Cleanliness

I sat down to write this evening. Not because I wanted to, but because I wanted to prove something to myself. And in the face of such obvious foolishness, my words laughed at me.

Very little on this earth operates on 'our terms' and words are no exception to that. They cannot be coaxed; the simplest attempt at doing so is deemed an insult. Yet in order to acquire the validation my brain is so desperately seeking, I must confront them.

I realise that I do a significant amount of confronting. In my painfully unappealing desire to maintain honesty, I refuse to be broken by confrontation. And yet I find myself wondering what all this confrontation has done for me. No otherworldly truth has been revealed to me; honesty has become a distant, unattainable phenomenon that appears to have never existed on this earth and my perception of this world has tilted, ever so slightly, towards the unrelatable.

I clean and clean and yet never quite understand what I am trying so desperately to shine. Is it me? The age-long metaphor suggests so, I guess. And yet after so much scrubbing, I don't feel 'clean' and neither do I feel tainted. So, we return. What am I trying so hard to clean? Perhaps I'm not trying to clean at all. Maybe I'm trying to 'maintain', instead. Hanging onto all that's familiar because change is so disastrously difficult to manage. And yet so much has changed over the past year. Life has been tugged at and moulded into all kinds of shapes to fit all the different dimensions that are necessary now. The question remains, however - if something is full, does it mean it fits? How can one ever really know what 'fits' and what doesn't? Surely we don't have the stamina or the time for trial and error in that department. Or perhaps some of us do. And the ones that don't, well, they settle.

Life Lessons

I had just sat down to have dinner this evening when there was a knock at our window. My sister answered the door to find our cleaning lady who had just left minutes before. “There’s a man on the pavement opposite, he’s bleeding really heavily. What shall we do?”

Concerned it was an elderly man [who may potentially be my 84 year old grandfather who likes to leave his house without notifying anyone to go on midnight strolls], I quickly slipped my boots on and ran onto the road.

There, slumped over a small brick wall, was a woman covered in blood. Drenched in the rain, on her knees, with one shoe a couple of feet away and appearing as though she were hiding from thugs [which was my first assumption], she blinked away the blood from one eye to look up at me as I approached. One side of her face was covered with blood; so much, in fact, that I could hardly work out where exactly she had been hurt.

“Are you okay?” I asked
She mumbled a “yes”, but appeared obviously disheveled. It was only until I peered through the darkness that I realised she had slipped in the rain and smashed her head against a plant pot, the shattered pieces of which were scattered over my neighbour’s driveway.

As I dialed for an ambulance, more people started to gather around the woman. I explained the situation to the emergency helpline guy and listened to his instructions of keeping her awake and trying not to move her.

By this point, she had started to tremble vigorously (either from the cold or the shock or both). As I lent in to reassure her that she would be okay, I managed to recognize the side of her face that wasn’t covered in thick blood.

“Mrs. Hooper?”

Mrs. Hooper was my primary school receptionist. I remember her, as being a mean, strict and difficult woman who didn’t like children and most certainly didn’t like me. In fact, she used to look at me with great disdain. I never understood why but it affected me then. Why did this woman not like me?

More than 10 years later, the same woman was lying helpless on my doorstep. And then I realised that for these past 10 years, I had seen Mrs. Hooper on many occasions. She walked down the same road, with her black shopping trolley [which had now been completely soaked in the rain and lay upside down on the pavement] looking as mean and unfriendly as ever. I had always seen her alone.
In the darkness of a freezing February evening, here she was again, completely vulnerable and alone.

“Mrs. Hooper?”
Trying hard to recognize me, she peered into my face.
“You probably don’t remember. My name is Ayman, I used to go to Christchurch?”
She mumbled something and began to slump over the brick wall.
“No, no. You must try and stay awake for me. Are you feeling dizzy at all?”
“I want to talk to you. Alone. Can we go inside? I need to talk to you,” she slurred.

“I’m afraid I can’t move you. You’ve had a fall. But it’s going to be okay, I’ve called an ambulance. You’re going to be fine.”
“No. No. No ambulance. I just want to speak to you.”
“I’m right here. What is it that you want to say?”
“No. You’re not here,” she answered clenching her teeth.

Thirty minutes later, no sign of a paramedic or the ambulance. After countless phone calls to find out why an ambulance hadn’t been dispatched, I was told that there ‘weren’t enough cars’. I yelled down the phone at the man, “since when is this a third world country?! What kind of excuse is ‘there are no cars’? What am I supposed to do if she falls unconsciousness or worse?!”
“Please don’t shout. I’m having difficulty understanding you, ma’am.”

By this time, a neighbour trained in first-aid came out to see what all the commotion was about. After doing a quick analysis, she informed me that Mrs. Hooper appeared to be heavily drunk – the stench of alcohol on her breath giving it away, I guess.

“I want to talk to you,” mumbled Mrs. Hooper.

"I’m right here,” I reassured her.

Now shaking uncontrollably, she tried to hold her head up. “Hold my hand.”

Having covered her in numerous blankets and coats, I noticed that she had lost a sufficient amount of blood. It was all over her face, her clothes, the driveway and my hands. At this point, the first aider made the decision to put her into the recovery position as the ambulance was still no where to be seen.
I paced up and down the road, my heart pounding relentlessly. Why was I so concerned? Yes, it was a horrific sight – I had never seen so much blood in my life. I could see now that she had split her forehead open just above the eyebrow. The blood was now clotting more than seeping and I didn’t know what to do. But there was a first aider and plenty of neighbours, why was I freezing in the cold for this woman who meant very little to me and at one point in my life, made sure to make me feel small?

When the ambulance finally arrived and got her strapped into a stretcher, the paramedic asked me to collect her belongings. I picked up the black trolley; her bag and blood soaked glasses and loaded them onto the ambulance. Mrs. Hooper caught my eye and slurred something. She hadn’t recognized me at all, I was sure of that. She was so intoxicated, she had trouble remembering where she lived and what she was doing out. But at that point, I couldn’t help but wonder the mystery of God’s lesson.

Was it for me or for her or maybe us both? This was the first time I was seeing a woman I disliked and who I believed to be cruel, completely vulnerable and weak. But was it the first time? Maybe it was just the first time that I recognized it because I have learnt now what this world is capable of; what people are capable of. I won’t make excuses for her but perhaps she had been vulnerable all her life.

And what did she learn? I’m certainly not falling for that ‘Good Samaritan’ spiel. There were plenty of people on the road ‘till the moment the ambulance came. But perhaps she wasn’t supposed to learn something about me, like I did about her. Instead, maybe she was supposed to learn something about herself.
I’ll never know what, but I’ll wonder.

I’ve come to realise now that in life, we are made examples of. We learn from each other; from each other’s misfortunes, sorrows and joys, trials and tribulations. What better example is there? Nothing can communicate pain like witnessing it in another being. Compassion is innate, we just choose whether to let it play or sit on the bench. Association is also innate. We are naturally inclined to put ourselves in other people’s shoes – to experience what they’re going through, to understand. But again, we have a choice. Which do you let play and which do you bench?

Signs

There are very few glaring stop signs in life – you know, the kind that make you stop dead in your tracks, force you to stand still and observe. Observe who you are, the people around you and the way in which you choose to live your life.

It is often said that the one reality that we can be absolutely certain of is death. But the more I encounter death; the death of those I love, the death of relationships, the death of habits – an ending of any sort – I am reminded that there are so many more realities in life than just death. It is true that ultimately, we will all die. But it is also true, that we will all be blessed with the opportunity to love; that we will at least once in our lifetimes laugh so hard that our stomachs will hurt and we’ll gasp desperately for air; that our hearts will melt with compassion at a soppy scene from the ultimate movie and tears will fall as if the pain is being inflicted on our own being; that somebody, somewhere will do or say something that to them is miniscule but will plaster an unmoving smile on your face for an entire day. All of these instances have already happened in my life and so has death – many a time, in fact. And I guess the saddest thing; what makes us weep for those we have lost is that they’ll never again get a chance to experience these wonderful opportunities that life gives us.

I choose to weep today for those I have lost. But tomorrow, I will stop dead in my tracks and be forced to stand still and observe. Observe the person I am proud to be, observe the wonderful people I am lucky to have around me and observe the honest life I have chosen to live. And maybe, just maybe – wherever those I have lost are, they’ll see that I am and will forever remain grateful for the opportunity to have known them, loved them and have them ingrained in my being.

Justice

It's a funny thing considering we make up all the rules. It is us, human beings, who decide what is just and unjust in the first place; what is right and what is wrong, what is ethical and what is unethical etc. What is considered humane and inhumane is perceived by us and us alone. Higher judgment, or God, will reveal all in a different life. But who decides whether or not we should stand trial now, in this lifetime?

I watched a fantastic film once called 'God on trial'. It was about the concentration camp prisoners putting God on trial to decide whether or not He was responsible for abandoning them in their time of desperate need. It was touching and poetic, sad and pathetic, helpless and hopeful. But most of all, it was distressing. The mammoth feeling of abandonment struck me. I wondered what it would feel like to wake up and realise God had just walked out of your life.

The BBC documentary I just watched achieved the exact same thing. A journalist decided to embark upon a journey to Germany, Hungary and Austria to find the world's most wanted Nazi war criminals. These men, all in their mid-90's, are (directly or indirectly) responsible for the massacre of 11 million people; jews, gypsies, homosexuals, the disabled and many more. These men, frail and often disorientated, claimed they had no recollection of what had happened. Some admitted their past but refused to take any responsibility; claiming they were simply following orders as soldiers. Others were completely oblivious to the scale of devastation caused by the Nazis. They were convinced it was 'exaggerated' and felt betrayed that the plight of the German people who were also displaced and made to evacuate their homes was not represented in equal measure to the suffering of the Jews.

Drowning in alcohol in the early hours of the morning, unable to face the reality of their past, they sit determined to avoid the subject altogether. Looking at their wrinkled, pale faces; their withered eyes and their shaking hands, I wonder how anyone can put these men on trial now. Am I a fascist like them? Does this make me a Nazi? No. Does it make me compassionate? Am I fooled by the exterior, unable to recognise the men who once killed brutally without flinching? No. Instead, I am convinced that the only judgment which now matters, which will bring justice of unprecedented levels, is the one that awaits these men at the end of their lives.

Facing the end of their lives alone is a kind of justice in itself, I guess. But admittedly not enough.

I think of my own past. Have I done things I regret? Yes. I haven't killed anyone or intentionally harmed a soul but I'm sure in passing I must have. So, put me on trial. Whose to say the judgment of those on Earth, those equal to me, will affect me in any way at all? The thing that petrifies me the most, the thing I'm convinced petrifies all of us the most is death. I will enter an unknown terrain alone, stripped of any agenda or ego, grovelling undoubtedly and unsure of what awaits me. At that moment, every last remanent of guilt that lingers in the shadows of my conscience will unwillingly rise and stand trial. Just like those men, at the end of their lives, I will have to be held accountable for everything I've done and everything I haven't. Every single one of us will. So, why do we deny it so adamantly?

For some reason, the human mechanism is designed to deny anything which jeopardises its interests. Deny the holocaust, by all means. Just know that one catastrophe isn't greater than another. And the suffering of one person or one race isn't more or less colossal than another. The real injustice is done when you deny the suffering of another for the sake of saving your own skin; skin that was never yours to save in the first place. Skin that isn't mine, either. It is only the choices that belong to us, that are owned by us. And upon those, we await judgment.

Pillars of family

I remember when I was little, I'd often hear the adults talk about how the family was suffering once the watchful eye of an elder had long gone. I never understood it then and never thought I would.

Reflection is never far from those who are obsessively committed to analysis, re-analysis and over analysis. Yet, for some reason, at this time of year my brain goes into overdrive. Maybe it's because I recall so much of what was good about this time of year, so very long ago.

Eid, I remember, was a reward for the month of sacrifice, strength and determination that came before it. New clothes, new jewellery, money, feasts - all very extravagant and rich. What I failed to observe as a child, however, was that Eid wasn't at all about those things. It was simply about family and love. And we all loved our grandmother. She was the centre of my universe and most definitely, the most important person to all of us individually.

Waking up in my grandmother's house is a feeling I have never experienced again. She'd be sat at her special, mahogany chair by the table with a bowl of Quaker oats cereal and her newspaper. Her matt gold-rimmed glasses would sit just above the tip of her nose - miraculously glued in place, defying gravity altogether. I'd watch as she'd turn the pages of the newspaper; so engrossed in what was happening in the world. At that age, I was completely oblivious to the fact that my grandmother was completely uneducated. And yet I have never observed such poise, sophistication and etiquette in any woman.

She had such a beautiful smile; comforting and playful and a voice I had never heard before. That sounds odd, I guess. Voices tend to be individual. But I guess to me - to us- everything about my grandmother was untouchable, incomparable. She called me her 'shaizaadi', the same term she used for all of us. And yet she somehow made it seem so personal, so unique. Her tone was different, I guess. She'd look at us all differently. We all had a special relationship with her.

At this time of year, I miss her face. Her loving gaze as I'd walk into the room; her warm embrace; her comforting smile; the way she'd affectionately tuck my hair behind my ears when I'd lean against her shoulder; her smell. I would have given the world for my grandmother.

During the years she was ill, I'd sit beside her and she'd secretly make me promise her things. She made me promise I'd be happy and successful. She made me promise I'd be a good person, a kind person and that I'd take care of my mother. But most of all she made me promise that I'd never forget I was her 'shaizaadi', her princess. I'd look at her lovingly and make all these promises. Then, when her illness would soothe her to sleep, I'd go upstairs into the bathroom and weep. I still remember the way she'd look at me after she was diagnosed with cancer. It was a changed look. She was still familiar, still the same - but she knew something that I didn't. As I'd sit on the floor and take her feet in my lap to lather with creams and oils, she'd look down at me from her favourite chair and her loving smile would morph into something else. I never understood what it was until the day she died.

Six years on and whenever I hear someone say 'grandma', there's a little pang of bitterness that sweeps swiftly through my body. And then just tiny remnants of her memory linger until I brush them away and convince myself there's no room for them in reality.

The day we buried her, we all gathered in one room and got under the covers: all eight of us. Something shifted in the universe that day, something happened. Between that day and today, six years later, not one of us have felt any desire to celebrate Eid. We moan, we bicker, we laze - anything we can to avoid embracing something that was once so beautiful. The first Eid without her was classified by the adults as being non existent, 'She's in this room with us', they said. 'Her spirit is here; in each and every one of us'. As I looked round the room at my girls, we all shared one expression - resentment. Resentment for something that we deemed untrue. Her spirit wasn't good enough; we wanted her. We wanted to hug her and touch her and tell her how much we loved her and missed her and how Eid and everything else would never be the same again. We smiled to each other knowingly and one by one, got up and left the room until we all ended up - rather coincidentally- in what used to be her room.

Second to second best.

Browsing through anxious faces; their eyes frantically scanning ink-stained sheets to prove their overpowering success or disastrous failure, one easily forgets that they too belong among that sea of hope. And then suddenly, before you’ve had a chance to digest, there it is staring you in the face – elation. One very easily forgets the ales they carry buried in their own heart when joy slices through the air of dread so easily, so sharply… However, contrary to popular misconception, this is called denial not selflessness.

Looking back through my life, I fail to pinpoint a singular instance in which I wasn’t petrified of letting someone down. Tired of searching the vacant eyes of many whom I idolized for a reassuring acknowledgement of well doing, I eventually became my own worst critic. That, however, isn’t altogether true. One may even suggest that the entire concept of ‘my own worst critic’ is simply a defense mechanism; to alienate yourself from the reality of notorious judgment that will inevitably follow you throughout your ‘knowing’ life [I refrain from using the term ‘adult’ as that signifies somehow that adolescents or youths experience little or none of the aforementioned ‘judgment’, which I recognize to be highly untrue if not, sadistically dismissive!] The reality is, the opinion of those you love will haunt you most of your living life – I should imagine even thereafter but that so far remains an inexperienced terrain…

Anyhow, failure is inevitable. Life, like tennis, serves up so many matches or games that we are obligated to play that it becomes impossible to always win; or as the pessimist bluntly puts it, to disgracefully lose/be beaten/FAIL! The infamous horse analogy has plagued the minds of many determined, strong-willed individuals; ‘get up again!’ their subconscious screams – even if the fall fractured the spinal chord and you’re lying there paralyzed… such, however, is the nature of the human mechanism. ‘Paralysis or not, I WILL mount black beauty again’… I had that tale on my bookshelf when I was young. The illustration on the front cover was beautiful; a stunning, black stallion; muscular and forthright, with a wild yet altogether tentative look in his eyes. His mane was pictured swaying in the wind that one could only imagine how he ripped through the skies; the air parting in fear of his obvious determination to overpower. The clear blue sky above him was tantalizing; it served as a reminder that I could have anything I ever wanted, just like black beauty – as long as I worked at it with fearlessness, ambition and desire. Black beauty never came with a manual for life, however. There was no chapter entitled ‘circumstance and how it may throttle your will completely’!

Still, circumstance serves as a reminder that experience can never really be wholly relied upon. How often we fall and how terribly every fractured bone and muscle of pride aches… Stripped of the bravado confidence so convincingly aligns across your invisible armor, it’s either fight or fall. Which do you choose?

Nothingness

There is nothing at all so grand about nothingness; nothing quaint, chic or even remotely liberating.Vacuums exist to be filled, supposedly. Though we appear to relish so marvelously in emptiness sometimes.

There is nothing in so much…

The train door opens and a complete stranger appears; suddenly there is somebody, anybody – right there. He is nameless, unrecognizable, and incomprehensible and yet, I know him. He becomes an extension of me; my thoughts, my emotions, my vision and perception of the day; the time, fate, the redness of the central line, the angle of the sunlight as it hits his unknown yet altogether familiar face…

I lift my eyes, ever so gently – as if my face were made of porcelain, my eyelashes; flickers of cloud. I peer into his nameless palette. ‘Hello’…. I spell the word before my eyes…Hello. I part my lips, the word does not form and it cannot form. A blink. His face evaporates –

He is no one, nothing at all – yet, as the doors of this rocket ship shoot open, I turn back. Do I expect to bid him farewell? Maybe. I dare not defy convention.

Defeated, I walk away from the waiting doors; exasperated in their pursuit to unite me and the no-named someone. I peer through the dying concrete of the crumbling station; am I so easily sold the fictional reality of x-ray vision? Light shoots past my eyes and when I regain focus, I am left with the train track imprints – on my nothingness.

Isn’t that just what nothing is…?

Nothing is the first gush of air that hits my artificially concealed face like a million tiny bullets; mercilessly ripping away the material flesh to conquer buried vulnerability as I gently protrude my head from the giant hole in my wall – sunrise.

Nothing is the poised, arrogant seduction of jazz at unforeseeable hours – the caress of sounds all too familiar, which taunt indecision and cackle boisterously at the word ‘cultured’.

Nothing is the arch of tiptoed feet on cold, uninviting marble as the mind seeks nourishment in the undefeatable darkness of the schizophrenic kitchen.

Nothing is in the uninhibited, formless sway of the candle flame that caresses the warm midnight air, illuminating empty eyes in golden brown and orange – speaking poetry in the form of dream, aspiration, endless opportunity…

Nothing is mine and everything I want it to be.