I was listening to a song of Abdel Haleem, when his kind face suddenly came to my mind ...Ammo Kamil was Sayeq el Bas , the looong Big yellow bus of my school..
I can almost remember how he looked at the time.. he had a beard and a Big belly.. he wasn’t very old .. but the nice thing I still remember about him is that he always had a smile on his face.. he was always in a good mood..
The main thing attached to ammo Kamil in my mind was Abdel Haleem.. Ammo Kamil Loved Abdel Haleem, he was a big fan of his ..and so there was always a song of his playing all the way home..
When the old Jaras used to ring, announcing the end of another school day, we used to run in the corridors heading for the outer gate.. I don’t remember we ever walked .. we always used to run.. we run going into class, we run going out to Saha in the breaks, we run going into school, we run coming out of it.. we never walked..
We step outside the school gate, and we see Ammo Kamil sitting behind the steering, in Basna, always parked in the same spot , a few steps away so as not to block the entrance.. and one of Abdel Haleem's song has already started to play..
Now the journey home would never start by getting on the Bas, we first had to make a little tour, buying Charaz and Semsemeyya and stuff.. and in summer there would be (Lekestek) too.. that’s how we used to pronounce it.. which was like frozen ice cream.. later talking to my sister, we figured out that maybe it was marked (lucky stick) but we never knew the meaning at the time.. just (lekistek) which had the most wonderful taste ever.. and what made it taste even better was that parents were always warning us against buying things from the (Arabana) , its not healthy, its full of germs .. etc .. etc.. of course we were never convinced.. nobody got sick eating something he or she bought from Arabana.. that’s why we said yes to them and kept buying what we like when they were not there, and the best time to do that was when leaving school ..
And after buying our favorite stuff, we then would climb into Ammo Kamil' Bas, while he waited for us ever so patiently .. again with a smile on his face.. and so the journey home begins..
I loved to sit next to the window.. eating my sweets, shring what I have with my friend next to me on the (kooshen) .. chatting and laughing.. and Abdel Haleem 's music filling the bus, mixed with the sounds of innocent laughter and sometimes mean wrestling in the back seat, where all the mean, older boys would sit, and love to start a fight once the bus starts to move .. of course it was always silly fights, but we tried hard to stay away from the mean (Wekkah) boys.. better keep to ourselves and enjoy the sweets and lekistek and charaz before we get home..
No matter how loud we were, Ammo Kamil kept his smile, no matter how many fights went on and got settled in the back on the same ride, Ammo Kamil kept his good mood.. and Abdel Haleem kept singing..
Was all this a 100 years ago?? Maybe..
Were we ever sitting in that Long Big Yellow school Bas?? I suppose ..
Have we once had this life full of childhood, innocence, smiles and Abdel Haleem tunes ?? we must've had that once.. ages ago..
I hope that the kind Ammo Kamil is still smiling.. in my mind he still is..
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, April 7, 2008
The Spring and the Cute Qitar..
The other day leaving home, I was welcomed by brightly colorful sight .. the sky was bright blue.. the grass was really green ..and a certain scent of freshly born leaves filled the air.. how enchanting..
On the way to work I keep my eyes on the new green leaves .. trying to save enough (green) in my heart and my mind's eye..
I sat in my seat not wishing to engage in any kind of the usual morning conversation.. I wanted all my attention focused on the beautiful colors I missed for so long..
It seems that the Spring did finally decide to visit.. after such a long absence..
It sure can transfer one from a mood of gloominess to a more optimistic one..
Yet again, the cheerful colors took me back to Baghdadna.. to childhood..and to a certain cartoon I used to watch when I was little.. and I was amazed of how long ago it was saved in my memory to come to my mind today..
It was about a cute smiling Qitar - train.. The cute Qitar had a kind smiling face, yes indeed , it had a face.. with innocent childish eyes and a smile that was "on" all through the cartoon.. the Qitar was late .. we see the passengers waiting.. and the man in the station checking his watch over and over.. getting worried.. this particular Qitar was never late.. so what has happened??!!
We then find out that the sweet cute Qitar was late cause he met with the Spring on his way.. and so it had to stop for a little while to smell the wonderful roses, and enjoy the warm weather and just for a short while be happy to just be there with the long missing spring around.. the passengers that the cute Qitar had on board were getting nervious , they r late for their jobs.. for their appointments.. but the Qitar reminded them while smelling the sweet scents of spring (this snapshot I remember so vividly) that its Spring time.. ofcourse we have to stop for a while to enjoy the beauty.. and so the passengers then take the advice and start to enjoy the beauty around them..
What a sweet sweet cartoon.. how v innocent.. just like the way we were .. it was quite normal back then that the Qitar has a face.. it was quite convincing that once spring was there the world has to stop still and hold its breath to look at all the beauty around us..
The man sitting next to me cleared his throat as he was getting ready to get off.. he distracted me from enjoying my trip back with my ever nostalgic memories..
Oh how far away I was for just a few minutes.. how happy I felt for just a short time.. just to re live once again a memory of a smiling Qitar celebrating the arrival of spring.. to remember the innocence and beauty of a world we once had , very long ago yet always seems like yesterday in our beloved Baghdad..
Oh how great is the loss.. how deep is the wound..
A smiling Qitar existed only back then.. and there..
On the way to work I keep my eyes on the new green leaves .. trying to save enough (green) in my heart and my mind's eye..
I sat in my seat not wishing to engage in any kind of the usual morning conversation.. I wanted all my attention focused on the beautiful colors I missed for so long..
It seems that the Spring did finally decide to visit.. after such a long absence..
It sure can transfer one from a mood of gloominess to a more optimistic one..
Yet again, the cheerful colors took me back to Baghdadna.. to childhood..and to a certain cartoon I used to watch when I was little.. and I was amazed of how long ago it was saved in my memory to come to my mind today..
It was about a cute smiling Qitar - train.. The cute Qitar had a kind smiling face, yes indeed , it had a face.. with innocent childish eyes and a smile that was "on" all through the cartoon.. the Qitar was late .. we see the passengers waiting.. and the man in the station checking his watch over and over.. getting worried.. this particular Qitar was never late.. so what has happened??!!
We then find out that the sweet cute Qitar was late cause he met with the Spring on his way.. and so it had to stop for a little while to smell the wonderful roses, and enjoy the warm weather and just for a short while be happy to just be there with the long missing spring around.. the passengers that the cute Qitar had on board were getting nervious , they r late for their jobs.. for their appointments.. but the Qitar reminded them while smelling the sweet scents of spring (this snapshot I remember so vividly) that its Spring time.. ofcourse we have to stop for a while to enjoy the beauty.. and so the passengers then take the advice and start to enjoy the beauty around them..
What a sweet sweet cartoon.. how v innocent.. just like the way we were .. it was quite normal back then that the Qitar has a face.. it was quite convincing that once spring was there the world has to stop still and hold its breath to look at all the beauty around us..
The man sitting next to me cleared his throat as he was getting ready to get off.. he distracted me from enjoying my trip back with my ever nostalgic memories..
Oh how far away I was for just a few minutes.. how happy I felt for just a short time.. just to re live once again a memory of a smiling Qitar celebrating the arrival of spring.. to remember the innocence and beauty of a world we once had , very long ago yet always seems like yesterday in our beloved Baghdad..
Oh how great is the loss.. how deep is the wound..
A smiling Qitar existed only back then.. and there..
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Mesheee..
The memories in this post have been on my mind for so long, but with the hectic life I have been leading lately I did not have time to write it down. Then, 3eeraqimedic wrote her post and I was reminded of my trip home from school , but again I did not have to write.. so its been delayed for quite some time..
My parents never approved of me walking home..i never understood their fear at the time.. whats wrong with coming home (meshee)?!.. the school wasn’t really far, well ok not that close.. the walk home took me about 30 minutes.. which was a long walk for me at that age.. my school was in an alley that led to the main street, a beautiful crowded noisy, broad street.. I would leave the school and walk to the main street.. filled with excitement and so very proud of myself.. im going home (meshee), which certainly makes me a big girl.. I was 8 or 9 at the time.. I would hang my (Aleeja – that was quite in style at the time !!) heavy with all my books on one shoulder, my hand holding it from falling , the other hand holding my (yomeyya – I think it was 1 Derham at the time.. wooow..!!) tightly..
Once I leave the alley, there used to be a Patisserie shop (not anymore of course).. the wonderful scent of fresh cake would be hanging in the air, attracting me towards the shop like magnet.. (Halaweyyat gold star) it was called – just before they decided to change all names into Arabic.. I would go in, fascinated by the whole experience, buying myself a piece of cake.. I still remember the small space, with me standing in front of the colored lines of square and rectangular cakes.. vanilla and fruit aroma filling the shop.. the (big) boy behind the glass counter following my eyes as they wonder from one colored piece to the other.. they even had cakes decorated with (green !!) cream, don’t know why (or how as a matter of fact!!) I would always go for the green one.. pale mint green.. I can still remember the taste of it.. sweet and creamy.. mmm.. like melted ice cream.. the (big boy) starts to get bored .. as it takes me forever to decide which one to pick.. the pink also looked tasty .. the white was never my favorite..the square ones were tempting.. they looked bigger .. but my eyes would always go back to the green one.. rectangular though it was, which makes it smaller.. well .. ok.. I ll have the green one.. and so I open my small hand , now clammy from tightly clutching the Derham.. and pay for my cake ..it was 15 fils a piece ..!!!! big boy would hand it over half wrapped in a paper napkin.. I take it with great joy.. I thank him and turn to leave.. lucky him .. it must be the nicest thing in the world to work in this cake paradise..
I start my journey back home, walking ever so slowly so as not to drop the cake..i start eating it with such care.. it tasted so good.. I would like to stand an look at the flowers in the flower shop.. but the walk is still long and I shouldn’t be late.. oh and I would love to stop for a little and look at the nice pharmacists .. a man and his wife (I think) working in the famous pharmacy on the block.. still remember their faces..
I walk in a world of my own.. happy with my cake.. never bothered by the crowds and the loud horns.. it would be sunny and the weather is just great.. the sky used to be so blue..like a postcard.. a blue that existed only there, and then.. in Baghdad.. I walk and walk ..and cross the side pavement of the Baghdad fair.. it looked so huge to me then.. my parents used to take us there every year.. and we would go home carrying all sorts of gifts and nice things.. when I reach the colored design of Mataam Farooq, I would then cross the road to the public hadiqa, and im finally in our neighborhood ..
When I arrive at home.. I feel so filled with achievement and satisfaction.. im old enough to go home Meshee.. im a grown up now.. I even buy my own favorite cake.. from my own money ..(yomeyya)..
A scented small shop, a pale green cake, and a walk home .. that’s all it took to make me happy then.. how lucky we were.. how happy and peaceful life was..
We never thought at the time how sad we shall be when we look back years and years later..
We never realized..
My parents never approved of me walking home..i never understood their fear at the time.. whats wrong with coming home (meshee)?!.. the school wasn’t really far, well ok not that close.. the walk home took me about 30 minutes.. which was a long walk for me at that age.. my school was in an alley that led to the main street, a beautiful crowded noisy, broad street.. I would leave the school and walk to the main street.. filled with excitement and so very proud of myself.. im going home (meshee), which certainly makes me a big girl.. I was 8 or 9 at the time.. I would hang my (Aleeja – that was quite in style at the time !!) heavy with all my books on one shoulder, my hand holding it from falling , the other hand holding my (yomeyya – I think it was 1 Derham at the time.. wooow..!!) tightly..
Once I leave the alley, there used to be a Patisserie shop (not anymore of course).. the wonderful scent of fresh cake would be hanging in the air, attracting me towards the shop like magnet.. (Halaweyyat gold star) it was called – just before they decided to change all names into Arabic.. I would go in, fascinated by the whole experience, buying myself a piece of cake.. I still remember the small space, with me standing in front of the colored lines of square and rectangular cakes.. vanilla and fruit aroma filling the shop.. the (big) boy behind the glass counter following my eyes as they wonder from one colored piece to the other.. they even had cakes decorated with (green !!) cream, don’t know why (or how as a matter of fact!!) I would always go for the green one.. pale mint green.. I can still remember the taste of it.. sweet and creamy.. mmm.. like melted ice cream.. the (big boy) starts to get bored .. as it takes me forever to decide which one to pick.. the pink also looked tasty .. the white was never my favorite..the square ones were tempting.. they looked bigger .. but my eyes would always go back to the green one.. rectangular though it was, which makes it smaller.. well .. ok.. I ll have the green one.. and so I open my small hand , now clammy from tightly clutching the Derham.. and pay for my cake ..it was 15 fils a piece ..!!!! big boy would hand it over half wrapped in a paper napkin.. I take it with great joy.. I thank him and turn to leave.. lucky him .. it must be the nicest thing in the world to work in this cake paradise..
I start my journey back home, walking ever so slowly so as not to drop the cake..i start eating it with such care.. it tasted so good.. I would like to stand an look at the flowers in the flower shop.. but the walk is still long and I shouldn’t be late.. oh and I would love to stop for a little and look at the nice pharmacists .. a man and his wife (I think) working in the famous pharmacy on the block.. still remember their faces..
I walk in a world of my own.. happy with my cake.. never bothered by the crowds and the loud horns.. it would be sunny and the weather is just great.. the sky used to be so blue..like a postcard.. a blue that existed only there, and then.. in Baghdad.. I walk and walk ..and cross the side pavement of the Baghdad fair.. it looked so huge to me then.. my parents used to take us there every year.. and we would go home carrying all sorts of gifts and nice things.. when I reach the colored design of Mataam Farooq, I would then cross the road to the public hadiqa, and im finally in our neighborhood ..
When I arrive at home.. I feel so filled with achievement and satisfaction.. im old enough to go home Meshee.. im a grown up now.. I even buy my own favorite cake.. from my own money ..(yomeyya)..
A scented small shop, a pale green cake, and a walk home .. that’s all it took to make me happy then.. how lucky we were.. how happy and peaceful life was..
We never thought at the time how sad we shall be when we look back years and years later..
We never realized..
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Otla Rabieyya..
What made me remember el Otla el Rabieya ?? don’t know.. just another flash back.. is it the weather? Is it the date??
It seems so long ago.. so far away..
When the nightmare of Mid Year Exam ends, the wonderful dreamy days of el Otla starts.. 14 lovely days of freedom, laziness and absolutely No studying.. the weather would usually be fantastic.. still chilly, but it feels like spring..
I remember watching the sun every day once I wake up.. looking out the window.. praying that the sun would be there sending its warmth so as to announce another perfect day of Otla.. I would wake up late, have a long and late breakfast.. Fried eggs would be So favored on these days.. another cup of tea would be so appreciated.. chatting with mama about anything and everything.. of course mama would be up early, finished her breakfast with dad hours ago..and so she would be in the kitchen waiting for me (or us) to wake up , so as to sit with us while eating our Late breakfast.. it sounds like ages ago.. oh it was o much fun..
Being home in the morning was such a special experience.. the sounds that we hear are so old yet so new to us.. Abo el Ghaz with his different musical instruments.. Abo el Nafot with his distinguished tunes !! sounds we never hear usually cause we would b at school or university ..
After breakfast its time for Ghahwa, with lots of Hel in it.. I used to make such special Ghahwa they say.. the taste was great.. I still remember myself making coffee in our kitchen.. the scent was amazing.. i Love ghahwa.. another thing which I stopped making or having now.. don’t know why.. I mean Ghahwa we can find everywhere.. but I stopped drinking it like I used to.. I suppose it stopped tasting the same for me .. like everything else..
Then it would be time for Tarma .. the sun would be pouring its lovely ray over our Tarma.. and so I wouldn’t miss an hour there , with my book in my lap.. sometimes on the Marjooha that we have there.. sometimes on one of Karasee el Nylon.. I used to feel an inner peace like no other then.. Hadiqtna in front of me.. with its beautiful roses.. all kinds.. different colors.. and my special favorite flower.. el Narjis.. oh how I Adore its lovely refreshing perfume.. in Otla , all the Absal I have planted (that was the only thing I helped planting with my own hands) would either be blossoming, or fully opened.. all around Hadiqtna.. fragile white flowers, filling the air with the most beautiful scent ever..
I told u.. in Otla, everything would be filled with color and beauty and serenity .. the world would be a magical one.. a perfect world..
Theer was nothing much going on in my days of Otla, in fact maybe nothing.. but the thrill was there even before it starts.. preparing the books I intend to read once I finish exams, preparing my favorite kinds of Nastala and Charazat.. its all part of the fun.. when I remember Betna now I feel it was in another world.. or maybe what I have in my mind is not real but something I have seen in a dream.. was I there in reality? Did I really once sit in the Marjooha reading ??
Sometimes it gets so hard to differentiate dream from reality..
But I suppose I Was there once.. and Betna was there once..
Unfortunately not any more..
It seems so long ago.. so far away..
When the nightmare of Mid Year Exam ends, the wonderful dreamy days of el Otla starts.. 14 lovely days of freedom, laziness and absolutely No studying.. the weather would usually be fantastic.. still chilly, but it feels like spring..
I remember watching the sun every day once I wake up.. looking out the window.. praying that the sun would be there sending its warmth so as to announce another perfect day of Otla.. I would wake up late, have a long and late breakfast.. Fried eggs would be So favored on these days.. another cup of tea would be so appreciated.. chatting with mama about anything and everything.. of course mama would be up early, finished her breakfast with dad hours ago..and so she would be in the kitchen waiting for me (or us) to wake up , so as to sit with us while eating our Late breakfast.. it sounds like ages ago.. oh it was o much fun..
Being home in the morning was such a special experience.. the sounds that we hear are so old yet so new to us.. Abo el Ghaz with his different musical instruments.. Abo el Nafot with his distinguished tunes !! sounds we never hear usually cause we would b at school or university ..
After breakfast its time for Ghahwa, with lots of Hel in it.. I used to make such special Ghahwa they say.. the taste was great.. I still remember myself making coffee in our kitchen.. the scent was amazing.. i Love ghahwa.. another thing which I stopped making or having now.. don’t know why.. I mean Ghahwa we can find everywhere.. but I stopped drinking it like I used to.. I suppose it stopped tasting the same for me .. like everything else..
Then it would be time for Tarma .. the sun would be pouring its lovely ray over our Tarma.. and so I wouldn’t miss an hour there , with my book in my lap.. sometimes on the Marjooha that we have there.. sometimes on one of Karasee el Nylon.. I used to feel an inner peace like no other then.. Hadiqtna in front of me.. with its beautiful roses.. all kinds.. different colors.. and my special favorite flower.. el Narjis.. oh how I Adore its lovely refreshing perfume.. in Otla , all the Absal I have planted (that was the only thing I helped planting with my own hands) would either be blossoming, or fully opened.. all around Hadiqtna.. fragile white flowers, filling the air with the most beautiful scent ever..
I told u.. in Otla, everything would be filled with color and beauty and serenity .. the world would be a magical one.. a perfect world..
Theer was nothing much going on in my days of Otla, in fact maybe nothing.. but the thrill was there even before it starts.. preparing the books I intend to read once I finish exams, preparing my favorite kinds of Nastala and Charazat.. its all part of the fun.. when I remember Betna now I feel it was in another world.. or maybe what I have in my mind is not real but something I have seen in a dream.. was I there in reality? Did I really once sit in the Marjooha reading ??
Sometimes it gets so hard to differentiate dream from reality..
But I suppose I Was there once.. and Betna was there once..
Unfortunately not any more..
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Barr - Bahar, Hajji Eloo w Alwan..
We were cousins.. different ages, different moods.. my cousins and I used to gather at my Beebee el Hijjiya' s old house every Thursday night..
Or Fridays sometimes, especially in winter.. the house with its big garden, very tempting for our games.. chasing one another up and down the short stairs leading to the Tarma, running in imaginary tours around the house.. running to catch one another in Jommeda.. or (Selleban) -as was called in my old school.. (but cant remember its details very clearly !)..
It always seems like a colorful dream to me, whenever I look back.. no matter how many years have passed or would pass.. which reminds me that one of the favorite games was one called Alwan – Colors.. the assigned one would stand in the middle , and then suggests a certain color loudly.. each one of us should run quickly and locate that same color and touch it, or shouts out : Hayyataa..meaning he has found the required color, so he is safe !! then another color is suggested and on goes..
There was also a game which we all liked .. Barr – Bahar.. we would stand in a looong line, side by side.. on the line where the Thayyal of Beebee's garden ends..and the grayish Shtigher begins..One of us would start shouting repeatedly.. Barr, Bahar, Barr, Bahar, and we would jump from (Bahar) to (Barr) .. the Bahar would be the garden usually..Bahar, Barr, Bahar.. then a sudden repeated word: Bahar, Bahar , Barr.. "B.. You lose.." cause B missed and jumped to Barr instead of remaining in Bahar .. and so on each will miss eventually.. as the "caller" does what he can to make us miss and lose the game.. the losers would stand aside watching the others to find who is the last to win..
My favorite was Hajji Eloo.. always loved it.. again, the assigned one would stand in the middle.. we, in a circle watching him attentively.. suddenly he would shout : EEeeebdaaaaa.. (Start) .. he then starts running chasing us , we must all run at once and find a higher (something) to stand on.. the stairs, a chair, a Qanafa, anything high to be safe.. that’s where the name comes, Eloo meaning Height..the one who gets caught of course loses..
The laughs, the endless running , the green Thayyal.. Ashar el Hadiqa.. our parents would all gather inside to escape the noise .. drinking their Chai in the (Hall) with its old Qanafat.. warm family gathering and usual family chat.. my Beebee would be watching everybody with her eyes..too tired to talk..but her presence overwhelmed us all with love and Aaman..there was nothing to fear.. at that time there were nothing to fear..the outer world was as peaceful as can be.. what could happen ??!! definitely nothing..!!
Happy old days.. happy old games.. all so vivid in my mind.. I can see K, she was the oldest..B with here ever laughing face..A with his silly arrogance.. G always kept to herself.. H and F were always not so friendly.. O was trying to be the one to lead ..L was always mad, judging each one of us.. M ever so sophisticated ..and me.. I was a very bashful little girl..
How many years separate us from the past ? How many miles separate us now ?
But the colorful memories will always stay on.. warming our hearts..
Or Fridays sometimes, especially in winter.. the house with its big garden, very tempting for our games.. chasing one another up and down the short stairs leading to the Tarma, running in imaginary tours around the house.. running to catch one another in Jommeda.. or (Selleban) -as was called in my old school.. (but cant remember its details very clearly !)..
It always seems like a colorful dream to me, whenever I look back.. no matter how many years have passed or would pass.. which reminds me that one of the favorite games was one called Alwan – Colors.. the assigned one would stand in the middle , and then suggests a certain color loudly.. each one of us should run quickly and locate that same color and touch it, or shouts out : Hayyataa..meaning he has found the required color, so he is safe !! then another color is suggested and on goes..
There was also a game which we all liked .. Barr – Bahar.. we would stand in a looong line, side by side.. on the line where the Thayyal of Beebee's garden ends..and the grayish Shtigher begins..One of us would start shouting repeatedly.. Barr, Bahar, Barr, Bahar, and we would jump from (Bahar) to (Barr) .. the Bahar would be the garden usually..Bahar, Barr, Bahar.. then a sudden repeated word: Bahar, Bahar , Barr.. "B.. You lose.." cause B missed and jumped to Barr instead of remaining in Bahar .. and so on each will miss eventually.. as the "caller" does what he can to make us miss and lose the game.. the losers would stand aside watching the others to find who is the last to win..
My favorite was Hajji Eloo.. always loved it.. again, the assigned one would stand in the middle.. we, in a circle watching him attentively.. suddenly he would shout : EEeeebdaaaaa.. (Start) .. he then starts running chasing us , we must all run at once and find a higher (something) to stand on.. the stairs, a chair, a Qanafa, anything high to be safe.. that’s where the name comes, Eloo meaning Height..the one who gets caught of course loses..
The laughs, the endless running , the green Thayyal.. Ashar el Hadiqa.. our parents would all gather inside to escape the noise .. drinking their Chai in the (Hall) with its old Qanafat.. warm family gathering and usual family chat.. my Beebee would be watching everybody with her eyes..too tired to talk..but her presence overwhelmed us all with love and Aaman..there was nothing to fear.. at that time there were nothing to fear..the outer world was as peaceful as can be.. what could happen ??!! definitely nothing..!!
Happy old days.. happy old games.. all so vivid in my mind.. I can see K, she was the oldest..B with here ever laughing face..A with his silly arrogance.. G always kept to herself.. H and F were always not so friendly.. O was trying to be the one to lead ..L was always mad, judging each one of us.. M ever so sophisticated ..and me.. I was a very bashful little girl..
How many years separate us from the past ? How many miles separate us now ?
But the colorful memories will always stay on.. warming our hearts..
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Klecha w Hawayej w Habbat Soda..
A very good friend of mine, who is still in Bghadad sent me a text msg this morning.. she said : im making Klecha, and I remembered what great Klecha you used to make..
Actually, she meant my mom.. mom was really good at making things.. everything.. cooking special dishes, setting special dinners, sewing elegant costumes (right out of el Burda – the famous magazine back at Baghdad) .. making great Klecha was one of many many talents..
The day of Klecha was a special day.. though I now remember it with nostalgia, I used to see it as a day of work, work and more work back then in Baghdadna,..
Of course, she would announce the Day of Klecha about a week earlier, as we approach the last week of Ramadan, or the last week before Eid el Adha, and though we all looked forward to taste the delicious specialty of Happy events, we (me and my sisters) all had on our minds the loooong hours of working in the hot kitchen, checking the oven and checking on the Sewanee, I don’t know why I cant forget the stifling heat of the kitchen..
On Klecha day, my mom would be up early (as always), we come down from our rooms to find her already into the Ajeen process..as our kitchen cupboards were a bit high, she would be sitting on her knees with a very Large Nejana in front of her (the size of the nejana always helped us predict how many hours we were supposed to stay in the kitchen that day, the bigger the longer !! I always loved to do the Ajeen process, I loved the smell of the dough , but of course she would never let me do that as she used to say my hands are too small and weak to do things right.. we were to sit in the kitchen (no one to go upstairs, we should wait for her politely) till she finished, then she would start giving each one of us the assignment required ( A, take out the Joz, the Festiq and the sugar, pour them into the bowl, I will be with u to make the Hashwa) , (M, take out the Sewanee Fafon and pour some oil into them), (Y, get the Shebak and please put an apron on) .. I always hated these small parts.. but she was the leader and no one dared but to obey the orders.. then we would stand next to each other in front of the looong pale green deeelab, and start making the shapes of each kind, Klechat el Tamor, we used to make it like a swiss roll , and then stamp it with the oold wooden Qalab of mom, something old from her hometown (Mosul), to print a design of flowers on each Klechaya, Klechat el Joz was like half a circle, and the endsd we used to Nothforha in a beautiful design that also mom taught us.. and finally decorated with the flowers stamp, as for Klechat Sada (that was my favorite, she would add Hawayej to it or sometimes Habbat Soda, to give it more taste.. after standing for hours working on the endless small pieces of Klecha, the small pieces of dough we then were allowed to shape as we pleased, we had plastc Qawalib in the shape of rabbits, kittens and Katakeet, kept from days of childhood, I would then laughingly use them, just for fun..
The heat in the kitchen then would be incredible, we would be exhausted and bored and complaining about why should we make all this endless quantities of Klecha? We would only eat little of it, why not buy Jahza men el Sough etc.. but our complaints never mattered..my mom would answer them with a reprimanding look, mom always had to make Klecha herself , the quantity always had to be large.. and the Balamat had to be FULL.. Our Khottar always praised mom for the great taste of her Klecha..she took great pride in her Klecha but she would reply nonchalntly with a her beautiful smile : Oooh, Aadee.. just the same as ev year.. we in Mosul always made it like this ..
Its strange, mom now never makes Klecha.. the Eid feels different..its not about missing Klecha, its about missing a whole era.. another time , another life.. mom now Does buy Jahez men el Sough.. any kind of cake or pastry would do.. to serve when Khottar visit (if any ever shows up) ..i myself never was interested in making Klecha.. but its just a reminder of Eid in Baghdad.. a Must..
But Klecha in Baghdad is till made, as my friend 's text tells.. perhaps I should take this a s a sign , maybe one day the good days Will return, and I Would make Klecha in Bghadad..
just for the sake of Eid, lets be optimistic for once..
Ayyamkom Saeeda..
Actually, she meant my mom.. mom was really good at making things.. everything.. cooking special dishes, setting special dinners, sewing elegant costumes (right out of el Burda – the famous magazine back at Baghdad) .. making great Klecha was one of many many talents..
The day of Klecha was a special day.. though I now remember it with nostalgia, I used to see it as a day of work, work and more work back then in Baghdadna,..
Of course, she would announce the Day of Klecha about a week earlier, as we approach the last week of Ramadan, or the last week before Eid el Adha, and though we all looked forward to taste the delicious specialty of Happy events, we (me and my sisters) all had on our minds the loooong hours of working in the hot kitchen, checking the oven and checking on the Sewanee, I don’t know why I cant forget the stifling heat of the kitchen..
On Klecha day, my mom would be up early (as always), we come down from our rooms to find her already into the Ajeen process..as our kitchen cupboards were a bit high, she would be sitting on her knees with a very Large Nejana in front of her (the size of the nejana always helped us predict how many hours we were supposed to stay in the kitchen that day, the bigger the longer !! I always loved to do the Ajeen process, I loved the smell of the dough , but of course she would never let me do that as she used to say my hands are too small and weak to do things right.. we were to sit in the kitchen (no one to go upstairs, we should wait for her politely) till she finished, then she would start giving each one of us the assignment required ( A, take out the Joz, the Festiq and the sugar, pour them into the bowl, I will be with u to make the Hashwa) , (M, take out the Sewanee Fafon and pour some oil into them), (Y, get the Shebak and please put an apron on) .. I always hated these small parts.. but she was the leader and no one dared but to obey the orders.. then we would stand next to each other in front of the looong pale green deeelab, and start making the shapes of each kind, Klechat el Tamor, we used to make it like a swiss roll , and then stamp it with the oold wooden Qalab of mom, something old from her hometown (Mosul), to print a design of flowers on each Klechaya, Klechat el Joz was like half a circle, and the endsd we used to Nothforha in a beautiful design that also mom taught us.. and finally decorated with the flowers stamp, as for Klechat Sada (that was my favorite, she would add Hawayej to it or sometimes Habbat Soda, to give it more taste.. after standing for hours working on the endless small pieces of Klecha, the small pieces of dough we then were allowed to shape as we pleased, we had plastc Qawalib in the shape of rabbits, kittens and Katakeet, kept from days of childhood, I would then laughingly use them, just for fun..
The heat in the kitchen then would be incredible, we would be exhausted and bored and complaining about why should we make all this endless quantities of Klecha? We would only eat little of it, why not buy Jahza men el Sough etc.. but our complaints never mattered..my mom would answer them with a reprimanding look, mom always had to make Klecha herself , the quantity always had to be large.. and the Balamat had to be FULL.. Our Khottar always praised mom for the great taste of her Klecha..she took great pride in her Klecha but she would reply nonchalntly with a her beautiful smile : Oooh, Aadee.. just the same as ev year.. we in Mosul always made it like this ..
Its strange, mom now never makes Klecha.. the Eid feels different..its not about missing Klecha, its about missing a whole era.. another time , another life.. mom now Does buy Jahez men el Sough.. any kind of cake or pastry would do.. to serve when Khottar visit (if any ever shows up) ..i myself never was interested in making Klecha.. but its just a reminder of Eid in Baghdad.. a Must..
But Klecha in Baghdad is till made, as my friend 's text tells.. perhaps I should take this a s a sign , maybe one day the good days Will return, and I Would make Klecha in Bghadad..
just for the sake of Eid, lets be optimistic for once..
Ayyamkom Saeeda..
Monday, August 6, 2007
To Be or not to Be..
Dont know why this post started in a bright manner and ended differently..
Forgive me all..
I was trying to remember how many things I have wanted to become when I grow up, the list is so long..
First I was in the mood to become a teacher.. we had this big Kantor in our room with such wide doors, it was dark brown.. which was very suitable to be the black board or green board , whatever, I used to stand in front of the Kantor, holding broken pieces of colored chalk in my hand (I Loved colored chalk at the time, I never got enough from looking at the beautiful colors, pale blue, pale green, and pale orange..).. just like my teacher used to do, and I start talking to my pupils who are supposed to be sitting in lines in front of me.. I would go on, reading them the Qiraa lesson, or the Hisab lesson.. whatever I liked.. and every now and then I would turn to write something over the brown doors of the Kantor , to explain something to my pupils.. the good thing was, it was the chalk was so easily removed off by just a piece of Kleenex.. so mom didn’t have to find out..
Later, I decided that I want to be a Reyadha teacher.. (maybe that was when Set Methal, eneterd our lives and hearts) .. I would go out in the sunny garden..stand balanced over the edge of the Flower bed that decorated our Tarma in front of the Hall, and start doing exercise to show my pupils who were standing in lines in front of me down in the garden how to bend down,and up again, how to do (Aala, Thanee, Takhassor, Madd.. ) .. my pupils were always Very quiet and followed whatever directions I gave.. but of course I had to reprimand the undisciplined ones.. though I was always extremely nice with them..
Then, I decided that I am in no mood for teaching. . I'm in the mood for adventure, I used to climb the stairs up to the roof in Bet Bebe el Hijjiya, turn the old looking key in the hole, and go out under the burning sun , then again climb the stairs to the 2nd roof , and up there I would start saving all the captured ones , untie their ropes, set them free, give them a drink of water..
And strangely, all the time I would be running.. running to save them, running to escape from the evil capturers (I wonder who were they in my childish mind at the time!)..
Finally , I decided that my real thing is to become a princess… Yes.. that was really the best thing I want to be.. (like u get to choose !!).. I used to pull the Charchaf off my bed, wrap it around my small waist, put on all the colored plastic bracelets and necklaces I had, and walk around with my Looong gown , moving gracefully like a princess.. bowing to the crowds..
Of course, that was all during the day hours , when my mom would be at work .. I would stand in front of the tall Stand Lamp (don't know really what is it called) , it had 3 or 4 arms all flexible to adjust them as desired, it was taller than me, so I would stand and try to bend one arm down , like I would be adjusting the Microphone, so as to sing a song, or maybe it was a speech!!.. wow.. that was really the best part.. the good thing was that mom was never there to have a say in the matter.. so I was free to dream as I please, act as I please..be whoever I want.. it was always so real to live . it was ever so easy to pretend.. and it was So much fun..
It was like having a magic wand .. I would choose What to be, and Where to be.. and would always come true at once..
Can I do that now?? Can I ever do that once more?? I had only to decide what my next dream is, and it will Definitely come true..
Can my dream of now ever come true?? How much longer am I to wait ?
Anyone knows?? .. how much longer of feeling the ever killing Ghurba?? How much longer before I lay my tired head down , and rest??
Anyone knows??..
Forgive me all..
I was trying to remember how many things I have wanted to become when I grow up, the list is so long..
First I was in the mood to become a teacher.. we had this big Kantor in our room with such wide doors, it was dark brown.. which was very suitable to be the black board or green board , whatever, I used to stand in front of the Kantor, holding broken pieces of colored chalk in my hand (I Loved colored chalk at the time, I never got enough from looking at the beautiful colors, pale blue, pale green, and pale orange..).. just like my teacher used to do, and I start talking to my pupils who are supposed to be sitting in lines in front of me.. I would go on, reading them the Qiraa lesson, or the Hisab lesson.. whatever I liked.. and every now and then I would turn to write something over the brown doors of the Kantor , to explain something to my pupils.. the good thing was, it was the chalk was so easily removed off by just a piece of Kleenex.. so mom didn’t have to find out..
Later, I decided that I want to be a Reyadha teacher.. (maybe that was when Set Methal, eneterd our lives and hearts) .. I would go out in the sunny garden..stand balanced over the edge of the Flower bed that decorated our Tarma in front of the Hall, and start doing exercise to show my pupils who were standing in lines in front of me down in the garden how to bend down,and up again, how to do (Aala, Thanee, Takhassor, Madd.. ) .. my pupils were always Very quiet and followed whatever directions I gave.. but of course I had to reprimand the undisciplined ones.. though I was always extremely nice with them..
Then, I decided that I am in no mood for teaching. . I'm in the mood for adventure, I used to climb the stairs up to the roof in Bet Bebe el Hijjiya, turn the old looking key in the hole, and go out under the burning sun , then again climb the stairs to the 2nd roof , and up there I would start saving all the captured ones , untie their ropes, set them free, give them a drink of water..
And strangely, all the time I would be running.. running to save them, running to escape from the evil capturers (I wonder who were they in my childish mind at the time!)..
Finally , I decided that my real thing is to become a princess… Yes.. that was really the best thing I want to be.. (like u get to choose !!).. I used to pull the Charchaf off my bed, wrap it around my small waist, put on all the colored plastic bracelets and necklaces I had, and walk around with my Looong gown , moving gracefully like a princess.. bowing to the crowds..
Of course, that was all during the day hours , when my mom would be at work .. I would stand in front of the tall Stand Lamp (don't know really what is it called) , it had 3 or 4 arms all flexible to adjust them as desired, it was taller than me, so I would stand and try to bend one arm down , like I would be adjusting the Microphone, so as to sing a song, or maybe it was a speech!!.. wow.. that was really the best part.. the good thing was that mom was never there to have a say in the matter.. so I was free to dream as I please, act as I please..be whoever I want.. it was always so real to live . it was ever so easy to pretend.. and it was So much fun..
It was like having a magic wand .. I would choose What to be, and Where to be.. and would always come true at once..
Can I do that now?? Can I ever do that once more?? I had only to decide what my next dream is, and it will Definitely come true..
Can my dream of now ever come true?? How much longer am I to wait ?
Anyone knows?? .. how much longer of feeling the ever killing Ghurba?? How much longer before I lay my tired head down , and rest??
Anyone knows??..
Monday, July 30, 2007
Jiran..
I miss Jiranna Om Mhammad.. I miss her kind face and spontaneous smile and warm Malgha .. she used to raise her hands to the sky whenever she sees me and say her sweet kind prayer (Nasron mena Allah w Fathon Qareeb) .. she always gave me a feeling of serenity .. everything is ok.. it will be ok..
El Jiran were actually Ahal back then .. back there.. in our Life in Baghdad..
In my dictionary, Jiran ARE Ahal.. in my New Dictionary, Jiran ARE Neighbors.. that’s it.. full stop..
I loved all our Jiran in our street back then, but mostly, the closest to my heart, a lady much older than myself, who lived in the house next door, a very narrow alley separated our back doors, which we used usually so as not to go through the front street, it was like our secret alley.. I would call her when its afternoon, and after brief hello, I would ask : Wahdech - alone? And she would say : Yalla, come on over (I would make sure she was alone when I have some personal matter to chat about with her) , and at once, I would change my clothes quickly, run to the kitchen, make my favorite Dallat el Ghahwa with lots of Hel in it, and leave quickly through the back kitchen door, cross the narrow space between us and a few stairs, and there I was inside her welcoming house.. she would be ready with Fanajeen and at once the coffee is poured (so as not to waste any time) and we start chatting.. I miss those back door sneaking days.. I miss my friend – jiran.. we would spend hours chatting unaware, till the phone rings, it would be my mom, reminding us of the time , and suggesting why not I simply (Abat) as its almost bed time..
I never found any other replacement for – R - .. not ever..
Jiran were the Great blessing Allah has sent us to go through many hard times, many wars.. who would make life sound normal, feels normal, under bombs and war sirens and long hour darkness, who but our Jiran??
Now, my next door neighbor , is a lady whom i see her going up or down the stairs, as we have different working hours.. not only do we not visit, she made it quite clear that she has no desire what so ever to get acquainted.. when I run into her on the stairs, she keeps her eyes on the floor trying to avoid any eye contact.. in the beginning I used to feel bad about this .. and try to figure out why does she act in this way.. now I stopped .. I don’t want anything to do with her..
Back home in Baghdadna, when a new Jiran comes to the street, the other families in the street would make them feel welcome buy offering any required help.. sending a nice home made desert ..etc..
My aunt who lived in Ghurba for over 30 yrs tells me, she had the same neighbor for over 10 years .. and they would stand waiting for the elevator together and she wouldn’t say even hello.. she would look straight ahead..
A friend of mine, a doctor, tells me she lived in the same building for years, and had the same neighbor right next door, and when they once took the elevator together, she turned to her with wondering eyes (on which floor do u live?) ..
What are they made of these people ? I simply cant understand ..
Was it the nature of ppl back there in Baghdad? Or was it just a different era? I don’t know..
I hardly see such people her in Ghurba anymore.. in fact almost none..none like dear Om Mohammad, none like my dear R..
Before, Jiran made me feel home..
Now Jiran – sorry, Neighbors make me feel in Ghurba more than anything else.. The icy nature I could never understand.. nor the cold eyes..
Maybe im addicted to Baghdad sun.. with its boiling temperature, it used to warm our sky back then, and our hearts ..
And thats what I shall never find elsewhere.. Ever..
El Jiran were actually Ahal back then .. back there.. in our Life in Baghdad..
In my dictionary, Jiran ARE Ahal.. in my New Dictionary, Jiran ARE Neighbors.. that’s it.. full stop..
I loved all our Jiran in our street back then, but mostly, the closest to my heart, a lady much older than myself, who lived in the house next door, a very narrow alley separated our back doors, which we used usually so as not to go through the front street, it was like our secret alley.. I would call her when its afternoon, and after brief hello, I would ask : Wahdech - alone? And she would say : Yalla, come on over (I would make sure she was alone when I have some personal matter to chat about with her) , and at once, I would change my clothes quickly, run to the kitchen, make my favorite Dallat el Ghahwa with lots of Hel in it, and leave quickly through the back kitchen door, cross the narrow space between us and a few stairs, and there I was inside her welcoming house.. she would be ready with Fanajeen and at once the coffee is poured (so as not to waste any time) and we start chatting.. I miss those back door sneaking days.. I miss my friend – jiran.. we would spend hours chatting unaware, till the phone rings, it would be my mom, reminding us of the time , and suggesting why not I simply (Abat) as its almost bed time..
I never found any other replacement for – R - .. not ever..
Jiran were the Great blessing Allah has sent us to go through many hard times, many wars.. who would make life sound normal, feels normal, under bombs and war sirens and long hour darkness, who but our Jiran??
Now, my next door neighbor , is a lady whom i see her going up or down the stairs, as we have different working hours.. not only do we not visit, she made it quite clear that she has no desire what so ever to get acquainted.. when I run into her on the stairs, she keeps her eyes on the floor trying to avoid any eye contact.. in the beginning I used to feel bad about this .. and try to figure out why does she act in this way.. now I stopped .. I don’t want anything to do with her..
Back home in Baghdadna, when a new Jiran comes to the street, the other families in the street would make them feel welcome buy offering any required help.. sending a nice home made desert ..etc..
My aunt who lived in Ghurba for over 30 yrs tells me, she had the same neighbor for over 10 years .. and they would stand waiting for the elevator together and she wouldn’t say even hello.. she would look straight ahead..
A friend of mine, a doctor, tells me she lived in the same building for years, and had the same neighbor right next door, and when they once took the elevator together, she turned to her with wondering eyes (on which floor do u live?) ..
What are they made of these people ? I simply cant understand ..
Was it the nature of ppl back there in Baghdad? Or was it just a different era? I don’t know..
I hardly see such people her in Ghurba anymore.. in fact almost none..none like dear Om Mohammad, none like my dear R..
Before, Jiran made me feel home..
Now Jiran – sorry, Neighbors make me feel in Ghurba more than anything else.. The icy nature I could never understand.. nor the cold eyes..
Maybe im addicted to Baghdad sun.. with its boiling temperature, it used to warm our sky back then, and our hearts ..
And thats what I shall never find elsewhere.. Ever..
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Number 42..
We were in the mid of our studying years..
The trip to my college I used to take alone by myself.. I first take a rather long walk to the bus stop, and stand waiting there.. many of students in university used the Bas at the time..yes it was crowded, yes it was late, but it was there for us, and it was Fun..
On the way back home, I would share the ride with my best friend at the time.. we would walk to Bab el Moadhdham, and stand waiting in the crowds (there was always crowds, never a queue !!).. we never minded the dusty, dirty pavement.. we never minded the strange mixture of humans.. we would stand chatting on and on, waiting for our Bas to appear .. number 42 that was..
And so our awaited number 42 arrives finally .. and my friend and I , both short sighted, would try to approach the front to read the bus number and make sure it’s the One..if we were lucky (and, fast enough) , we would finish our checking to get on the Bas just before the crowds block the front Bas door.. if we hesitated for a minute , we would be blocked from the door, and so we suddenly find ourselves standing last in line ..
Once on the Bas, we would pay for the ticket happily and climb the short stairs quickly to the 2nd deck (yeees Abo Tabiqen our Bas was..).. we always loved that.. we would then pick 2 seats in the middle and sit with our books and files in our laps.. preparing for a Looong ride .. feeling so happy and content .. waiting for the Bas to move..looking down through the window at the people still crowding in the bus stop..
The ride starts, and so does our long chat.. endless chat.. we were best friends..and also students in the same department.. so the topics are endless..
How many times did we take a Vow to visit Al –Mathaf el- Baghdadi?? As many as our rides back home.. how many times did we laugh at the funny names of the shabby hotels? (Qamar el Karkh) is a name I don’t forget.. and the Bas would crawwwwl in its slow pace , people get off, people get on.. and we never took notice of the time passing.. we would be so deep in conversation , we hardly notice anyone else.. It was such lovely times..
As my stop gets closer, I say a quick bi to my friend, and climb down the stairs to b in time in front of the back door .. u never needed to press the half broken buzzer to attract the driver's attention.. ev body downstairs would start shouting at him (Nazel Nazel).. he then would stop the Bas and open the door..
And another studying day has passed..
My friend and I kept in touch for a long time after I left Baghdad.. but were cut off after the war and the disconnected phone lines ..
About a year ago someone sent me her mobile number, she was still in Iraq.. I wrote only one line in my first text msg. to her, didn’t even write my name : Bas 42 yesallem alech.. and the reply was So quick, So happy .. and So full of old friendly warmth..
Bas 42 held so many of our beautiful memories in Baghdadna.. it witnessed a big part of our dreams, and happy, better times..
To my dear friend (N) .. in memory of our shared rides together on the Bas Abo Tabiqen..
The trip to my college I used to take alone by myself.. I first take a rather long walk to the bus stop, and stand waiting there.. many of students in university used the Bas at the time..yes it was crowded, yes it was late, but it was there for us, and it was Fun..
On the way back home, I would share the ride with my best friend at the time.. we would walk to Bab el Moadhdham, and stand waiting in the crowds (there was always crowds, never a queue !!).. we never minded the dusty, dirty pavement.. we never minded the strange mixture of humans.. we would stand chatting on and on, waiting for our Bas to appear .. number 42 that was..
And so our awaited number 42 arrives finally .. and my friend and I , both short sighted, would try to approach the front to read the bus number and make sure it’s the One..if we were lucky (and, fast enough) , we would finish our checking to get on the Bas just before the crowds block the front Bas door.. if we hesitated for a minute , we would be blocked from the door, and so we suddenly find ourselves standing last in line ..
Once on the Bas, we would pay for the ticket happily and climb the short stairs quickly to the 2nd deck (yeees Abo Tabiqen our Bas was..).. we always loved that.. we would then pick 2 seats in the middle and sit with our books and files in our laps.. preparing for a Looong ride .. feeling so happy and content .. waiting for the Bas to move..looking down through the window at the people still crowding in the bus stop..
The ride starts, and so does our long chat.. endless chat.. we were best friends..and also students in the same department.. so the topics are endless..
How many times did we take a Vow to visit Al –Mathaf el- Baghdadi?? As many as our rides back home.. how many times did we laugh at the funny names of the shabby hotels? (Qamar el Karkh) is a name I don’t forget.. and the Bas would crawwwwl in its slow pace , people get off, people get on.. and we never took notice of the time passing.. we would be so deep in conversation , we hardly notice anyone else.. It was such lovely times..
As my stop gets closer, I say a quick bi to my friend, and climb down the stairs to b in time in front of the back door .. u never needed to press the half broken buzzer to attract the driver's attention.. ev body downstairs would start shouting at him (Nazel Nazel).. he then would stop the Bas and open the door..
And another studying day has passed..
My friend and I kept in touch for a long time after I left Baghdad.. but were cut off after the war and the disconnected phone lines ..
About a year ago someone sent me her mobile number, she was still in Iraq.. I wrote only one line in my first text msg. to her, didn’t even write my name : Bas 42 yesallem alech.. and the reply was So quick, So happy .. and So full of old friendly warmth..
Bas 42 held so many of our beautiful memories in Baghdadna.. it witnessed a big part of our dreams, and happy, better times..
To my dear friend (N) .. in memory of our shared rides together on the Bas Abo Tabiqen..
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Om Abbas
Om Abbas was our Farrasha in my old work in Baghdad..
She was not old .. maybe in her late or mid thirties.. a widow, always in black (long black dress + black socks and thick black Foota) .. She was in charge of the Tea ceremony in our Daera, along with her other duties such as cleaning , taking files up and down the Daera floors..
She was very poor, but very proud and honest.. she had 2 adult sons, who brought her nothing but misery and sadness, coming to work with a pale face and red eyes from crying because of their reckless and bad behavior, one of them even used to beat her, she being so thin and petite..
She used to have a big bag of nylon in which she brought us hot Sammoon, the famous (Sammoon Hajari), we used to race when we first smell the Chai being done (Yetkhaddar), in fact now when I look back it was always very burnt or shall we say over bolied (mahroogh) I don’t why were we so keen to drink it , afterwards she would start her round, giving each her or his tea as required (with sugar, without sugar, light tea, Verry drak tea, etc..) .. me and my colleague - friends would gather around one of the desks and exchange the latest gossip, the latest engagements heard of of any staff member (announced + not announced) , sipping Om Abbas's Chai along with the hot Sammoon we have snatched from her bag earlier.. it was my favorite hour of the day.. sometimes on of us would bring a treat, a home made cake, or a box of sweets, etc.. ev thing was joyful at the time..afterwards.. we would each start working on her tasks and so the working day begins..
When I think back , I feel maybe it was a hundred years away.. was I really there ? did all the memories that r still so live in my mind, did they really exist? I feel its hard to tell.. we had so much fun.. I used to love my job ..meeting all kinds of people..all sorts of personalities..i had great friends.. it was another life back then..
As the day goes by, we start to feel hungry , and so , a funny protest starts ev where, Om Abbas, how can u not go and buy me a Falafel Sandwitch? Om Abbas, cant u see im so hungry I will faint? Om Abbas? I had so many (Chayat) today I will pass out if I don’t eat something.. and so on.. and the poor Om Abbas would try hard to tell us that she will be missed and then reproached for going out without leave (she was to sit all day on a chair in the corridor, in case anyone calls her out or needs her to do something).. and we would use all our convincing methods to make her go buy us whatever we want.. poor good Om Abbas.. she was such a kind lady.. we treated her like one of us, we would go visit her if she got sick (yes we did!) and help her as much as we can.. she used to say to us (u r all Banatee..) ..and she took so much pride in that.. she used to share her problems with us , her fears, her worries.. and we would listen in compassion and try to help solving them..
Years after I left, I heard she almost lost her sight.. the news brought me such sadness.. I wished she would get well..she was another symbol of the time we left behind and still cherished so much.. the time that we can never have back, when we once had a life..
She was not old .. maybe in her late or mid thirties.. a widow, always in black (long black dress + black socks and thick black Foota) .. She was in charge of the Tea ceremony in our Daera, along with her other duties such as cleaning , taking files up and down the Daera floors..
She was very poor, but very proud and honest.. she had 2 adult sons, who brought her nothing but misery and sadness, coming to work with a pale face and red eyes from crying because of their reckless and bad behavior, one of them even used to beat her, she being so thin and petite..
She used to have a big bag of nylon in which she brought us hot Sammoon, the famous (Sammoon Hajari), we used to race when we first smell the Chai being done (Yetkhaddar), in fact now when I look back it was always very burnt or shall we say over bolied (mahroogh) I don’t why were we so keen to drink it , afterwards she would start her round, giving each her or his tea as required (with sugar, without sugar, light tea, Verry drak tea, etc..) .. me and my colleague - friends would gather around one of the desks and exchange the latest gossip, the latest engagements heard of of any staff member (announced + not announced) , sipping Om Abbas's Chai along with the hot Sammoon we have snatched from her bag earlier.. it was my favorite hour of the day.. sometimes on of us would bring a treat, a home made cake, or a box of sweets, etc.. ev thing was joyful at the time..afterwards.. we would each start working on her tasks and so the working day begins..
When I think back , I feel maybe it was a hundred years away.. was I really there ? did all the memories that r still so live in my mind, did they really exist? I feel its hard to tell.. we had so much fun.. I used to love my job ..meeting all kinds of people..all sorts of personalities..i had great friends.. it was another life back then..
As the day goes by, we start to feel hungry , and so , a funny protest starts ev where, Om Abbas, how can u not go and buy me a Falafel Sandwitch? Om Abbas, cant u see im so hungry I will faint? Om Abbas? I had so many (Chayat) today I will pass out if I don’t eat something.. and so on.. and the poor Om Abbas would try hard to tell us that she will be missed and then reproached for going out without leave (she was to sit all day on a chair in the corridor, in case anyone calls her out or needs her to do something).. and we would use all our convincing methods to make her go buy us whatever we want.. poor good Om Abbas.. she was such a kind lady.. we treated her like one of us, we would go visit her if she got sick (yes we did!) and help her as much as we can.. she used to say to us (u r all Banatee..) ..and she took so much pride in that.. she used to share her problems with us , her fears, her worries.. and we would listen in compassion and try to help solving them..
Years after I left, I heard she almost lost her sight.. the news brought me such sadness.. I wished she would get well..she was another symbol of the time we left behind and still cherished so much.. the time that we can never have back, when we once had a life..
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Bachalorya..
When we did our exams, long ago, when we had a real Watan, the greatest tragedy was the (40 days) of Morajaa before Bachchalorya, how one feels prisoned in his own room , study and study and study (I, was locked up in Ghurfat el Khottar, the room being a bit isolated in our house) ..in order to get a high average and afterwards get to go to a decent college..
Students around the world, have only one fear on their minds, Failure. Iraqi students on the other hand, regard that as the least of their fears, for the endless possible dangers on the way to school are endless.
A relative of mine has a son doing his Bachchalorya exams this year.We speak on the phone, we exchange msgs, we speak of her concern regarding this subject, starting from Her own worry of him not doing so good ( which is the minor fear I could think of) , to her major concern as to how will he avoid sudden bombings, crazy extremists from whichever side (Sunni or Shia, you never know nowadays) who might shower the streets with their guns, the possibility of getting kidnapped, and the list goes on and on..
I keep thinking of him going to school, him and all the other Iraqi students, who still work hard for their exams, their worries: Will there b an exam tomorrow? Will there be a curfew instead? Will they make it to school? Or will a fanatic come out of the blue to color their innocent dreams with blood..
What a life.. what a sad sad life..
Our parents dreams were that we get (ninety and up) .. so we can make their dreams come true.. and in a few years graduate to be someone successful..
I could not help feeling deep sadness when receiving her text msg. telling me : No, the exam is postponed.. there will be a curfew..
Every time I call her I feel a cold fear that grabs my heart, I don’t really care to know if he did well , I just want to know that he made it home safe..
I keep asking myself how does she spend the time waiting for him? Does she really worry that the questions would be easy enough for him to solve? Or does she spend the time praying that he comes home on his feet..
The Baghdad I write about, does it really exist anymore? Or am I just re living an old dream? I really don’t know anymore..
While I admire so much how our people in Iraq continue to go on, I fail to understand .. I suppose no matter what, for iraqiyeen, life always must go on.. Dreams for a better future must exist, no matter what..
May Allah almighty preserve all our students, in every city of Iraq .. ameen..
Students around the world, have only one fear on their minds, Failure. Iraqi students on the other hand, regard that as the least of their fears, for the endless possible dangers on the way to school are endless.
A relative of mine has a son doing his Bachchalorya exams this year.We speak on the phone, we exchange msgs, we speak of her concern regarding this subject, starting from Her own worry of him not doing so good ( which is the minor fear I could think of) , to her major concern as to how will he avoid sudden bombings, crazy extremists from whichever side (Sunni or Shia, you never know nowadays) who might shower the streets with their guns, the possibility of getting kidnapped, and the list goes on and on..
I keep thinking of him going to school, him and all the other Iraqi students, who still work hard for their exams, their worries: Will there b an exam tomorrow? Will there be a curfew instead? Will they make it to school? Or will a fanatic come out of the blue to color their innocent dreams with blood..
What a life.. what a sad sad life..
Our parents dreams were that we get (ninety and up) .. so we can make their dreams come true.. and in a few years graduate to be someone successful..
I could not help feeling deep sadness when receiving her text msg. telling me : No, the exam is postponed.. there will be a curfew..
Every time I call her I feel a cold fear that grabs my heart, I don’t really care to know if he did well , I just want to know that he made it home safe..
I keep asking myself how does she spend the time waiting for him? Does she really worry that the questions would be easy enough for him to solve? Or does she spend the time praying that he comes home on his feet..
The Baghdad I write about, does it really exist anymore? Or am I just re living an old dream? I really don’t know anymore..
While I admire so much how our people in Iraq continue to go on, I fail to understand .. I suppose no matter what, for iraqiyeen, life always must go on.. Dreams for a better future must exist, no matter what..
May Allah almighty preserve all our students, in every city of Iraq .. ameen..
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Haleeeb Motaam..
A friend of mine has stomach Ulcer.. Doctor told her that milk is good for her, she is to drink as much milk as she can . In order to be able to consume the big quantity of milk required to heal her poor stomach (my friend is very Aqla and very much listens to what the doctor has to say ), in order to do that she was inventing new tastes of milk , she adds all sorts of fruit to it, orange, grape fruit, bananas, pineapple, etc..
Up till now, I can never drink flavored milk, ok maybe once or twice with strawberry flavor , but never with orange or banana flavor, etc.. never ever.. I hate even the color of the flavored milk.. let alone the fact that I hate milk as it is growing up forced to drink at least one glass of milk per day in order to stay in good health..
This brings back an old but vivid memory of my school days..My primary school which I gave a quick description of in one post..
At some time back in Iraq, healthy nutrition in schools came of big interest, I don’t quite recall why.. so they started to serve flavored milk to pupils .
Each one of us pupils was to have a Very large bottle of milk, it came in 2 flavors, banana and orange.. I remember Fawzeyya, the cleaning lady (el- Farrasha ) or the (Butterfly) as 3eeraqi Medic once humouredly called her, would sit cross legged in front of the big black boxes of the milk bottles (I still remember them), and starts opening the bottles one by one for us – pupils, as we come out of the classrooms to the school yard, running and shouting, (Forsa) time ..
I used to take one, force myself to take a few gulps of the colored milk (now when I think about it I don’t know why did I ever do that.. were we watched or what? Cant remember) and then walk slowly and cautiously towards one of the many Dinghas and leave the almost - full bottle behind it discreetly.. then come back walking so relieved .. pretending to have finished the whole bottle.. and my stomach felt sick ..
God, I hate even the memory of that milk ..
How strange that even such simple and perhaps insignificant incidents would still be so bright in our minds after all these years..i even remember the exact shade of orange milk , with its artificial orange smell..
The milk too took me back to my old school , I can clearly picture the yard, el –Saha and the pupils with their grey uniforms , the Dinghas and the pale grey walls (why were they painted grey anyway??) ..i remember the teachers (they were all women, no men) , set Amal, set Zeinab, set Nasima, set Mithal, set Moneeba, set Hanaa.. they all were such kind ladies..
We were so carefree, we had our problems of course (they seemed so big at the time no matter how silly they were),, but they were ordinary children problems, like any at our age..
I so much miss those days, maybe wish to go back in time and just be a tiny little girl in (el –Awwal – Baa), who has the big dilemma of having to drink her milk at school, but will never b able to drink colored milk, neither orange, nor yellow..
Up till now, I can never drink flavored milk, ok maybe once or twice with strawberry flavor , but never with orange or banana flavor, etc.. never ever.. I hate even the color of the flavored milk.. let alone the fact that I hate milk as it is growing up forced to drink at least one glass of milk per day in order to stay in good health..
This brings back an old but vivid memory of my school days..My primary school which I gave a quick description of in one post..
At some time back in Iraq, healthy nutrition in schools came of big interest, I don’t quite recall why.. so they started to serve flavored milk to pupils .
Each one of us pupils was to have a Very large bottle of milk, it came in 2 flavors, banana and orange.. I remember Fawzeyya, the cleaning lady (el- Farrasha ) or the (Butterfly) as 3eeraqi Medic once humouredly called her, would sit cross legged in front of the big black boxes of the milk bottles (I still remember them), and starts opening the bottles one by one for us – pupils, as we come out of the classrooms to the school yard, running and shouting, (Forsa) time ..
I used to take one, force myself to take a few gulps of the colored milk (now when I think about it I don’t know why did I ever do that.. were we watched or what? Cant remember) and then walk slowly and cautiously towards one of the many Dinghas and leave the almost - full bottle behind it discreetly.. then come back walking so relieved .. pretending to have finished the whole bottle.. and my stomach felt sick ..
God, I hate even the memory of that milk ..
How strange that even such simple and perhaps insignificant incidents would still be so bright in our minds after all these years..i even remember the exact shade of orange milk , with its artificial orange smell..
The milk too took me back to my old school , I can clearly picture the yard, el –Saha and the pupils with their grey uniforms , the Dinghas and the pale grey walls (why were they painted grey anyway??) ..i remember the teachers (they were all women, no men) , set Amal, set Zeinab, set Nasima, set Mithal, set Moneeba, set Hanaa.. they all were such kind ladies..
We were so carefree, we had our problems of course (they seemed so big at the time no matter how silly they were),, but they were ordinary children problems, like any at our age..
I so much miss those days, maybe wish to go back in time and just be a tiny little girl in (el –Awwal – Baa), who has the big dilemma of having to drink her milk at school, but will never b able to drink colored milk, neither orange, nor yellow..
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Mahar ..
An Iraqi friend of mine, has just Ghetaat Mahar, she lives in an Arabic country..she sent me the fotos to share her happiness.. as I was not able to be there in person..
The fotos were indeed So beautiful.. u can read the happiness all over the Bride's face.. el –Aroos..and the Arees was Iraqi too (Tabaan..) and their families and a short list of close friends whom I know most of them..
I opened the fotos one by one , i got them by email , the great invention to keep us "almost" close in our "scattered being" around the world.. I couldn’t wait for the download.. why was it so slow? (I thought to myself) ..i was so eager to see Iraqi faces glowing with happiness..
The nice thing, they tried to do everything as if they were in Baghdad or Iraq.
My friend sat wearing a white Ghallabeya, decorated with golden designs.. her hair half covered with a white veil , in front of her was a circular big silver Seeneyya - tray (how nice.. how did she get it.. I thought, it looked old like an antique) ..
The following items were upon it :
- Mraya Faddha , a silver mirror (so the Aroos looks at herself on this special day, I also think some say its for good luck) ..
- 7 Kasat (small bowls) with some white material in each, sugar, flour, rice, etc.. so all her coming days are white ..
- Kasa filled with chocolates (bowl) and another with toffees or something sweet ..and a 3rd one with Henna inside..
- White candles..with green leaves almost covering the silver tray ..(obviousely she could not find Yas, the scented green plant used on these occasions..
- The Holy Quran opened in her lap , as she tries to read some Ayat (I hear sourat el Fateh is to b read) .
- One of the fotos, 2 ladies held a white scarf or shawl over el -Aroos's head, a 3rd lady was scrubbing 2 pieces of (Qand) (the Sugar Cones.. wonder wher did she get that ??) and so sugar was raining over her .. so that all her coming days are showered with happiness..
My friend looked so beautiful .. I thought ev body looked beautiful in the fotos .. or is it that I miss looking at Happy Iraqi faces ?? don’t know.. I just wished I could ve been there to participate in such a lovely iraqi occasion..
There were fotos of dancing.. all Iraqi songs were played, she wrote to me..
There was once an old Iraqi song , quite sad in fact .. by Fadhil Awwad.. im sure u all know it.. La khabar.. la chiffiya la hamedh heloo la sharbat .. so old I know.. but I love it still.. I love the verses..
لا خبر لا جفية لا حامض حلو لا شربت
لا خبر.. كالو صوانيهم شموع انترست
والتمت الحلوات من كل بيت حلوة التمن
thats what i still memorize..
Well.. for a while I lived a beautiful Iraqi occasion..it was So touching I thought.. i feel so happy..
Yomel Elkom..
The fotos were indeed So beautiful.. u can read the happiness all over the Bride's face.. el –Aroos..and the Arees was Iraqi too (Tabaan..) and their families and a short list of close friends whom I know most of them..
I opened the fotos one by one , i got them by email , the great invention to keep us "almost" close in our "scattered being" around the world.. I couldn’t wait for the download.. why was it so slow? (I thought to myself) ..i was so eager to see Iraqi faces glowing with happiness..
The nice thing, they tried to do everything as if they were in Baghdad or Iraq.
My friend sat wearing a white Ghallabeya, decorated with golden designs.. her hair half covered with a white veil , in front of her was a circular big silver Seeneyya - tray (how nice.. how did she get it.. I thought, it looked old like an antique) ..
The following items were upon it :
- Mraya Faddha , a silver mirror (so the Aroos looks at herself on this special day, I also think some say its for good luck) ..
- 7 Kasat (small bowls) with some white material in each, sugar, flour, rice, etc.. so all her coming days are white ..
- Kasa filled with chocolates (bowl) and another with toffees or something sweet ..and a 3rd one with Henna inside..
- White candles..with green leaves almost covering the silver tray ..(obviousely she could not find Yas, the scented green plant used on these occasions..
- The Holy Quran opened in her lap , as she tries to read some Ayat (I hear sourat el Fateh is to b read) .
- One of the fotos, 2 ladies held a white scarf or shawl over el -Aroos's head, a 3rd lady was scrubbing 2 pieces of (Qand) (the Sugar Cones.. wonder wher did she get that ??) and so sugar was raining over her .. so that all her coming days are showered with happiness..
My friend looked so beautiful .. I thought ev body looked beautiful in the fotos .. or is it that I miss looking at Happy Iraqi faces ?? don’t know.. I just wished I could ve been there to participate in such a lovely iraqi occasion..
There were fotos of dancing.. all Iraqi songs were played, she wrote to me..
There was once an old Iraqi song , quite sad in fact .. by Fadhil Awwad.. im sure u all know it.. La khabar.. la chiffiya la hamedh heloo la sharbat .. so old I know.. but I love it still.. I love the verses..
لا خبر لا جفية لا حامض حلو لا شربت
لا خبر.. كالو صوانيهم شموع انترست
والتمت الحلوات من كل بيت حلوة التمن
thats what i still memorize..
Well.. for a while I lived a beautiful Iraqi occasion..it was So touching I thought.. i feel so happy..
Yomel Elkom..
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Madinat el Alaab..
The trip to Madeenat el Alaab was always something else.. something special..
We would plan going there for days, once parents announce that they r taking us as we have been v good and (Eqqal) lately, or as a reward for high marks , or just for fun..
I still remember the entrance with its 3 Tall Green (Baqlawa shaped) columns, welcoming us to the land of dreams..
Once we arrive, we run (we navere walked at the time I believe) towards the balloon man , my sister and I, each would choose her favorite color of Noffakha , and we so start our joyful journey with raised heads looking up at our colored Noffakhat with its long thread tied around our little wrists..
First stop would b definitely (Doodat el Qazz), I think that’s what it was called or was it some other kind of worm ?! (a long chain of small seats ,we would sit each two in a seat, with laughing faces of (doodat el qazz) in front of us, we press the face with our small hands and it would Beep or do some funny sound, I don’t know why it was so much fun.. the chain of seats would just go round and round in a small circle, and that's it.. but it was great fun.. we never stopped laughing ..happy innocent laughs.. we were carefree..
My next favorite was the Arabayen pulled with colored horses, that one I loved so much, I would feel like Im riding in a real carriage, they would be run over a certain track round and round and we would get off finally feeling happy and full of independence as we were leading the horses ourselves..
Next there would b my sister's favorite, that’s the Flying Helicopters (al Taerat el Moqatelat), full of colors, and again in front of us there would be a handle or something like a steel arm, u push it to rise, and pull it back to land.. (driving a helicopter was so easy, I thought at the time.. )..
My parents would always be waiting for us patiently, holding our Noffakhat for us, feeling happy just to watch us as we had a good time..
These r the 3 ones I most remember clearly about Madinat el Alaab.. when I look back now, I can see how modern and up to date it was at that time, with its various entertainments.. we were lucky to have it at the time.. it held so many memories of our childhood..
The fine stop would be at the funny mirrors.. where u look at yr image deformed.. we would stand in front of it and move left and right , jump up and down, to become v fat, or v thin, or with a big head and small body, etc.. and we would laugh and laugh till parents tell us, its time to leave.. we never wanted to leave..
They added a few new things in the later years but I never found them any fun.. or maybe we simply grew older and the spell was broken..
I wonder what have become of it now.. I wonder if the Green Tall Columns do still exist.. It was a magic place for us, a fairy land..where happiness was so easy to capture.. and joy was always a short step away..
We would plan going there for days, once parents announce that they r taking us as we have been v good and (Eqqal) lately, or as a reward for high marks , or just for fun..
I still remember the entrance with its 3 Tall Green (Baqlawa shaped) columns, welcoming us to the land of dreams..
Once we arrive, we run (we navere walked at the time I believe) towards the balloon man , my sister and I, each would choose her favorite color of Noffakha , and we so start our joyful journey with raised heads looking up at our colored Noffakhat with its long thread tied around our little wrists..
First stop would b definitely (Doodat el Qazz), I think that’s what it was called or was it some other kind of worm ?! (a long chain of small seats ,we would sit each two in a seat, with laughing faces of (doodat el qazz) in front of us, we press the face with our small hands and it would Beep or do some funny sound, I don’t know why it was so much fun.. the chain of seats would just go round and round in a small circle, and that's it.. but it was great fun.. we never stopped laughing ..happy innocent laughs.. we were carefree..
My next favorite was the Arabayen pulled with colored horses, that one I loved so much, I would feel like Im riding in a real carriage, they would be run over a certain track round and round and we would get off finally feeling happy and full of independence as we were leading the horses ourselves..
Next there would b my sister's favorite, that’s the Flying Helicopters (al Taerat el Moqatelat), full of colors, and again in front of us there would be a handle or something like a steel arm, u push it to rise, and pull it back to land.. (driving a helicopter was so easy, I thought at the time.. )..
My parents would always be waiting for us patiently, holding our Noffakhat for us, feeling happy just to watch us as we had a good time..
These r the 3 ones I most remember clearly about Madinat el Alaab.. when I look back now, I can see how modern and up to date it was at that time, with its various entertainments.. we were lucky to have it at the time.. it held so many memories of our childhood..
The fine stop would be at the funny mirrors.. where u look at yr image deformed.. we would stand in front of it and move left and right , jump up and down, to become v fat, or v thin, or with a big head and small body, etc.. and we would laugh and laugh till parents tell us, its time to leave.. we never wanted to leave..
They added a few new things in the later years but I never found them any fun.. or maybe we simply grew older and the spell was broken..
I wonder what have become of it now.. I wonder if the Green Tall Columns do still exist.. It was a magic place for us, a fairy land..where happiness was so easy to capture.. and joy was always a short step away..
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Nakhla Irakiyya..
I was in French class the other day, it is in fact an Atelier , it is supposed to make us practice our language and become more fluent, (which I fail to be)..
The subject for discussion for that day was : What if Dreams can come True..?
So here goes :
What if u can make Only One wish come true? (Have back my Watan - Iraq ..).
What if u were to solve One problem in this world ? (War, Occupation, and Ghurba) .. (they sound all just One to me) .
If I were to be a plant, What Plant would I choose to be ? ( Nakhla Iraqiya – an Iraqi Palm Tree).. (I always feel our Nakhal is different, it really is).. for me it resembles Perfection in every way .. subhan Allah ..
I then noticed that it was only me who always gave replies to do with War, Watan, Iraq, etc..
My colleagues gave all kinds of answers :
Voyager around the world , buy a Porsche , buy a Fancy villa , solve the Famine in Africa, solve the Water problem, marry a Millionaire, be very Rich, buy a Yacht, cure Cancer, Cure Aids, solve the Pollution problem, solve Child Abuse problems, etc..
I thought to myself is it only me or is it all of us Iraqis who cant take Iraq out of our minds for one minute? Cant stop connecting everything to Iraq?
When I heard their replies I felt so isolated, here r people who haven’t been through wars, who haven’t suffered from loss of a dear one, who haven’t lost their precious memories, the memories that in fact construct a whole life, a Real life.. life is not to work, eat and go to sleep, life is to have a Real home, to have a Watan..
So, to buy a Porsche would b their utmost wish, or to own a villa ..etc.. (well at least some of them did think of solving real problems), but I still felt different , like coming from a different world, or another planet maybe.. (indeed, a planet called Iraq)..
Iraq is like one big, colored, cocoon that surrounds me w its kind arms, like a mother's .. I Cant get out of it, I Don’t want to get out of it.. I love the feelings it showers me with, the sense of security I can find no where else..
I see the whole world, (my whole world that is) through Iraq.. my Iraq..Iraqna, our real joy and glory, our deepest wound..
The Atelier ended .. we went home..
If only Dreams can come true..
The subject for discussion for that day was : What if Dreams can come True..?
So here goes :
What if u can make Only One wish come true? (Have back my Watan - Iraq ..).
What if u were to solve One problem in this world ? (War, Occupation, and Ghurba) .. (they sound all just One to me) .
If I were to be a plant, What Plant would I choose to be ? ( Nakhla Iraqiya – an Iraqi Palm Tree).. (I always feel our Nakhal is different, it really is).. for me it resembles Perfection in every way .. subhan Allah ..
I then noticed that it was only me who always gave replies to do with War, Watan, Iraq, etc..
My colleagues gave all kinds of answers :
Voyager around the world , buy a Porsche , buy a Fancy villa , solve the Famine in Africa, solve the Water problem, marry a Millionaire, be very Rich, buy a Yacht, cure Cancer, Cure Aids, solve the Pollution problem, solve Child Abuse problems, etc..
I thought to myself is it only me or is it all of us Iraqis who cant take Iraq out of our minds for one minute? Cant stop connecting everything to Iraq?
When I heard their replies I felt so isolated, here r people who haven’t been through wars, who haven’t suffered from loss of a dear one, who haven’t lost their precious memories, the memories that in fact construct a whole life, a Real life.. life is not to work, eat and go to sleep, life is to have a Real home, to have a Watan..
So, to buy a Porsche would b their utmost wish, or to own a villa ..etc.. (well at least some of them did think of solving real problems), but I still felt different , like coming from a different world, or another planet maybe.. (indeed, a planet called Iraq)..
Iraq is like one big, colored, cocoon that surrounds me w its kind arms, like a mother's .. I Cant get out of it, I Don’t want to get out of it.. I love the feelings it showers me with, the sense of security I can find no where else..
I see the whole world, (my whole world that is) through Iraq.. my Iraq..Iraqna, our real joy and glory, our deepest wound..
The Atelier ended .. we went home..
If only Dreams can come true..
Monday, May 14, 2007
Kollesh Moathther..
This is not really a post..
I ve been feeling so down lately, i wanted to write something away from gloominess, as i dont want to hang around there for long..
Its something i recieved by email, i found it So touching that i wanted to share it with all..
It will definately make a difference for u as it indeed made a difference with me ..
Please visit :
http://www.makeadifferencemovie.com/
Im sure it will touch your hearts as deeply as it did mine..
I ve been feeling so down lately, i wanted to write something away from gloominess, as i dont want to hang around there for long..
Its something i recieved by email, i found it So touching that i wanted to share it with all..
It will definately make a difference for u as it indeed made a difference with me ..
Please visit :
http://www.makeadifferencemovie.com/
Im sure it will touch your hearts as deeply as it did mine..
Sunday, May 13, 2007
a Colorful Watan..
Feeling v down, V sad .. and V gloomy..
I decided to write down , the definition of the word : Watanless..
To feel that u r an outsider, (always)..
To feel that u don’t belong.. (never will)..
To feel u r helpless, hopeless, and deeply wounded..
To feel lonely , almost 24 hours of the day..
To feel insecure (always) and depressed (most of the days) ..
How many other meanings can we add ??.. Countless I suppose..
Again the definition may differ from one person to the other..
It is not about having a roof over yr head.. it is not about having family members around u, for sometimes it happens that yr family is dependant in its affairs upon u.. it is not about having a job, cause this may be one of yr worst agonies.. a constant reminder that You Are Not from Here..
What is it they have against Iraqiyeen?? Stories of them being badly treated, humiliated, etc.. etc.. you hear stories that make yr heart wrench ..
I decided to go to the mosque in the city I live in.. Balki, I said to myself I find some relief.. I sat reading the Quran, trying to remember all the relatives, friends, who keep asking (me – us), to keep praying for Iraq, and for them as they live there inside.. trying hard not to forget any of them ..
I heard a lady talking.. she was Iraqi.. talking to another about Iraqiyeen and their suffering..(Flan who couldnt get a Visa, Flan who was deported , the other who was not allowed inside, another who was kept waiting for hours on the border then was forced to return, etc.. (of course this was accompanied by country names from all over the world, Arabic and European).. what a coincidence.. I thought to myself.. I took a look at where she was sitting, nothing special about her, the familiar Iraqi features , but what really captured my attention was her last words before turning to pray.. she said : El Denya Dawaer.. wel Dawaer tdooor..
Oh how I silently said (ameen ameen, a thousand ameen) ..
Will we witness the day ? when the Dawaer really Tdooor..? Will we witness the day, when Iraqna yerjaa?? Will we witness the day when the word Iraqi would open the doors not close them shut (with a bang) ?..
I know as we all know that nothing lasts forever.. and after the (Downs) there has to be (Ups) .. but will We be there when this happens??
Nobody seems to be optimistic once the name Iraq is mentioned.. nobody seems to encourage waiting for any glimpse of light.. but if so, how r we to go on?? What is there to live for , if living is in fact about all the above mentioned feelings that one goes through over and over every day??
The question that always haunts me, is that forever and ever Iraq had been hospitable to ev body.. everone was welcome.. it’s the nature of the iraqi people .. how come when We needed help, everybody just turned us down ?? we have become Unwanted.. Unwelcome..!!
I suppose : "C'est la Vie".. Black and White , like we have come to learn the hard way..
Colors exist only in our childhood.. when we once had a Watan..
I decided to write down , the definition of the word : Watanless..
To feel that u r an outsider, (always)..
To feel that u don’t belong.. (never will)..
To feel u r helpless, hopeless, and deeply wounded..
To feel lonely , almost 24 hours of the day..
To feel insecure (always) and depressed (most of the days) ..
How many other meanings can we add ??.. Countless I suppose..
Again the definition may differ from one person to the other..
It is not about having a roof over yr head.. it is not about having family members around u, for sometimes it happens that yr family is dependant in its affairs upon u.. it is not about having a job, cause this may be one of yr worst agonies.. a constant reminder that You Are Not from Here..
What is it they have against Iraqiyeen?? Stories of them being badly treated, humiliated, etc.. etc.. you hear stories that make yr heart wrench ..
I decided to go to the mosque in the city I live in.. Balki, I said to myself I find some relief.. I sat reading the Quran, trying to remember all the relatives, friends, who keep asking (me – us), to keep praying for Iraq, and for them as they live there inside.. trying hard not to forget any of them ..
I heard a lady talking.. she was Iraqi.. talking to another about Iraqiyeen and their suffering..(Flan who couldnt get a Visa, Flan who was deported , the other who was not allowed inside, another who was kept waiting for hours on the border then was forced to return, etc.. (of course this was accompanied by country names from all over the world, Arabic and European).. what a coincidence.. I thought to myself.. I took a look at where she was sitting, nothing special about her, the familiar Iraqi features , but what really captured my attention was her last words before turning to pray.. she said : El Denya Dawaer.. wel Dawaer tdooor..
Oh how I silently said (ameen ameen, a thousand ameen) ..
Will we witness the day ? when the Dawaer really Tdooor..? Will we witness the day, when Iraqna yerjaa?? Will we witness the day when the word Iraqi would open the doors not close them shut (with a bang) ?..
I know as we all know that nothing lasts forever.. and after the (Downs) there has to be (Ups) .. but will We be there when this happens??
Nobody seems to be optimistic once the name Iraq is mentioned.. nobody seems to encourage waiting for any glimpse of light.. but if so, how r we to go on?? What is there to live for , if living is in fact about all the above mentioned feelings that one goes through over and over every day??
The question that always haunts me, is that forever and ever Iraq had been hospitable to ev body.. everone was welcome.. it’s the nature of the iraqi people .. how come when We needed help, everybody just turned us down ?? we have become Unwanted.. Unwelcome..!!
I suppose : "C'est la Vie".. Black and White , like we have come to learn the hard way..
Colors exist only in our childhood.. when we once had a Watan..
Saturday, May 5, 2007
No Mirrors in Hell..
There is a story i once read, its French, I read it translated into English, its by Jean-Paul Sarter, the well known author. The title in English is ( No mirrors in Hell, or , Hell has no mirrors). The idea in short is , Hell is actually not about the place, its about the ppl whom we r forced to live with forever, they r forced on us probably by sheer chance, or for circomestances, the point is they become part of our life, and there is no escape from their hateful company, we don’t want them there, we don’t want to be with them, but they are there, just to give us a hard time, they never go away.
I, after so many years in this Ghurba, now think that this could b very true .. the country u r living in, could be very beautiful, but, as i said before its not about a nice place..
outside yr country u r a different person, u lose many things, u lose real friends, u lose your family, and by family I mean relatives and all family members, who would run to help u out in time of need, who represent (Ezwa) , if u know the word,, u lose very essential things, that u can never gain back as long as u r out, u become isolated, a prisoner of a better time u once lived inside yr country, and now u have lost for good..
no matter how many friends u make , the Ghurba is within u..it lives in u, yr mood differs, yr personality differs, yr capability to endure differs, u r not the same person u once were, u will never be that person again..
So, in Hell – Ghurba, u r to live with ppl u don’t want to be with in the first place, let alone having to deal with them every single day, take on their nasty attitude with u, they all know its Their country, not yours, they all know u r weak, cause without your country, u R indeed weak.. For how much longer do we have to suffer our tragic loss? For how much longer, we r to live without WATAN ? shall we ever get it back ? or have we lost it for good?? For how much longer r we to deal with ppl we both know they r much beneath us, but, because its their country, not ours, we have to take on their painful behavior, to remind us day and night that we actually do Not belong here.. to have to experience human feelings we never thought we would have to face, feelings we read about only in books, like grudge, hatred, superior behavior (though both sides know quite well it’s the other way round) ..
For how much longer will we b without WATAN? Without Iraqna? And for how much longer will we b able to go on ?? ..
I absolutely have no idea…
I know it’s a very melancholy post, and maybe it needs rephrasing, i know, but I needed to write down these lines as I feel im about to cry.. helpless and hopeless.. im not sure anymore if I can go on..
P.S. : all our suffering in Ghurba, does not count, not for one second, to what our ppl r suffering there, inside iraq.. Iraqna, our pride and glory.. Our deepest greif..
I, after so many years in this Ghurba, now think that this could b very true .. the country u r living in, could be very beautiful, but, as i said before its not about a nice place..
outside yr country u r a different person, u lose many things, u lose real friends, u lose your family, and by family I mean relatives and all family members, who would run to help u out in time of need, who represent (Ezwa) , if u know the word,, u lose very essential things, that u can never gain back as long as u r out, u become isolated, a prisoner of a better time u once lived inside yr country, and now u have lost for good..
no matter how many friends u make , the Ghurba is within u..it lives in u, yr mood differs, yr personality differs, yr capability to endure differs, u r not the same person u once were, u will never be that person again..
So, in Hell – Ghurba, u r to live with ppl u don’t want to be with in the first place, let alone having to deal with them every single day, take on their nasty attitude with u, they all know its Their country, not yours, they all know u r weak, cause without your country, u R indeed weak.. For how much longer do we have to suffer our tragic loss? For how much longer, we r to live without WATAN ? shall we ever get it back ? or have we lost it for good?? For how much longer r we to deal with ppl we both know they r much beneath us, but, because its their country, not ours, we have to take on their painful behavior, to remind us day and night that we actually do Not belong here.. to have to experience human feelings we never thought we would have to face, feelings we read about only in books, like grudge, hatred, superior behavior (though both sides know quite well it’s the other way round) ..
For how much longer will we b without WATAN? Without Iraqna? And for how much longer will we b able to go on ?? ..
I absolutely have no idea…
I know it’s a very melancholy post, and maybe it needs rephrasing, i know, but I needed to write down these lines as I feel im about to cry.. helpless and hopeless.. im not sure anymore if I can go on..
P.S. : all our suffering in Ghurba, does not count, not for one second, to what our ppl r suffering there, inside iraq.. Iraqna, our pride and glory.. Our deepest greif..
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
No Comment ..
Sometimes, a photo can tell a whole story.
I would have just added (No Comment) and posted this, but couldn’t help but take in all the details.. and write a few lines..
The traditional tiles (Cashi) of the kitchen floor, the old, multi colored drawers and cupboards, the traditional plastic Dolka, the traditional Jidir..slightly burnt.. a whole world of daily innocent life..
Then the 3 women, the way their heads bent in fear, taking refuge in the innocence of their babies.. fear that is just beyond description, fear they have never experienced before.... where else to go? This soldier has violated even the simple safety of their own small home, of their own small kitchen.. with his ugly military boots .. he didn’t spare them even that.. searching inside the drawer for what?? Hidden rifles?? Or maybe for Weapons of Mass Destruction!?..
I would have just added (No Comment) and posted this, but couldn’t help but take in all the details.. and write a few lines..
The traditional tiles (Cashi) of the kitchen floor, the old, multi colored drawers and cupboards, the traditional plastic Dolka, the traditional Jidir..slightly burnt.. a whole world of daily innocent life..
Then the 3 women, the way their heads bent in fear, taking refuge in the innocence of their babies.. fear that is just beyond description, fear they have never experienced before.... where else to go? This soldier has violated even the simple safety of their own small home, of their own small kitchen.. with his ugly military boots .. he didn’t spare them even that.. searching inside the drawer for what?? Hidden rifles?? Or maybe for Weapons of Mass Destruction!?..
What to call this photo?? Fear? Beastly war?? Occupation?? Iraq today??
Not a thousand word article would be able to describe this photo..
Make sure to take in all the details .. (try to magnify each part of the photo, I did) ..
For no reason but being ordinary Iraqi people, living in Iraq.. right now.. this poor family had to go and have to go through this, and maybe much more worse, every day, at any time .. day or night..
It’s a photo from Iraq, Iraqna.. Yes, the same one we once lived in ..
Sadness is just too short a word.. Pain is beyond belief..
Not a thousand word article would be able to describe this photo..
Make sure to take in all the details .. (try to magnify each part of the photo, I did) ..
For no reason but being ordinary Iraqi people, living in Iraq.. right now.. this poor family had to go and have to go through this, and maybe much more worse, every day, at any time .. day or night..
It’s a photo from Iraq, Iraqna.. Yes, the same one we once lived in ..
Sadness is just too short a word.. Pain is beyond belief..
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
My Bebee (El - Hijjiyya)..
This is in memory of my Bebee, who in my opinion was a Very special lady.
She was widowed very young and raised her 5 children all by herself, she worked in making clothes so as to afford that they finish their studies in university..
I had a special relation with my Bebee,I was the only one among my sisters who would go to spend many days (Abat) b bet bebetee.. i loved going there, to Abat.. I m privileged to do whatever pleases me when im at bebee's..
Bet el Hijjiyya was an old house..with a big garden in front , green Thayyal I remember , high old trees. In summer Karasee el Nylon would b set in a circle, as we and my aunts and cousins would all gather at night to visit Bebee, especially on Thursdays.. there was a small garden in the back too, with a Very big shajarat Nabogh, we used to gather the delicious fallen fruit, as it was too high to reach, and sit eating it in front of the old black and white TV.
Her bedroom was another world, I can now see it with all the details, her bed to the left, the window to the right overseeing the garden, a collection of her many trips to Mekka decorated one of the walls, the window had a very wide Dachcha , I used to hide there behind the curtains playing all kinds of games, princess stuff and all.. i would sit there for hours, not wishing to come out..
I was also allowed to open her closet, and take out her personal things, which were very few in fact ..i especially liked an old bright green handbag which she must' ve bought tens of years ago, I loved hanging it in my arm pretending to b a grown up..
She was very religious, I was told that she used to do (Azama) and (Ruqia) in her young days ..she spent her time in reading Quran, with a beautiful colorful peacock feather for a bookmark inside, that's how I remember her (Allah yerhamha) in her last years..very thin and petite , her grey hair parted in the middle with 2 thin Thofayer ..
She had my oldest aunt living with her on the first floor, my youngest aunt and her husband on the 2nd..(but we always called it Bet el Hijjiyya) ..
Ghurfat el Akel was Vey large, rarely used, with a Big table , and Huge chairs..i especially loved breakfast, when my aunt and her husband would come down, the room would fill with Swalef, laughter and morning chat, my older aunt used to make me a sandwich with butter and sugar in it (beleive it or not , and I used to love it !!) ..a triangular sandwich , half a Sammoona.. it was always a joyful time.. up till this day I love the Reyoogh meal the most, maybe because I have happy memories of it..It was a house full of love and warmth..
In her last years she got very ill and couldn’t leave her bed, I remember how we used to all go visit her and gather around in her bedroom, I have photos of her, attending our birthdays, accompanying us in our travels.. we all loved her so much, Allah yerhamha..
When she passed away, the house was sold, and my aunts moved to a smaller and more modern one ..I once went to visit the place, driving through the old street, tabaan Bet Bebee existed no more, a trading company or something was built in its place, the whole street was different ..my eyes kept searching for the old Hadiqa , the short stairs and the wooden inner gate.. and the memories of my early childhood with Bebee..
May her soul rest in peace.. Ameen..
She was widowed very young and raised her 5 children all by herself, she worked in making clothes so as to afford that they finish their studies in university..
I had a special relation with my Bebee,I was the only one among my sisters who would go to spend many days (Abat) b bet bebetee.. i loved going there, to Abat.. I m privileged to do whatever pleases me when im at bebee's..
Bet el Hijjiyya was an old house..with a big garden in front , green Thayyal I remember , high old trees. In summer Karasee el Nylon would b set in a circle, as we and my aunts and cousins would all gather at night to visit Bebee, especially on Thursdays.. there was a small garden in the back too, with a Very big shajarat Nabogh, we used to gather the delicious fallen fruit, as it was too high to reach, and sit eating it in front of the old black and white TV.
Her bedroom was another world, I can now see it with all the details, her bed to the left, the window to the right overseeing the garden, a collection of her many trips to Mekka decorated one of the walls, the window had a very wide Dachcha , I used to hide there behind the curtains playing all kinds of games, princess stuff and all.. i would sit there for hours, not wishing to come out..
I was also allowed to open her closet, and take out her personal things, which were very few in fact ..i especially liked an old bright green handbag which she must' ve bought tens of years ago, I loved hanging it in my arm pretending to b a grown up..
She was very religious, I was told that she used to do (Azama) and (Ruqia) in her young days ..she spent her time in reading Quran, with a beautiful colorful peacock feather for a bookmark inside, that's how I remember her (Allah yerhamha) in her last years..very thin and petite , her grey hair parted in the middle with 2 thin Thofayer ..
She had my oldest aunt living with her on the first floor, my youngest aunt and her husband on the 2nd..(but we always called it Bet el Hijjiyya) ..
Ghurfat el Akel was Vey large, rarely used, with a Big table , and Huge chairs..i especially loved breakfast, when my aunt and her husband would come down, the room would fill with Swalef, laughter and morning chat, my older aunt used to make me a sandwich with butter and sugar in it (beleive it or not , and I used to love it !!) ..a triangular sandwich , half a Sammoona.. it was always a joyful time.. up till this day I love the Reyoogh meal the most, maybe because I have happy memories of it..It was a house full of love and warmth..
In her last years she got very ill and couldn’t leave her bed, I remember how we used to all go visit her and gather around in her bedroom, I have photos of her, attending our birthdays, accompanying us in our travels.. we all loved her so much, Allah yerhamha..
When she passed away, the house was sold, and my aunts moved to a smaller and more modern one ..I once went to visit the place, driving through the old street, tabaan Bet Bebee existed no more, a trading company or something was built in its place, the whole street was different ..my eyes kept searching for the old Hadiqa , the short stairs and the wooden inner gate.. and the memories of my early childhood with Bebee..
May her soul rest in peace.. Ameen..
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