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Blessed be, Wangari Mathai

27 Sep

What a progressive spirit!

May she rest in peace.

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time and timing

22 Sep

These thoughts and these words have been floating around in my head for a few months now, but I have been waiting to write them. I am not sure why exactly, perhaps to soak up exactly what it is that I have been feeling so strongly. This is what it boils down to: time and timing, both, and how lucky I have been this year for these two things to collide for me.

I have had months and months of time with my family and friends, the opportunity to re-connect in old ways and connect over new ones. And I have had the right timing to do so, but also the right circumstances, for which I only have the universe to thank for. One tiny example is that of my best friend from high school moving back to the Emirates over the same time period as me, to a neighbourhood new to us both but to a city that we left in 2003. There have been many more serendipitous ‘collisions’ such as this one and I have brought many of my ‘pieces‘ together (the Middle-East during an Arab Spring no less, Mauritania and my father, French and my childhood friends, my mother and her gentleness). Full and complete.

Now, it is time to leave. I am getting on a plane tonight and moving to a country in Central-West Africa that I have never been to before but that holds some of the ‘pieces’ I mention above (Fulani language/culture, the opportunity to speak French daily) and I am hopeful it will bring me new growth and challenges. I am moving in with a man, which is a big step for me romantically, and something that I have not yet attempted at the age of 26. Along with the hopes, I have my fair share of doubts and questions, but I would rather have those than regrets.

Here comes change!

make it meaningful

6 Sep

Stop worrying about your identity and concern yourself with the people you care about, ideas that matter to you, beliefs you can stand by, tickets you can run on. Intelligent humans make those choices with their brain and hearts and they make them alone. The world does not deliver meaning to you. You have to make it meaningful…and decide what you want and need and must do. It’s a tough, unimaginably lonely and complicated way to be in the world. But that’s the deal: you have to live; you can’t live by slogans, dead ideas, clichés, or national flags. Finding an identity is easy. It’s the easy way out.

– Zadie Smith, On Beauty.

Fez, Morocco.

9 Aug


Can the reward of goodness be anything but goodness?

Sura 55, Verse 60, The Holy Qur’an

This, Unspoken

22 Jun

Sometimes in the evening,
you at your stove, me at mine,
I imagine that we are living together.

I see us through the window,
me chopping, you stirring,
inches apart instead of miles.
I see us through the doorway,
you washing, me drying,
the cupboards stacked neatly,
the knives all in a row.

Would we be miles apart, I wonder —
me, only inches from your crook’d elbow,
your soapy hand.
And, if so, would we be
Comforted by the nearness made easy by distance?

Sometimes in the afternoon, —
the fan in the corner eyeing the room,
I wake in the circle of your uncomplicated arms
and ask myself if I ought never lie down
unless you are beside me.

I see us through the curtains,
me sleeping, you dreaming,
you sunk into sleep, me riding my uneasy dreams.
I see us in the moon’s light,
first my turning, then your shifting,
the moon hung in that spot where the big tree used to be.

Would we be dreaming to risk it, I wonder —
me, a mere hairsbreadth from speaking,
from wondering out loud.
And if we were, would they be
the dreams that come while we are sleeping,
or those that come while we are widest awake?

  

Robin Halevy

Forgetting something, Nick Flynn

20 May

Try this—close / your eyes. No, wait, when—if—we see each other / again the first thing we should do is close our eyes—no, / first we should tie our hands to something / solid—bedpost, doorknob—otherwise they (wild birds) / might startle us / awake. Are we forgetting something? What about that / warehouse, the one beside the airport, that room / of black boxes, a man in each box? I hear / if you bring this one into the light he will not stop / crying, if you show this one a photo of his son / his eyes go dead. Turn up / the heat, turn up the song. First thing we should do / if we see each other again is to make / a cage of our bodies—inside we can place / whatever still shines.

Worlds

30 Apr

This was originally posted at Gender Across Borders and can be found here complete with old photographs. It’s my little contribution to a cool series of writing, This AND That, which features ‘stories from women whose identities have crossed paths along the lines of gender, culture, ethnicity and nationality’.

I knew which worlds I belonged to from the start.

When I was four years old, having just moved to the United Arab Emirates from my birthplace of Kuwait, I approached a couple in a restaurant. ‘You’re from the Philippines’ I said, pointing to the lady, ‘and you’re from here’, I said to her partner in the traditional white dishdasha. He smiled broadly, and playfully asked, ‘And you, little one, where are you from?’  I am noos-noos. Arabic for half-half.

It didn’t take me long to realise that I was much more than half anything. That the English part from my mother was as complex as my Mauritanian background, inherited from my father. That I could have been Senegalese and not Mauritanian if my father had been born on the other side of the Senegal river, where his Halpulaar community is from, had colonialists not arbitrarily split the countries in two.

I cultivated what I learned in the French education system; Voltaire and civil liberties alongside verlan Parisian slang. I accepted that I belonged to the waves of the Indian Ocean, it taught me how to swim and fight for breath.

As a teenager I lost myself, in literature and in my imagination. I was both black and white, slave and slave master, woman and man, oppressed and oppressor. I was a metisse in the French Caribbean, a mulatto in Brazil, a half-caste in Britain. As my perception evolved, I found myself to be claimed by various nationalities depending on where I was in the world- Indian, Cambodian, Moroccan, Venezuelan, Egyptian- a whole host of countries completely removed from my genetic pool. If I followed the old-school of thought which states that you should see yourself as society sees you, I would be utterly and totally confused. Because in this crazy 21st century of ours, where borders and travels become much more fluid, there is not one society. There are many societies to follow, many religions to practice, many languages to learn. Many songs to sing; this is our blessing and our curse.

I see myself in both my grandmothers, one Mauritanian and one English. They are a part of me, and as much of me as each other. I am not discounting the vast differences in their upbringing and way of life, but there was a lot of sameness, too. They both married, bore children, suffered miscarriages, lost husbands. My grandmothers took risks and loved. Joy and sorrow, passion and reason. They both lived.

When you come from different worlds, and when these worlds come together, this forces a visceral awareness of others. At the age of four, my awareness was just beginning, but it has continued to unlock many more conversations and connections since then. I have spoken with female labourers in India, smiled at women toting babies on their backs in Ghana, and walked beside abaya-clad Emirati women in luxurious shopping malls. The basic joy of human contact has intensified my belief; parallel universes interconnecting with our own. I knew which worlds I belonged to from the start.