Do not make any sound. Be as silent as a corpse, or you will be one, eh? Now go. Fast and sile —-‘ screamed the man when his rant was broken by a wail.
‘Hey, you. If you can’t control your pet, you better leave it.’ threatened the man.
‘I am sorry, I am sorry.’ said Khadeja.
‘I wasn’t talking to you, woman. Who is the husband?’
‘Me.’ said Ziad.
‘Keep your family in check, eh? Silence that small devil, or I will do it for you. Now, get into the boat.’ Spat the man, pointing towards the dark canvas behind him.
Yousef, along with the horde, rushed towards where the man was aiming. But as they clawed their way into the wobbly life-changing deck, someone suggested letting the woman and children go first, to which the people echoed, ‘Yes, of course.’
Waiting for the families to board, Yousef stood in silence. He stared at the horizon but saw nothing. The sky and the sea have combined into a mourning titan dyed with pitch. He knew he was at a beach because he heard the titan’s moan, ebbing and flowing, indifferent to the boarding gaggle. But right when he boarded, and just when the boat was about to move, the smuggler grabbed his arm, whispering, “We will disembark at Kos. The boat will continue. Stay with me”, then hovered away like a spectre. The boat jerked and coughed, once, then again, before starting its flimsy pilgrimage into the promised land. Yousef moved through the deck, squeezing his shoulders sideways through heads and torsos, dodging coughs, sneezes, and sighs. He kept at it till he heard Ziad’s voice calling for him.
‘Yousef. Here, on the side. Come, sit down.’
‘Alhamdulillah, we are finally onboard.’ continued Ziad.
‘Alhamdulillah indeed, but keep your voice low.’ Yousef reminded him. Sitting, he melted into a pile of headaches. But instead of relief, the rubbery deck offered Yousef nothing but naked coldness that seeped through the elastic deck into his clenched jaws.
‘Here, have a cigarette,’ said Ziad, smiling.
Yousef closed his eyes and bit on the filter, feeling its circular edge with his tongue. He lit it up, siphoning its energy, hoping to revive his own. But as he felt its essence mingle with his own, a swift swipe snatched it away, discarding it into the dark abyss below.
‘What are you doing habibi, eh? Are you trying to kill us? The amber is like a lighthouse here.’
Yousef clenched his jaws again, looked at the smuggler, nodded, and closed his eyes, trying to take his mind away from the drums beating inside his skull.
‘We are about to cross into the Greek waters,’ whispered the smuggler, ‘keep your mouths shut.’
A wave of silence spread rapidly across that merged with the susurration of the boat swishing through the dark waters.
‘Stay put. The tide will carry us to shore.’ said the smuggler softly when a loud shriek exploded from within the dead-silent heap of the mob.
‘Who the fuck was that? It is the damned baby again. Shut it up now, or I will throw all of you away.’ said the smuggler to Ziad.
‘Don’t worry. It will not happen again.’ said Ziad as he gently pressed his palm into the face of the baby, muffling his sobs and driving the struggling baby to hysteria.
‘it better not.’
‘It will not.’ Ziad retorted.
With that, the silence swallowed the boat again with a gulp.
—
An hour later, the smuggler approached Yousef.
‘Hey habibi, we will arrive at our stop in half an hour. I will leave the boat. Follow me, eh?’
Yousef nodded.
‘Listen,’ the smuggler addressed everyone. We are in Greece now. And we are in shallow waters. We are safe from the coast guards, but keep your mouths shut anyway.’
A sigh of relief spread through the crowd as a condensed drop of a bright colour spreads through pure water.
‘Congratulations, uncle! Congratulations, auntie!’ exclaimed Yousef.
‘Thanks,’ said Khadeja, sobbing, turning around, and hiding her face from Yousef, while holding her silent baby tightly towards her chest.
‘What is the matter?’ asked Yousef.
‘Nothing,’ said Khadeja, ‘really, it’s nothing.’
Ziad put his hand on Yousef’s shoulder and pulled him towards himself.
‘Let her be.’ said Ziad.
‘But…’
‘Just let her be.’
‘Ok, ok,’ said Yousef. ‘Listen, uncle. Ummm…I have to leave soon. But you have to stay. You have to continue by yourself.’
‘But this wasn’t the agreement.’ Ziad answered, looking directly into Yousef’s eyes.
Yousef looked back at Ziad’s and saw them dilate, then contort along with the rest of the muscles of his face into a fearsome mask of exasperation. He looked away, escaping the pouring knives, looking into the sea when he noticed a light flashing nearby.
‘It is our stop habibi.’ said the smuggler before addressing everyone.
‘Stay in the boat. You are just getting a new guide. A better guide, eh.’
On the shore, a stern-looking man with a dark robe and icy blue Greek eyes helped the smuggler stabilise the boat with a rod.
‘Hop off,’ said the smuggler to Yousef.
‘They are your problem now.’ Said the smuggler to the new guide.
The man said nothing, used his rod to push the boat away from the rocky shore, and disappeared gradually into darkness.
‘Here, have a cigarette habibi. Sorry for throwing yours away earlier.
Yousef lit it up, then took a double breath, holding the magic in for a couple of seconds, feeling the nicotine seeping through his countenance.
‘Let’s sleep here now. We can continue tomorrow when the sun is up.’
Yousef nodded in agreement.
—
‘Habibi, wake up, eh. Are you going to spend your time in Europe sleeping?’ said the smuggler, pulling his mobile phone from his pocket. ‘Here, take these as promised. A French ID and an air ticket.’
‘And this is what I promised.’ said Yousef, handing a bundle to the smuggler.
’57, 58, 59. Clean six thousands.’
‘What’s next?’.
‘Give me a second Habibi. I will check the next train for you.’ answered the smuggler, looking at his mobile before bursting into laughter. ‘Bwahahahahaha.’
‘What is it?’
‘I told you habibi. It is safer with me. It costs 12000 to buy an ID and a ticket, but it is better than that “two k per family” offer.’
‘Why are you saying that now?’
‘Here, look habibi. It is on the news. The boat missed its final stop. Kharon guided them to Hades. Bwahahahaha.’
The Book Of Life 